Chapter Text
Personal Log. Officer Judy Hopps.
Current Life Objective: Achieve Lieutenant status before thirty.
A Hopps doesn’t quit.
This was the mantra that has been woven into the very fiber of Judy Hopps’ being—inherited along with her long ears and her father’s perpetually twitching nose. It is a creed rooted in the damp, stubborn soil of Bunnyburrow, a place where you either grew up or you were cleared away to make room for something that would.
From the moment she had stood her ground against Gideon Grey—tasting copper and dirt, her cheek stinging with a fresh, jagged scratch—Judy had convinced herself entirely that the world was essentially a vast, intricate machine. That if a gear slipped, you tightened it back into place. If the engine began to smoke up, you worked until your paws bled to find the problem.
To Judy, “no,” was never the final answer in her books. It served as a prompt to work harder—better, until the world had no choice but to say “yes” at her feet.
She’d carried that into the Zootopia Police Academy, which was a grinding stone designed to shave away a mammal's soft edges until only the marrow and the motive remained.
Her life was a sequence of long, grueling sentences written in the ink of sweat and adrenaline. She ran until her lungs felt like they were lined with crushed glass, and she studied relentlessly until the flickering hum of her desk lamp was the only sun she ever knew.
She was convinced that if she could just map every variable—if she could anticipate every shadow in her wake—she could transform herself into something unbreakable.
Then came Nick Wilde.
He was the first variable that refused to fit into her neat, geometric world. When they first met, he was a smudge on her perfect record—a cynical, popsicle-slinging fox who looked at her relentless optimism like it was a particularly adorable disease.
But solving the Bellwether case together had been the moment where Judy realized the most important thing in her life was the blooming, terrifyingly vital partnership that came with it all along. The gold badge attached to her chest was of second importance.
Over the years, they had built a strange language entirely of their own. It was a dialect composed of lopsided smiles, shared paper cups of coffee that were always a fraction too hot, and the unspoken promise that neither of them would have to stand in the dark alone ever again.
Nick was the only mammal who had learned to read the microscopic twitch of her left ear before she even realized she was annoyed. In return, she became the only one who understood that when he grew too quiet, he was busy remembering all the reasons he had once stopped trying.
So it’s true… hard work was the ultimate cure for any broken machine, a universal solvent for any friction life dared to throw her way. If the gears of her life—or her partnership—were starting to grind, she would simply apply more pressure, more hours, and more sheer, stubborn will.
Because a Hopps doesn’t quit.
Right?
This internal conviction was the armour she wore as she stepped into the familiar, grinding rhythm of Precinct One.
The morning began with the collective, low-frequency hum of a hundred species trying to synchronize their internal clocks, a sensory assault that Judy usually found deeply comforting.
It was the mechanical thwack-slide of the heavy reinforced doors, the paper-scented breath of the high-capacity printers, and the rhythmic percussion of claws, hooves, and paws alike clicking across the linoleum floor.
In the bullpen, dust motes danced in the harsh, flickering glare of the overhead fluorescent tubes. They hummed with an erratic, insect-like buzz that vibrated in the sensitive tips of Judy’s ears, a white noise that helped her focus. Every chair squeal and every distant, muffled roar from Bogo’s office was a data point that confirmed that her world was spinning exactly as it should be.
Judy sat at her desk, her spine a straight line of disciplined rabbit-energy. She was a precision instrument, her paws moving across the keyboard with a staccato pattern that filled the small space between her and Nick’s empty chair.
She was deep into the "Whiskers Follow-up"—a sprawling, sixty-page beast of a report that most officers would have groaned at. She meticulously cross-referenced witness statements with traffic cam timestamps, her mind a whirlwind of efficiency. She thought about the logic of the filing system, the way each digit of a case number felt like a solid brick in the wall of justice she was building for the city.
Focus on the data, she told herself, the twitch of her nose keeping time with her keystrokes. If the paperwork is perfect, then the case is closed. So if the case is closed, then the job is done. Everything is completely fine.
Across the aisle, Nick was already engaged in the first ritual of his day.
He was leaning against a filing cabinet, currently holding court with Officer Higgins. To any other animal observer, he was the picture of vulpine grace—one leg crossed casually over the other, a mug of coffee in one paw, and that trademark, lopsided smirk playing on his muzzle.
"Look, I’m telling you, Higgins," Nick’s voice carried over the din. It was still velvet, still smooth, but there was a thin, papery quality to it. "The mistake you’re making is thinking a criminal mastermind needs their own dark alley and a leather jacket. But’s it’s actually... a ruffled looking mammal with a very bad morning attitude… I mean, look at Wolford over there."
He gestured with his chipped mug toward Officer Wolford. The wolf was a rugged, thick-furred veteran whose uniform always looked like it had been slept in for exactly twenty minutes. He was currently hunched over his keyboard, his ears flattened in a permanent state of pre-caffeine irritation.
"I heard that, Wilde!" Wolford barked from three desks over, not even looking up from his own stack of citations. "Keep it up and I’ll show you exactly how much 'attitude' a damn wolf can have before his first cup of coffee."
Nick let out a dry, rattling chuckle, waving a dismissive paw toward Wolford. "Easy, big guy. Your fur is standing up and it’s a bad look for the department’s grooming standards. You’re practically one horrible mood away from being mistaken for a used pipe cleaner."
Higgins let out a booming laugh that seemed to vibrate the floorboards, and Nick joined in—but the sound was too short. It ended in a sharp, clipped intake of breath, a hitch in his chest that he tried to bury by taking a long, slow sip of his coffee. He stayed there for a beat too long, his eyes squeezed shut, his claws tightening around the ceramic mug in his paw.
Finally, Nick pushed off the cabinet. It was a slow, deliberate movement—a second too long to be considered "casual." He sauntered over to their shared desk space, the distance of twelve feet seeming to cost him more than a three-block sprint ever had. He slid into his chair, the plastic groaning under his weight, and let out a long, weary sigh that he immediately dressed up as a yawn.
"Morning, Carrots," Nick murmured, his eyes hooded and glassy. "You’re typing loud enough to give the guys in Evidence a headache. What’s the rush? The paperwork isn't going to grow legs of its own and walk to Bogo’s office, y'know? Though, given the state of the breakroom donuts, I wouldn't blame it for trying."
Judy didn't look up, though her ears were swiveled toward him like antennas, picking up the ragged edge of his breathing.
"Well, someone has to be productive here, Nick. While you were busy diagnosing the criminal psychology of Wolford’s bad temper, I just finished the witness summaries for the Rainforest heist we did yesterday."
"Summaries? Plural?" Nick let out a breathy whistle. "Slow down, Hopps. If you solve all the crime before lunch time, what am I supposed to do with my afternoon? I’m not sure I’m emotionally prepared for a day of filing."
"You could try being awake for more than ten minutes at a time," Judy teased, finally glancing over. She noticed the slight sheen of sweat on his brow, the way his whiskers seemed a bit more limp than usual. "You look like you went twelve rounds with an elephant and lost, by the way."
"Is it that obvious?" Nick adjusted his tie with a shaky paw. "I’ll have you know, I was up late last night. Very important business with tons of high stakes involved, a real nail-biter if you ask me."
"Let me guess. A Snarl-flix marathon?"
"It was a documentary on the history of the hustle, Carrots. Professional development that helps me expand my horizons."
"Seems like you were expanding your nap time," Judy countered, her nose twitching with a mix of amusement and a tiny, buried seed of worry. She reached for a sleek, silver ballpoint pen sitting on her notepad. "Well, since you're so 'professionally developed,' you can sign the bottom of the Whiskers statement. Unless you’ve forgotten how to write your name in your old age?"
"Hmm, my name? No. But my title? I’m thinking of changing it to… the 'Grand Duke of Exhaustion.' It has a more noble ring to it, don’t you think?" Nick replied, his voice dropping into that familiar, comforting drawl.
"Just sign the paper, Duke," Judy laughed, the sound a bit too bright.
She didn't hand him the pen right away. It was a reflex, part of their two-year choreography—a silent agreement that the world worked according to their shared timing. She gave it a light, effortless toss in the air.
The pen spun in a perfect, silver arc, catching the harsh fluorescent light as it tumbled end-over-end toward Nick's waiting hand. It was a three-foot distance, a trajectory they had mapped a thousand times over. Normally, Nick wouldn't even have to look and he would catch it with a lazy, two-fingered snap, his eyes never leaving hers, the smirk never wavering.
Nick reached out.
But the connection was severed. There was a strange, stuttering lag in his shoulder, a visible pull in the kinetic chain. His paw moved, but his fingers snapped shut a full two inches to the left of the pen’s flight path, grasping at nothing but empty, ozone-scented air.
The silver pen struck his chest with a dull, hollow clink, bounced off his gold badge, and clattered onto the linoleum floor. It skittered away, the sound echoing like a structural crack through the quiet hum of the bullpen.
Nick froze as his hand remained suspended in the air, his claws slightly extended and trembling—a fine vibration that he couldn't stop. He stared at his empty paw, his pupils blowing wide with a flash of genuine, unadulterated terror and confusion.
The bustling noise of the precinct seemed to fall away, leaving only the sight of that shaking orange paw and the distance between them. Judy stared at the pen on the floor, then up at Nick. Then, she forced a breath into her lungs and broke the silence.
"Wow," Judy said, her voice sounding a million miles away. She let out a sharp, mocking laugh that felt like swallowing glass. "And they say I'm the one who needs more sleep! Honestly, Nick, that was pretty pathetic. I’ve seen sloths with better hang-time."
Nick blinked, the terror in his eyes receding enough to let the mask slide back into place. He let out a shaky, dry laugh and quickly dropped his hand under the desk, hiding the tremor.
"Yeah, well," he rasped, his voice sounding like it was being pulled through sand. "Seems like the coffee hasn't reached my extremities yet. My apologies, Carrots. I’ll... I’ll go get it."
Judy watched him fumble for the pen, her nose twitching in a brief, involuntary pattern of confusion.
To her, this was just odd.
But it seemed to be a simple glitch in the hardware of a mammal she considered invincible. She’d seen Nick survive jumbo-pop-induced sugar crashes and three-day stakeouts in the tundra; surely, a missed catch was the byproduct of a late night or a bad cup of coffee.
“Seriously, Nick,” she teased, already turning back to her monitor, the click-clack of her keyboard resuming its frantic pace. “If you’re going to start aging out of your reflexes already, I’m going to have to trade you in for a younger model. I hear the recruits from the Academy are actually catching things this year.”
Nick didn't answer immediately. He was still bent over, his fingers grazing the cold floor as he retrieved the silver pen. When he finally straightened up, his smile was back—thin, sharp, and perfectly executed—but his fur looked a little damp at the temples, matting the orange.
“Trade me in? You better perish that thought, Fluff,” he rasped. He tucked the pen behind his ear, his movements stiff. “Who else would keep your massive bunny ego in check and your coffee orders unnecessarily complicated?”
Judy snickered, her nose twitching.
“Oh, I don't know. Maybe a nice, eager raccoon? Someone who actually brings me the ball instead of dropping the pen.” She glanced at him sideways. “What’s the matter, Wilde? Are you jealous of an imaginary rookie already?”
Nick leaned back, his chair creaking under the sudden weight. “Now, why would I be jealous... I'm a whole vintage classic, Carrots. You don't trade a custom-tailored suit for a polyester gym uniform just because of one missed catch. It was a tactical drop, don't read too much into it.”
“Right. Tactical,” Judy deadpanned, though the 'oddness' of the moment still sat in the back of her mind like a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit.
The bullpen’s chatter was abruptly cut short by the heavy, thump-thump of hooves. Chief Bogo marched to the front of the room, the scent of espresso and old leather trailing in his wake.
“All right, settle down!” Bogo barked, his voice vibrating in the chest cavities of everyone in the first three rows. He flipped open a folder with a crisp snap. “We’ve got a sudden uptick in pickpocketing in the Rainforest District and a loose hippo in the Tundra Town fountain. But it seems our main focus today is high-visibility patrol.”
He looked up, his gaze lingering on the fox and the rabbit for a second too long. “Hopps. Wilde. You’re on Sector 4—Savannah Central. It’s a heatwave out there today, which means tempers are short and the tourists are running around stupid. Keep the peace in check and try not to break anything.”
As they walked to the cruiser, the sun was already beginning to bake the asphalt of the precinct lot. The heat was heavy weight, smelling of exhaust and hot rubber.
Judy hopped into the driver’s seat, her energy humming like a live wire, but she noticed Nick took an extra heartbeat to pull himself into the passenger side. He fumbled with the seatbelt, his claws clicking against the metal latch three times before it finally seated with a click.
They cruised for a while, the siren-red paint of the car shimmering under the artificial sun, before Judy pulled into a familiar "static patrol" spot under the sprawling shadow of a massive acacia tree. The engine idled with a low, tempo thrum, and the AC blasted at maximum, though it felt like it was losing the heat war against the Savannah Central humidity.
Judy unbuckled her belt just enough to lean over the center console, her eyes scanning the crowds of various mammals darting between high-end boutiques. But her ears remained tilted toward the passenger seat beside her.
“You’re awfully quiet today, Nick,” she said, finally breaking the stale air. “Did the coffee lose the battle against your brain, or are you pouting because I teased you about that imaginary rookie? I can call the Academy and tell them to cancel their application if it'll make you feel better.”
Nick leaned his head back against the headrest, his sunglasses acting as a polarized wall between them. He didn't move, but the corner of his mouth hitched upward.
“Jealousy is a very unbecoming emotion for a fox of my standing, Carrots. It’s a rare commodity when I’m partnered with a rabbit who treats a three-minute red light like a personal insult from the entire universe.”
“Looks like you're avoiding the question,” Judy nudged his shoulder with her paw, her nose twitching. “Alright, come on. Talk to me. Are you actually excited about the precinct softball game next week? Clawhauser says he’s finally mastered his ‘gravity-defying’ pitch.”
“Clawhauser’s pitch only defies gravity because it’s held together by powdered sugar and pure, unadulterated optimism,” Nick muttered, shifting slightly in the leather seat. “And no, I’m not excited about running around in the dirt while a rhino tries to turn me into a ginger-coloured pancake. I’m not really built for... sliding into home base for anyone.”
He turned his head toward her, the sunglasses sliding just a fraction down his nose to reveal eyes that were tired, but still dancing with a dangerous amount of mischief.
“Unless, of course,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, vibrating hum that always seemed to make the air in the cruiser feel five degrees hotter, “you were the one waiting at the plate. I might find the energy to... slide for you, Carrots. I’m very accommodating when it comes to hands-on training at home base.”
Judy frowned, her ears swiveling in a confused arc.
“Nick, that’s exactly the problem,” she said earnestly, missing the suggestive tilt of his head entirely. “Your sliding technique is terrible, because you always lock your knees. If you try to slide into home base with that kind of form against a rhino catcher, you’re going to end up in a cast, not scoring a run. We really do need to go over the mechanics again.”
Nick stared at her for a dead beat of three seconds. The "dangerous mischief" in his eyes flickered out, replaced by a look of sheer, exhausted disbelief. He let out a soft, dry puff of a laugh and pushed his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose.
"You're actually serious," he rasped, shaking his head. "Twenty-six years on this planet, two years as a cop in the biggest city in the world, and you honestly don't know what 'home base' means in a non-sporting context, do you?"
Judy blinked, her nose twitching. "It means the final station in a four-base run, Nick. It’s basic geometry. What else would it—"
"Never mind, Hopps," he interrupted, waving a dismissive, trembling paw. "Ah, the moment is gone. It’s deceased and my brilliant wit is officially wasted on my bunny partner who thinks 'scoring' is something you only do with a clipboard and a whistle."
“It is a matter of safety and protocol!” Judy countered, her voice rising as she turned back to the windshield, sensing she was being mocked but not quite sure why. “I’m trying to see if you’re fit for duty, and you’re busy being... well, whatever that was.”
“C'mon, I'm always fit for duty,” Nick rasped. His paw went to his chest, a fleeting, involuntary gesture of discomfort before he caught himself. “Plus, who says I’m not fine? I'm savouring the ‘Grand Duke’ lifestyle at the moment. It's the dream.”
“It’s a gift,” she laughed, though her eyes lingered on the way his chest was moving—shallow, measured, as if he were trying to draw air through a straw without her noticing.
The silence that followed was filled with the hum of the AC and the numerous engines of distant traffic. Judy opened her mouth to push him—to ask why he was so pale under the orange fur, to ask if the "home base" nonsense was just another smokescreen—but the radio between them erupted, shattering the looming tension.
“All units, 211 in progress. Jewelry wholesaler on Grand Central. Suspect is a striped hyena, headed north on foot. Caution: suspect is armed with a blunt instrument.”
The siren was a jagged blade, cutting through the midday humid air of Savannah Central. Judy drove with the kind of calculated aggression that had made her a legend at the Academy—tires screaming against the asphalt, the cruiser’s frame groaning as she forced it into a controlled drift around a stalled ice cream truck.
“Copy that, Dispatch. Unit 1-3 is in pursuit,” Judy barked into the radio. Her voice had snapped instantly into that high-frequency, authoritative register, the one that left no room for any doubt.
Usually, this was the part where Nick would chime in. He'd make a dry comment about his life insurance policy or suggest they stop for a quick snack since they were "already breaking the speed of sound."
But today, the silence from the passenger seat was a vacuum, swallowing the wail of the siren. Out of the corner of her eye, Judy saw his paws—claws unsheathed, digging into the upholstery of the dashboard so hard the leather was beginning to pucker.
"Three blocks out! I see him!" Judy yelled, her adrenaline spiked to a fever pitch.
The suspect, a wiry striped hyena, veered sharply off the main thoroughfare and dove into a narrow service alley behind a row of luxury branded stores. Judy slammed on the brakes, the system pulsing under her foot like a frantic heartbeat. The cruiser skidded to a sudden halt, boxing in the alley’s entrance.
"ZPD! Freeze!"
Judy was out before the car had even finished rocking on its own suspension. Her feet hit the pavement and she was a blur of blue polyester, her blood singing with the chase. She heard Nick’s door open—heavy and sluggish—followed by the uneven scuff of his own footing hitting the ground.
For the first fifty yards, it felt like the old days. They ran in their signature staggered formation—Judy low and leading, Nick covering the wider angles behind her.
"You're... getting slow, Carrots," Nick panted. The words were clipped, forced out between heavy strides. "I think... the donuts are finally... gaining the upper hand."
"Save your breath, Wilde!" Judy shot back over her shoulder, vaulting over a stack of discarded tires with effortless grace. "Maybe if you... ran more and... talked less, you wouldn't be... twenty feet back!"
But the distance wasn't twenty feet anymore. It had turned thirty. Then forty...
The rhythmic thump-thump of their combined gait echoed off the brick walls, the smell of damp garbage and expensive perfume clashing in the tight space altogether. But as the hyena scrambled over a stack of wooden pallets, the flow between the duo simply broke.
Judy hit a patch of an oily puddle and used the momentum to slide under a low-hanging loading bay door, popping up on the other side. She expected to hear Nick’s grunt of effort as he followed suit but it seemed that her eighteen-inch "sweet spot" had vanished completely.
She didn't hear his footfalls anymore and in their place was a sickening, hollow thud as a mammal hit a wall, followed by a noise that made her fur stand on end. It was a wet, whistling struggle for air, like a broken bellows trying to stoke a fire.
Judy skidded to a halt, her claws gouging the brick as she spun around quickly. Nick was doubled over, one paw braced against a grime-streaked dumpster, the other clutched to his knee. His head was down, his ears pinned so flat they were almost invisible against the back of his skull.
"Nick!" she screamed, the "Hopps instinct" for the collar suddenly eclipsed by a raw, pointed terror. She bolted back to him, her paws reaching out, hovering over his trembling frame before she gripped his shoulder. Through the fabric of his shirt, he felt scorching hot and yet he was shivering. "Nick, what’s wrong? Talk to me!"
He simply couldn't. He was deep in the throes of a physiological mutiny. Every time he tried to draw breath, his chest spasmed, forcing out a jagged, rattling cough that sprayed a fine mist of saliva onto the dry pavement.
"Go..." he wheezed, the word barely a ghost of a sound. He gestured frantically toward the end of the alley where the hyena was scaling a chain-link fence. "Just... get him. Judy... go!"
"I am not leaving you like this!" Judy’s grip tightened on his shoulder, her nose twitching in a frantic, panicked beat. She tried to pull his arm over her shoulder to steady him, but Nick did something he had never done before.
He shoved her.
It was a desperate, lateral push that forced her a step back. His teeth were bared in a grimace of pure agony as he fought for a single clean lungful of air, his eyes bloodshot and wide behind his glasses.
"The car..." he choked out, his lungs whistling. "I’ll... bring the car around. Move! That’s an... order, Officer!"
It was the first time he’d ever raised his voice at her, and he did it with a desperation that left no room for argument between them.
Judy looked at him—trembling, grey-faced, and breaking—and then at the suspect disappearing over the wire. Her life mantra screamed at her to finish the job. If she stayed, the criminal got away. But if she ran, she was also leaving her partner in a tailspin she didn’t quite understand.
"No, just stay here with your radio!" she barked, her voice cracking with a fear she couldn’t hide. "Do you hear me? Don't you move!"
Judy turned and bolted, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
The chase was a desperate attempt to outrun the image of Nick collapsed against the brickwork. She hit the chain-link fence at the end of the alley, her paws flying over the mesh with a frantic, scratching precision. Usually, this was where Nick would be waiting on the other side, having predicted the suspect’s trajectory and positioned himself perfectly for the intercept.
But the street was empty and the backup was a phantom.
Judy vaulted over the hood of a parked sedan, her feet skidding on the hot metal before she launched herself at the hyena. He was larger than her, a wiry mass of muscle and dark fur, and he swung a heavy iron pipe with a desperate, wide arc. Judy ducked, the wind of the strike whistling over her ears, and felt a flare of pure, cold rage.
Without Nick to box him in, she had to be everywhere at once. She was a blur of blue, weaving through the suspect’s legs, using her low center of gravity to keep him off-balance. She missed the physics of them—the way Nick would catch a suspect’s eye just long enough for her to sweep their ankles. But every time she moved, she felt the ghostly weight of a partner who wasn't there to catch the angles she couldn't see.
The hyena lunged, his teeth bared in a snarl, but Judy was faster. She became a small, indigo cannonball, slamming into his midsection with every ounce of momentum she’d gathered. They rolled into a pile of discarded wooden crates, the cedar splintering under their weight with a sound like bone breaking.
She felt the suspect’s elbow dig into her ribs, a sharp spike of pain that she ignored with the practiced apathy of a Hopps. She twisted, her paws finding the pressure points in his wrist, and forced his arm behind his back.
Click. Click.
The sound of the cuffs should have been a victory and the satisfying end to a messy morning. But as Judy leaned her weight into the hyena’s spine to keep him pinned, her lungs burning with the chemical tang of exhaust and adrenaline, she felt a hollow, gnawing void where the rush usually lived.
“You’re… under… arrest,” Judy panted, the words catching in a throat that felt like it had been scraped raw by the humid Savannah air. Her voice was trembling, stripped of its usual brassy authority and replaced by a thin edge of panic.
The hyena spat a mouthful of grit onto the pavement, his chest heaving in a ragged gasp that mocked her own. He let out a wet chortle. “Where’s your… where’s your fox, bunny? Did Grandpa finally pull a muscle this time? Or did he finally realize he’s too old to keep up with the ‘Hero of Zootopia’?”
Judy’s grip tightened on the cuffs until the metal bit into her own paws, her knuckles turning a stark, bloodless white. She didn't answer. Her ears were swiveled frantically toward the mouth of the alley, her internal radar searching for a siren, a footfall, a familiar sarcastic quip—anything to prove her entire world hadn't just tilted off its axis. She hauled the criminal to his feet, her eyes darting toward the corner of the street.
Please be okay, please be standing, please be lying to me, she chanted in the silence of her skull. Then, she heard it—the sound of an engine revving too high in low gear, followed by the screech of tires mounting the curb.
The squad car lurched around the corner, its front bumper scraping the sidewalk before correcting with a jerky, overcompensated swerve. It rolled to a stop ten feet away, illegally parked and crooked. The driver’s side door was pushed, heavy and slow.
Nick stepped out.
He was gripping the top of the door frame with a knuckled intensity, using it to hold himself upright. His sunglasses were still on—likely to hide his eyes—but they couldn't hide the fact that his fur was matted dark with sweat. His chest was rising and falling in short, shallow jerks, as if his vest had suddenly become three sizes too small.
“Nice… tackle… Carrots,” Nick managed. The voice was thin, reedy, and lacked the bottom-end resonance she knew. He didn't walk over to help her haul the hyena up; he stayed glued to the car door, one hand slipping into his pocket to hide a tremor that was rattling his keys.
“A bit messy… on the landing,” he wheezed, forcing a tight, painful smile that didn't reach his cheeks. “But the… dramatic flair… was top-notch. I'm sure the tourists will leave a five-star review for you."
Judy shoved the hyena toward the back door, the metal of the cruiser hot enough to sting through her own fur. Her ears were pinned back, her nose twitching with a speed that signaled a looming internal explosion. She was relieved—deeply, achingly relieved—to see him standing, but the relief was curdling into a sharp, bitter annoyance.
"The alley was three blocks back, Nick," Judy said. She marched around the hood to face him. "You were on the ground. Like all of a sudden you just couldn't breathe properly. How did you even manage to get back to the cruiser?"
Nick didn't flinch, but his grip on the door handle tightened until his claws made a faint, scratching sound against the paint. He looked at the horizon of Savannah Central, his asymmetrical smirk carved into his face.
"I’m a fox, Fluff," he replied, the words coming out in short, controlled bursts of air. "We’re actually known for two things: shortcuts and impeccable timing. I simply found a hole in the fence, took a very brisk jog, and decided the cruiser looked better on this side of the block. Anyways, I couldn't let you have all the glory."
"You nearly drove onto the sidewalk just now," Judy accused, pointing at the scuff mark on the tire. "Also, your hands are shaking."
Nick looked at his own paw, which was vibrating against the metal doorframe. He clenched it into a fist, forcing it still, and let out a soft, dismissive huff that turned into a stifled cough.
"Adrenaline dump," he lied. It was a clumsy lie, one he would have mocked a rookie for using. "And… it’s asthma, Judy. Apparently, I’m allergic to high-speed chases and whatever floor wax they use in that alley. I actually have an inhaler in my locker. I’m fine. Just relax."
The word hung between them, heavy and wrong.
"Asthma?" Judy repeated, her voice skeptical and sharp. "You’ve never mentioned asthma to me, at all. Not once. Not even during our week-long stakeouts in the Rainforest District where the humidity was always ninety percent."
"Well, I usually don't find it particularly heroic to bring up my respiratory quirks on the first date, Carrots," he quipped, though the joke lacked its usual spark. "Now, let’s get this charmer processed. I think I’ve had enough 'fresh air' for one morning."
Judy wanted to scream. She wanted to shove him into the passenger seat, haul him to the nearest trauma center, and demand a full system diagnostic. She was a Hopps for pete’s sake, she fixed things. She searched for causes and applied solutions.
But she was also a student of the predictable, and the most predictable thing about Nick Wilde was his refusal to be the victim.
She watched the ironclad pride in his jaw, the way he was vibrating with the sheer effort of staying upright. If she broke the silence now, if she acknowledged the fracture, she was afraid the whole mask would shatter like fine glass.
So, she did what she did best: she chose a new variable called denial.
"Get in the passenger seat," Judy ordered, her voice quiet but firm. "I’m still driving back."
Nick opened his mouth to argue, saw the look in her violet eyes, and closed it. He didn't have the breath to fight her, anyway.
"Your chariot... awaits," he whispered, and slumped into the seat, his head instantly falling back against the headrest as he closed his eyes.
Judy climbed into the driver’s seat, her paws gripping the wheel until the plastic groaned. She adjusted the mirror with a sharp, jerky motion, refusing to look at the way he was vibrating in the periphery of her vision.
"And for the record, Wilde," she added, her voice trembling with a forced, brittle edge of her usual sass. "That was the single worst piece of driving I have ever seen. You mounted the curb and you parked like a mammal who’s never seen a parallel line in his life. If I’d been a traffic cam, I’d have revoked your license on the spot."
Nick didn't open his eyes. A ghost of a smirk twitched on his lips again, though it looked more like a grimace in the harsh Savannah sun.
"Critically panned by the Academy's finest," he wheezed softly. "I’ll take it under... advisement, Carrots. Maybe a few more lessons are in order."
Judy shifted the cruiser into gear and pulled away from the curb, steering with a meticulous, over-cautious grace that balanced out his chaotic arrival. She told herself it was a temporary error in the events that happened. She pushed the dread down into the deepest part of her own mind, locking it behind a door labeled “Solve Later.”
Judy didn't know that this was the first day of the end. That in the coming months, the "shortcuts" would become more frequent, the "brisk jogs" would turn into slow shuffles, and the "Grand Duke of Exhaustion" joke would stop being funny between them.
The calendar pages turned with a cruel, mechanical indifference. In Zootopia, the seasons were a choice made by technicians behind the weather walls, but the passage of time was utterly undeniable. August bled into September, then October, and while Savannah Central remained a breezy twenty-two degrees, the air inside Precinct One was cooling into something much more brittle and jagged.
Judy watched the "New Normal" settle over their partnership like a layer of fine, suffocating dust. As a detective, she was an expert in pattern recognition; she could usually spot a shift in a suspect’s pupil from twenty paces. But she found herself using that same talent for the first time to actively ignore the data in front of her.
The numbers didn't lie, but Judy Hopps was getting very good at telling herself stories.
In the precinct training gym, the physical decay was impossible to mask with a witty remark. Usually, Nick moved like liquid, a masterpiece of kinetic efficiency who treated sparring sessions as a chance to show off his fancy footwork.
Now, he was a second too slow, his timing fractured like a broken watch.
Judy held the strike pads up, her paws braced and her heart thudding against her ribs. "Left hook, Nick. Come on, put some weight into it."
Nick swung and it wasn't the sharp, explosive crack of leather hitting foam that she was used to. It was a sluggish, glancing blow that landed with a soft, hollow thud against the very edge of the pad. The momentum carried him too far forward; his center of gravity shifted like loose sand, and he stumbled, his shoulder clipping a heavy bag nearby.
"Whoops," he rasped, catching himself against the vinyl. He lingered there, leaning his weight into the bag to keep his knees from buckling. He offered a lopsided, heavy-lidded smirk. "Can you blame me, Carrots? Has anyone ever told you that you have a devastatingly beautiful left-hook-holding stance?"
A sudden, warm heat flooded Judy’s cheeks, and her ears did a confused, involuntary flick at the sudden drop in his voice. She shook it off instantly, her expression hardening into a line of professional concern.
"You missed by six inches, Nick," she said, her voice small but firm. Judy didn't lower the pads. "Again. Try to square your stance properly and actually breathe this time."
He tried again, but by the third swing, his chest was heaving as if he’d run a marathon. He leaned his forehead against the cool vinyl of the bag, his ears drooping.
"Nick, you're sweating and it’s like twenty degrees in here. You've been moving for only three minutes."
"I'm just pacing myself, Carrots. It’s called 'conserving energy' for the big finale," he countered, pushing off the bag with a theatrical groan. He saw the flicker of doubt in Judy's eyes and, for a second, his ego won out. "You want to see able-bodied huh? Watch the master at work."
Nick turned toward the heavy bag and unleashed a flurry of strikes—a sharp snap-kick followed by a quick one-two combo. It looked good for about five seconds, but by the final punch, the "mastery" hit a wall.
He let his fist linger against the vinyl, using the bag as a prop to keep himself up. He stood there for a beat too long, his shoulders rising and falling in heavy, laboured hitches as he fought to catch his breath without making it obvious.
Judy watched him, her arms crossed over her chest, one ear quirked upward.
"Was that the grand finale?" she asked, a playful, skeptical tilt to her voice. "Because I’ve seen senior mammals at the community center hit the bag harder than that, Wilde. Am I supposed to be impressed with that?"
When Nick finally turned back to her, he used the momentum to close the distance, stepping directly into her space until they were inches apart. He reached out a paw and brushed a stray tuft of fur between her ears. His touch lingered, his thumb tracing the soft curve of her forehead far longer than a partner should.
"Impressed? No, Carrots," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, velvet hum that used to make her roll her eyes, but now only made her chest ache. "You’re supposed to be intimidated by the sheer glow I’m radiating. Don't be jealous just because your fur doesn't have this kind of natural luster."
He leaned in even closer, his breath hot and slightly ragged against her ear.
"Besides... being this close to you is enough to make any mammal’s temperature rise. I’m surprised you haven’t fainted from the heat of my presence yet. You're looking a little flustered yourself, Officer."
Judy felt her heart skip—that familiar, fluttery annoyance he was so good at provoking. She swatted his paw away with a half-smile, shooing him toward the locker rooms to hide the fact that her pulse was racing.
"Jeez, stop being such a tease and go get some water, you idiot. You're clearly out of shape. I'm going to tell Bogo you need more time on the treadmill."
"The treadmill is a tool of the devil, Carrots!" he called back, his voice sounding almost normal as he sauntered away.
The worry in Judy's chest receded just a fraction. He was still joking. So that clearly meant he was still Nick. If he could still make her blush, he couldn't be that bad, right?
Later that afternoon, they sat on a stone bench outside the precinct, the artificial sun of Savannah Central beating down on the bustling plaza. Judy watched him out of the corner of her eye as he reached for his water bottle.
It should have been a simple, thoughtless action. Instead, she watched the way his paw hovered over the plastic cap for a fraction of a second, his claws trembling with a fine vibration. He had to use his other hand to steady it, twisting the cap with a slow, deliberate force that looked painful.
When he finally took a drink, he swallowed with a desperate, frantic intensity, his throat working hard. A few drops of water escaped the corner of his mouth, dampening the fur of his chin.
"You're drinking like you haven't seen water in a week," she remarked, trying to keep her tone light.
"Just... parched, Fluff," he muttered, capping the bottle with that same painstaking care. "Must be the salt in those vending machine nuts. I think Higgins is trying to pickle me from the inside out so I'll stay this handsome forever."
He leaned back, spreading his arms across the top of the bench in a classic 'Nick' pose, but his fingers were still twitching against the stone.
Judy wanted to reach out and grab his hand—to stop the shaking and to break through the wall of jokes. But she knew him. If she pushed him now, he’d just slip through her fingers like smoke.
"Nick," she started, her voice losing its playful edge. She reached out, her fingers just inches from his twitching paw. "Are you okay? You look—"
"I look like a mammal who’s been deprived of his afternoon treats, Carrots," Nick interrupted, snapping his hand back to stand up before she could touch him. He swayed for a micro-second, his eyes fluttering as his blood pressure struggled to keep up with the sudden verticality.
He didn't wait for her to respond as he started walking toward the precinct doors, his tail held at that signature, confident angle, even though his stride was shorter than usual.
"In fact," he called back over his shoulder, not once looking back to see the expression on her face, "I think I heard a blueberry pie calling my name from the breakroom. Better hurry before Clawhauser senses a disturbance in the pastry force. See you at the desk, Hopps!"
Judy sat there for a long time, her paw still hovering in the empty space where his hand had been. The stone bench felt colder now, even under the artificial heat of the plaza.
She watched the heavy glass doors of the precinct swing shut behind him. He was walking away from the conversation at a pace that was just fast enough to be a retreat. It was his ultimate hustle: using his own reputation for laziness and gluttony to justify why he couldn't stay and talk to her.
She looked down at the water bottle he’d left behind. A small puddle of condensation had formed on the stone, a perfect, clear circle that was slowly being evaporated by the warm sun.
As she stood up to follow him, she noticed a single, bright orange strand of fur snagged in a crack of the stone bench.
Judy brushed it away, her heart performing that slow, sickening somersault again. She didn't want to be a detective right now. She just wanted to go back to the mornings where the only thing she had to worry about was typing up reports with Nick Wilde.
The saunter, Nick's signature move—that effortless, tail-swaying glide that signaled he owned every room he entered—was the next thing to go.
He stopped making the hourly trips to the breakroom for coffee. Instead, he stayed anchored to his desk, his paperwork piling up until it became a physical barrier between him and the rest of the world. He was becoming static, a fixed point in a room designed for movement, his energy replaced by a heavy, leaden inertia.
One Tuesday afternoon, while Nick had drifted off into a shallow, fitful doze over a stack of traffic citations, Fangmeyer and Grizzoli decided it was the perfect time for a bit of classic precinct hazing.
"Look at him," Fangmeyer whispered, grinning as they balanced a stapler on Nick’s head. "The legendary hustler, defeated by a Grade-B felony report."
Grizzoli reached over with a stack of empty donut boxes, ready to see how high he could build the tower before the fox stirred. But before the first box could land, a small, grey hand shot out and swatted it away.
"Move it, Grizz," Judy hissed, her ears pinned back in a way that signaled she was roughly three seconds away from a physical altercation. "He’s been up since four on that embezzlement charge. If you have enough time to play Jenga with trash, you have enough time to go help Delgato with his filing."
"Easy, Hopps," the polar bear chuckled, raising his paws in mock surrender. "We’re just having a laugh. Plus, Wilde’s usually the first one to start the pile-on."
"Not today," she snapped, her voice like a whip. She didn't move until they retreated, their heavy footsteps fading toward the locker room.
Chief Bogo, a mammal whose patience was a finite and rapidly depleting resource, began to notice the inertia with a growing, silent frustration.
"Wilde!" Bogo’s voice would crack through the bullpen like a whip, causing even the larger mammals to jump. "This is a police station, not a retirement home for lazy foxes. Pick up the pace, or I’ll have you directing traffic in the Sahara Square heat until your fur bleaches white. Do I make myself clear?"
Nick didn't even stand up to address him.
He offered a weary, two-finger salute from behind his monitor, his eyes hooded. "Crystal, Chief. I’m just practicing my meditative stillness. It’s a very advanced vulpine technique for maintaining zen. You should try it sometime; I heard it’s great for high blood pressure and... whatever it is you do with your eyebrows."
But the "zen" was a hollow shell. The moment Bogo’s heavy footsteps faded toward his office, Nick slumped. His eyes slid shut, his head drooping toward his chest for a few seconds of desperate, stolen unconsciousness.
That same day, it was 3:00 AM—the dead hour of the night shift, where the precinct smelled of industrial floor wax, burnt coffee, and the low-frequency hum of the vending machines. The bullpen had become a cathedral of shadows, lit only by the flickering glow of a few abandoned monitors.
Nick was hunched over his keyboard, the rhythmic click-clack of his typing filling the silence between them. He was copying a paper file on petty larceny into the database.
"I’m just going to head to the washroom, Nick," Judy said, stretching her arms above her head. "Do you want another coffee while I’m up?"
Nick didn't look up, his fingers never faltering from their frantic pace. "Not a chance, Carrots. I’m on a roll. Besides, your coffee runs usually involve you bringing back something that's seventy-percent foam and thirty-percent judgment."
Judy rolled her eyes, a small smile tugging at her muzzle. "Fine. Suit yourself, Duke."
She turned and padded away, but as she reached the edge of the bullpen, she paused and glanced back. The moment he thought she was out of sight, the typing stopped. Nick deflated as his head dropped an inch, and he braced his forehead against the heel of his palm, his entire frame shuddering with a heavy, silent breath.
Judy’s smile faded. Her mind became a mess of data points that refused to align.
Asthma, he’d said a few months ago. I’ve got an inhaler in my locker.
With a quick, cautious glance towards Nick, Judy changed course and walked silently toward the locker rooms. She needed to see it. She needed to see the blue plastic medicine that would explain why her partner was vibrating with a fine, constant tremor.
The locker room was quiet, smelling of old leather and mint soap. Judy stopped in front of a locker labeled "WILDE." It was typical Nick—the door was slightly ajar, the lock turned but not clicked into place. With a guilty twitch of her nose, she nudged it open.
The inside was a chaotic museum of Nick Wilde.
A spare tie hung crookedly from a hook, still knotted from a shift weeks ago; a half-empty bag of blueberry muffins sat on the top shelf, long since gone stale. Tucked into the corner of the door’s frame was a small, candid photo of the two of them—the day he graduated from the Academy. Judy was beaming, her paws in the air, while Nick was looking at her with an expression so soft it made her throat tighten.
She began to dig through a stack of old citations he'd never filed, a spare pair of polarized sunglasses, and a crumpled Hawaiian shirt that smelled of the cologne he usually uses.
No inhaler.
She checked the side pockets of his duty jacket. Nothing but loose change and a few arcade tokens from a night at the boardwalk months ago. She checked the bottom of the locker, lifting his gym bag. A police belt lay and a half-melted crayon from some long-forgotten case.
Instead of a blue plastic inhaler, she found a crumpled brown paper bag tucked behind a box of extra strength espresso pods. Inside was a small mountain of foil wrappers—Zootopia immune-boost chews, high-dose vitamin c tabs, and zinc lozenges.
Judy stared at the pile, her brow furrowing until it hurt. She picked up one of the empty wrappers, smoothing the crinkled silver with her thumb. It was sticky, smelling faintly of artificial orange and desperation.
"Ah, he’s just sick," she whispered to the empty room, the realization hitting her with the cold, sharp clarity of a detective finally finding the smoking gun. "He doesn't have asthma."
The relief was instantaneous, a physical wave that crashed over her, washing away the tight, cold knot of dread that had been sitting in her stomach since the alleyway. It was dangerously blinding. Suddenly, her world made sense again.
Of course, she thought, a hysterical bubble of laughter rising in her throat. It’s so classic Nick.
It fit his psychological profile perfectly. Nick Wilde, with his fragile, carefully constructed fox ego, would rather die than admit a common cold had bested him. He was terrified of looking weak. He was terrified that if he showed a single crack in the armor—a fever, a cough, a day in bed—the ZPD would see him as a liability. He was masking a lingering infection with a fake, "manageable" diagnosis like asthma so Bogo wouldn't bench him.
"You stubborn fox," she muttered, her voice thick with a mixture of exasperation and profound affection. She shoved the bag back into place, hiding his secret just as he had. "You're just trying to tough it out."
She closed the locker with a definitive click. The sound echoed through the quiet room with the finality of a gavel. She had the answer she wanted. It was a lie—a convenient, comfortable, devastating lie—but it was a manageable one to say the least.
People didn't disappear from the flu and they definitely didn't leave you alone in the dark because of a virus. Judy walked back into the bullpen with a lighter step, her mind already spinning with ways to help him "recover" without alerting Bogo.
But when she reached their desks, the sight of him stopped her cold.
Nick was slumped forward over the half-finished report, his cheek pressed against the sterile laminate of the desk. His breathing was a shallow rattle—a sound that seemed far too fragile for a fox of his stature. In the harsh, blue-tinted light of the computer screen, the shadows beneath his eyes looked like bruises.
The sharp-tongued, invincible "Slick Nick" was gone, replaced by someone who looked profoundly small, as if the weight of the air itself was becoming too much to push against.
Slowly, her paws trembling just a little, she reached into a nearby closet and pulled out the emergency fleece blanket the precinct kept for those long, freezing stakeouts in Tundratown. She draped it over his shoulders, the fabric settling with a soft, velvet whoosh.
Nick stirred, a tiny, pained whimper escaping his throat—a sound so raw and un-vulpine that it made Judy’s ears flatten against her skull. He burrowed deeper into the warmth, his claws twitching against the desk as if he were trying to catch something in a dream he couldn't escape.
Judy watched him for a long time, her heart performing a slow, painful squeeze.
It’s just a virus, she reminded herself fiercely, looking at the way the blanket rose and fell with his ragged breath. All he needs is a few weeks of me carrying the load. Then he’ll be back to the fox I know.
She sat down at her desk, reached across the aisle, and quietly pulled his unfinished larceny report onto her side of the desk.
By November, their entire partnership had been redesigned around his "virus." Judy became the silent architect of his preservation, a writer for a life that seemed to be slowly slipping away.
She began to pull more and more of Nick’s files toward her side of the desk while he "rested his eyes," mimicking his loopy, scrolling signature until she could do it with her eyes closed. If Clawhauser or Fangmeyer asked why Nick looked like he’d been dragged through the Rainforest District backwards, Judy had a script ready.
"He’s just fighting a bug, Ben," she’d say with a dismissive wave. "You know how foxes are—too proud to stay in bed. It’s that nasty seasonal sickness going around."
When Nick would stumble or brace himself against a wall, claiming a "sudden migraine from the bullpen’s fluorescent lights," Judy didn't question it. She’d just dim her own monitor and bring him a cold compress. In her mind, the migraines were just another symptom of the "flu" that refused to break.
When the elevator in the precinct broke down, she’d suggest they take the long way around through the garage, claiming she "needed the steps" for her fitness tracker. It was a lie she told to spare him the three flights of stairs that she knew would leave him gasping, his chest whistling in that way that made her fur stand on end.
She was so focused on the work, on Hopping through the problems, that she didn't see the wall they were running towards. She convinced herself that if she just carried sixty percent of the load—then seventy, then eighty—Nick would eventually catch his second wind.
He needed a break.
Did he?
The shift from "partners" to "partner-in-absentia" happened so slowly that Judy almost missed the moment the water started to boil.
It began with their Friday night ritual—drinks at The Watering Hole followed by a marathon of terrible, low-budget noir movies at his place. It seemed that their usual routine had completely evaporated into thin air.
For the first time in their partnership, the most meaningful conversations they had weren't over a shared steering wheel, but through a five-inch glowing screen.
Judy sat at the bar, the neon signs reflecting off the polished wood. The stool beside her was empty, a silent, nagging presence that she tried to ignore by focusing on her phone.
Text Message - Friday, 6:42 PM
Judy: I’m at the bar. I even ordered that "Earth-Friendly" veggie-crust pizza you like. The one that tastes like recycled cardboard. You coming or what?
Nick: [Image: A blurry, dark photo of a messy pile of pillows with a single fox ear poking out from the top. A half-empty bottle of cherry soda sits on the nightstand in the background.]
Nick: Sorry, Fluff. The pillows staged a coup and I’m currently a prisoner of war. Eat my share of the cardboard… I’m pretty sure it’s high in fiber, anyways.
Judy: You’ve been a "prisoner" for two Fridays in a row. Bogo only had us on that warehouse stakeout for two nights. You shouldn't be this wiped. You want me to swing by with some actual food?
Nick: And ruin my reputation as a rugged, untouchable predator? Never. My vanity is the only thing keeping my apartment together at the moment. Just drink an extra one for me. Scout’s honour.
Nick: [GIF: A dramatic red fox slowly sliding off a velvet sofa in slow motion, limbs limp, with the caption: “TELL MY STORY.”]
Judy stared at the looping image of the fox hitting the floor. It was ordinary for Nick—deflecting concern with a punchline. But as she watched the fox slide off the sofa for the tenth time, the humour felt thin. She wasn't entirely convinced, and a growing knot of worry tightened in her chest.
When she finally called him, he wouldn't pick up until the third or fourth try, his voice sounding like it had been pulled through a rock crusher.
"Look, I’m fine, Jude," he whispered immediately. He didn't even say hello. In the background, she could hear the loud, low-frequency hum of a television—too loud, as if he were using the noise to mask the jagged, twitching of his own breathing.
"Nick, you sound terrible," Judy said, her voice dropping as she turned away from the crowd at the bar.
"Well, I always sound terrible before my second liter of water, Carrotcake," he rasped, followed by a wet, muffled cough that he tried to turn into a hum. "A touch of vertigo… I think I stood up too fast and my brain decided to take a vacation to the Meadowlands. Too much coffee and not enough sleep. Standard procedure for the ZPD’s finest fox."
"Nice try, Slick, but vertigo doesn't come with a calendar. You’ve been playing the exhaustion card since October, and I’m officially calling your bluff."
"Are you accusing me of being lazy? Because I’ll have you know, staying this charming while horizontal takes a significant amount of effort." He let out a dry, pained chuckle that ended too quickly. "Go home safely, get some sleep, and I’ll see you on Monday. I'll be the one looking remarkably handsome and doing absolutely no heavy lifting."
"Nick—"
"I promise, Jude. Goodnight."
The line went dead.
Judy stared at her reflection in the bar's mirror. She told herself he was just being a "typical male mammal" about the bad flu. But for the first time, the "Solve Later" door in her mind felt like it was starting to buckle under the pressure.
Monday morning arrived and Nick’s chair would remain tucked under his desk. There was no "prisoner of war" text, no dramatic GIF of a fox sliding off a sofa, no witty excuse about his brain taking a silly vacation. Just a hollow, accusing space at the desk next to hers.
By 6:00 PM, after ten failed calls and a mounting sense of dread that made her fur stand on end, Judy completely reached her limit. She’d quickly whipped up a batch of carrot-ginger soup at her place, pouring it into a tupperware and sealing it in a plastic bag. The warmth of the container pressed against her side as she drove to the lower levels of the city, where the shadows of the industrial apartments loomed over the damp streets.
The evening air here was cool and smelled of old iron. She walked down the concrete stairs to Nick’s door, her feet sounding far too loud in the narrow space. Her paws were shaking with a terrifying sense of impending catastrophe.
She stood there for a long moment, staring at the scarred wood. For months, she’d respected the boundaries of his "bad days," waiting for an invitation that never came. But a Hopps didn’t quit when the silence got too loud.
Judy's eyes snagged on the mailbox mounted right beside it. It was natural for Nick’s mail to be a little disorganized, but this was a red flag in metal form. Utility notices were wedged in so tightly the metal flap was stuck open, and a week’s worth of Zootopia Gazettes were stuffed haphazardly into the slot, their edges yellowing.
She gathered the mess into her arms, clutching the bundle of papers against her chest. She looped the handle of the soup bag over her left wrist, the plastic crinkling as she reached into her hoodie pocket for the emergency key.
It was a gesture he’d joked that the key was for "when I finally forget how to operate a deadbolt," but one they both knew was a quiet admission of needing someone to watch the door. She didn't use it immediately as she raised a fist and pounded on the wood.
"Nick?" she called out. "I know you're in there. Open up, or I’m using the key."
Silence, not even the shuffle of footsteps.
"I'm coming in," she warned, her voice trembling slightly.
She jammed the key into the lock. The tumblers turned with a stiff, unused grind.
The door swung inward, and the first thing that hit her was the smell.
It was the thick, cloying scent of a room that hadn’t exhaled in days. It smelled of stale sweat, lukewarm herbal tea, and the sharp, metallic tang of fever. The apartment was a cave, the heavy blackout curtains drawn tight, turning the space into a murky twilight of grey shadows and dust motes.
"Nick?" Judy stepped inside, her voice small in the stagnant air.
The apartment, usually a testament to Nick’s chaotic but curated style—jazz records stacked by the player, shirts hung with military precision—was a ruin. Takeout boxes were stacked in precarious towers on the coffee table, untouched. A glass of water had been knocked over on the floor, the puddle dried into a dark stain on the rug.
From the shadows of the kitchenette, she heard a sharp, startled intake of breath, followed by a series of clumsy thumps. Nick emerged, leaning heavily against the doorframe of his bedroom. He was wearing an old, threadbare ZPD sweatshirt that swallowed his thinning frame, his fur matted and dull.
"Judy," he rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves scraping over concrete. He forced a fragile smile, though his eyes were glassy and unfocused. "You're... you're early for the movie. I haven't even picked out which cinematic disaster we’re watching yet."
"Nick, just sit down," Judy said, her voice trembling. "You can barely stand."
"Nonsense. I was... heading to the kitchen," he muttered, his movements stiff and mechanical. He began to shuffle toward the fridge, his gait a slow, dragging pattern that made Judy feel a cold coil of dread. He reached the refrigerator and pulled the door open, the yellow light spilling out and making him look even more grey.
"Can I... offer you anything?" he asked, his hand hovering over a carton of orange juice for a beat too long before he gripped it to steady himself. "I think I have some... some leftover Thai. Or a very vintage yogurt. Your choice, Carrots."
"I don't want yogurt, Nick! I want you to tell me why you haven't answered your phone in the past twenty-four hours! Or why you didn’t even show up today!"
Nick turned, his eyes fluttering as he tried to focus on her face. "I told you... just a bad bug. I was actually about to... to whip up a feast for us."
He took a step toward the counter, but the movement was too much. The logic of his pride finally collapsed. A sudden, violent coughing fit seized him, a sound so deep and rattling it seemed to tear through his very chest. He doubled over, the orange juice carton slipping from his weak grip and hitting the floor with a dull thud, splattering across his feet.
"Nick!"
Judy reacted quickly as the armful of mail she’d been clutching—the utility bills, the yellowed newspapers, the takeout menus—went flying. The papers erupted into the air, fluttering around them like giant, white moths in the dim light of the kitchen. The bag of soup on her wrist swung wildly, the warm tupperware thumping against her arm as she lunged forward.
She was at his side in a heartbeat, her paws catching him by the elbows just as his knees hit the linoleum. The heat radiating off him was terrifying; it burned through her paws. He was vibrating with a violent, teeth-chattering quake.
"I'm... I'm fine..." he choked out, the lie finally sounding as pathetic as it was. He tried to push himself up, but his paws just skidded in the spilled juice "I... swallowed... some air... wrong."
"Stop it! Just stop!" Judy’s voice rose, cracking with a mixture of fury and raw panic. She looked at his muzzle—the grey tint, the way his whiskers were drooping and limp. "You’ve been missing shifts for weeks, you’re burning up, and you’re still trying to con me? We are going to a doctor. Now. I don't care if I have to arrest you for resisting medical treatment. You are going to a hospital."
"Judy, I don't... I don't need..."
"That wasn't a request, Wilde!"
She didn't wait for his protest as she reached around his waist, hooking her shoulder under his arm. He felt shockingly thin—fragile, like a bird made of glass. As she pulled him upright, he groaned, a low, pained sound that made her ears flatten tight.
"Lean on me," she commanded, her voice hardening into the steel she used for high-speed pursuits. "All of your weight, Nick. Do it."
He slumped against her, his head dropping onto her shoulder.
"Judy, just... lay it off," he wheezed, his head lolling back as she hauled him. His eyes were half-lidded, tracking the ceiling fixtures as if they were spinning. "I need a... a power nap. Maybe some of those electrolyte drinks that taste like... neon. I'll be back at the precinct... tomorrow morning. Promise."
"Cut the slack, Nick," Judy snapped, her voice thick with a scream she refused to let out. "You’re a terrible liar when you can’t even hold your own head up."
As they reached the narrow concrete stairwell, Nick’s knees buckled again. He leaned heavily into her, his head dropping against the crook of her neck. Even with the heat radiating off him like a furnace, he managed a weak, fluttering huff of a laugh against her fur.
"Careful there, Carrots," he murmured, the words slurring into a soft, dizzying rasp. "If you keep... holding me this tight... mammals are going to think you actually like me. And we both know... that would be a devastating blow to your professional reputation."
Judy’s heart did a painful, jagged stutter. Even now, with his fever burning through her shirt and his strength spent, he was trying to save her from the gravity of the moment.
"Still a hustler," she whispered, her voice thick as her grip tightened on his waist, her claws catching in the soft fabric of his sweatshirt. "You’re literally falling apart and you’re still trying to charm your way out of a hospital bed. Give it a rest, Nick. Just for once... give it a rest."
"I was... checking if you were... still paying attention," he breathed, his eyes closing as the effort of the joke drained the last of his reserves.
The ascent was an eternity of inches. Judy felt every shudder of his frame as she shouldered his dead weight up toward the curb. When they finally reached the cruiser, she fumbled with the door, sliding him into the passenger seat—the seat that had been a haunting, empty void for days.
As she tore away from the curb, Judy navigated the streets of Zootopia with a desperate, frantic precision. She kept one paw on the steering wheel and reached out with the other, resting it on Nick’s shoulder over the fleece blanket she had given him. She needed to feel the rise and fall of his chest, even if it was ragged and shallow.
The neon lights of the city blurred into long, electric streaks of blue and gold against the windshield. Every red light she blew through felt like a victory against time; every bump in the road that made Nick groan felt like a personal failure.
"We're almost there, Nick," she said, her voice a steady chant. "Do you hear me? You don't get to leave the paperwork to me. We have a shift tomorrow. You’re the one who’s supposed to bring the coffee, remember? You owe me."
In the passenger seat, Nick didn't answer with any words. He was drifting in that hazy, terrifying space between consciousness and the dark, his breath fogging the window in a slow, disappearing rhythm.
Suddenly, she felt a ghost of a movement. Underneath the fleece, his paw shifted, fumbling blindly across the center console until he found her hand. His claws were blunt and weak, but he managed to lace his fingers through hers in a feeble, trembling squeeze. It was a silent, terrifying admission that he was completely and utterly scared.
That shared intimate moment lasted only a second before his hand went limp again, but it was enough to shatter the last of Judy's professional composure.
The emergency room signs loomed ahead, glowing a harsh, unforgiving red. Judy gripped the wheel tighter, the "Solve Later" door in her mind had finally splintered into a thousand pieces.
As she pulled into the ambulance bay, Judy looked at his fur, which had lost that vibrant, sun-baked red she loved. She was terrified that she was finally facing a variable that didn't care about her life mantra.
A Hopps doesn't quit.
She repeated the words to herself again, but they sounded thinner than they used to. They sounded like a plea rather than a promise. She had spent a lifetime believing she was the sculptor of her own destiny—that if she just worked harder, ran faster, and cared more, she could fix anything.
But as the nurses in scrub colours and orderlies rushed toward the car, pulling the door open to whisk Nick away, she realized with a sickening jolt that she might finally be standing in front of a wall that no amount of hard work could ever climb.