Chapter Text
Thursday — 8:00 AM
35 hours until movie night
Next day Nick found himself in the middle of his apartment, staring at the mess for a long second longer.
Then he sighed.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “This is… not great.”
His apartment stared back. Judging him silently.
He took a step and immediately kicked something metallic. It skidded across the floor.
Right.
The hula hoop.
He nudged it toward the corner with his foot.
Step one: hide anything that raised questions.
Step two: hide anything that raised more questions.
Step three: pretend he was a functioning adult mammal.
He glanced at the sink again.
The dishes had officially crossed into hostile territory.
“Ignore it,” he told himself. “It’s not like she’s gonna open the cabinets and conduct a full inspection.”
He paused.
She absolutely would.
“Great,” he muttered. “I have a date with a cop.”
Woah. Woah. Woah.
No— That wasn’t right.
He wasn’t dating anyone.
This was just a movie night.
A completely normal, totally innocent movie night.
Strictly platonic.
In his den.
A den where foxes traditionally only let their mates in.
But that wasn’t their case. Nope.This was a friendship thing.
He grabbed a trash bag and snapped it open with more aggression than necessary.
Two days.
That was manageable. Totally manageable.
He could do this.
He’d survived cons, chases, murderous mammals, and being hunted as a fugitive.
Cleaning an apartment should be easy.
He looked at the framed newspaper article by the door. Judy smiled back at him from the photo.
He pointed at it.
“This,” he said firmly, “is your fault.”
Then the ceiling shook as a weight slammed down upstairs.
Perfect. Just perfect.
He sighed again and rolled up his sleeves.
“Alright, Wilde,” he said. “Let’s make this place safe for… guests.”
He paused.
“…One guest.”
His tail flicked excitedly.
He ignored it.
He spent a total of three hours trying to sort everything out.
At some point, he’d come up with a system. A very scientific one.
One trash bag for actual garbage.
One bag for things that looked suspicious enough to raise questions—those would require a second opinion, preferably from Future Nick.
And one bag for things he absolutely didn’t need anymore and should probably donate to charity.
Probably.
That last bag stayed mostly empty.
The problem was, the more he tried to sort things out, the harder it got.
Because the truth was—there wasn’t much he genuinely felt ready to throw away.
He opened a box near the couch.
Wigs. Too many wigs.
Every color, every length, every style imaginable. He didn’t bother picking any of them up. They’d all been useful at some point.
He closed the box and moved on.
The next one was heavier.
Costumes.
He sighed, already knowing this was where things got complicated.
Scrubs and a lab coat.
That one had paid very well.
A mid-sized company had hired him thinking he was a healthcare specialist brought in to give a motivational talk. Workplace wellness, stress management, productivity—he’d nodded along, thrown around enough technical-sounding jargon to sound legit, and never once said anything that could be fact-checked.
His actual advice, though, leaned in a slightly different direction.
Less “mindfulness to optimize productivity” and more “how to ignore your annoying boss.”
At one point, he’d somehow gotten the entire room chanting along with him:
“My boss is a toxic idiot. He’s dumb. I’m awesome. And he can absolutely go screw himself.”
He’d also shared a few practical tips on how to look extremely busy while doing absolutely nothing.
The employees had loved him.
A few weeks later, he’d heard through the grapevine that the company’s productivity had dropped by almost fifty percent. He considered that a personal success.
And like that, there were plenty of other costumes.
A construction worker one.
A chef’s jacket.
An ugly pink dress.
He grimaced. Yeah. That one didn’t need revisiting.
Behind every single one of them, there was a story.
He leaned back on his heels and exhaled slowly.
Every costume had paid for something—food, rent, time. Another day without having to worry about where he’d sleep. Throwing them away didn’t feel like decluttering.
It felt like forgetting how he’d survived.
After almost another hour digging through a box full of props—lassos, juggling clubs, a deflated basketball, and coming up with increasingly creative excuses for why none of them could possibly be thrown away, Nick finally had to face the obvious.
He wasn’t getting anywhere.
At all.
“Wow,” he muttered. “This is going great.”
The problem wasn’t the stuff. The stuff was fine. Useful. Practical. Potentially life-saving, depending on the situation.
The problem was the part of him that refused to imagine a future where he didn’t need it.
Because somewhere in the back of his head, a very annoying little voice kept whispering:
What if this whole cop thing blows up in your face?
What if one day Judy decides she’s done with you? Done with the attitude, the baggage, the constant reminders that you come with an expiration date?
Then what, Wilde?
He snorted under his breath.
Right. Then what.
Because here was the uncomfortable truth he really didn’t feel like unpacking right now:
he couldn’t picture himself being a cop without her.
Which was… inconvenient.
He was a police officer because of Judy.
And if this didn’t work out—if one day the badge came off for good—then yeah. Maybe he’d need all of this again. The props, the costumes and the plan B he’d never fully let go of.
He leaned back on his heels and glanced around the apartment.
His eyes drifted to the framed bill hanging by the entrance.
The first buck he’d ever made.
Twelve years old.
Living on the streets.
Alone.
He stared at it for a moment.
That bill was proof. Proof that he’d figured things out once—using whatever he had, whatever worked, whatever kept him breathing one more night. That he could do it again if he had to. That was the real problem.
Because every object scattered around his apartment was built on that same logic.
The costumes. The props. The junk that wasn’t really junk. They weren’t memories. They were contingency plans. Insurance. Evidence that he’d survived worse with less.
Survive first.
Ask questions later.
That rule had kept him alive since he was twelve.
It was why nothing ever felt disposable. Because throwing something away meant betting on a future where he wouldn’t need it—and Nick Wilde had never been big on blind faith.
He stared at the bill a moment longer. Then his gaze dropped, down past the frame, to the small table beneath it.
The photo. Judy and him.
Judy.
Then sighed.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Figures.”
He pulled out his phone before he could overthink it.
Nick: Hey Finn, I’ve got some stuff from old cons I’m getting rid of. Interested?
The reply came almost instantly.
Finnick: How much
He snorted softly and typed back.
Nick: Wow. Not even a hello? That hurts.
For free, buddy.Finnick: Can you bring them to my place?
Nick glanced around the apartment.
Nick: Yep.
Finnick: I’ll wait 4 u
He slipped the phone back into his pocket, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.
“Well, damn” he muttered to the room, “look at that.”
He was actually making a bet. A bet on her. On them.
Thursday — 12:30 PM
30 hours and 30 minutes until movie night
Nick arrived at Finnick’s place balancing a few boxes and trash bags, courtesy of an aggressively overpriced Zuber.
And by place, he meant the van.
Parked in the same spot it always was.
He dropped everything on the pavement and knocked on the back doors with their old, secret knock.
“Delivery for daddy’s special boy.”
The van door swung open.
Finnick stared at him, unimpressed.
“Hey, Nicky,” he said in his deep, gravelly voice. “This all of it?”
“Yep.”
Finnick hopped down with surprising agility for someone his size and immediately started digging through the bags. After a few seconds, he paused. Slowly looked up.
“There’s good stuff in here,” he said. “You sure you wanna get rid of it?”
Nick shrugged.
“I’m decluttering.”
Finnick stopped. Narrowed his eyes. “You? Decluttering?”
He scoffed. “Nicky, you a hoarder. And that’s comin’ from a fox who lives in a van.”
“I’m just making space,” Nick said. “Cleaning. You know. What normal animals do?.”
“Clean,” Finnick repeated, skeptical. He tilted his head. “Lemme ask you somethin’, Wilde. Are you reorganizin’ for real?”
“Something like that,” Nick said. Way too fast. “Yeah.”
Finnick snorted. Then laughed.
“Oh no.” He pointed at him. “Nick. You ain’t—”
He leaned in, lowering his voice.
“—preparin’ your den, are you?”
Nick stiffened.
No.
Absolutely not.
That implied intent. Feelings. A future. Three things he didn’t do.
“You know how it is with us foxes,” Finnick continued, enjoying himself way too much. “When we get ready to… mate, we clean the den. Make it nice. Comfortable.”
He smirked.
“So what is it? You finally meet a cute vixen?”
Nick froze.
“I mean,” Finnick went on, “a lotta ladies like a mammal in uniform. And you been all over the news again. So what—someone caught your eye?”
Nick stared at him.
Finnick stared back.
“Oh dear lord,” Finnick said slowly. “It ain’t a vixen.”
He squinted.
“It’s that bunny.”
Nick tried to look unbothered.
“No,” he said quickly. “I am not preparing my den. Definitely not for a bunny.”
Finnick burst out laughing—just a little too loud for Nick’s liking.
“I can't—” he said, wiping at his eyes. “A fox and a rabbit. Never in my life have I ever—”
He shook his head, still chuckling.
“No wonder you had me play your little son” Finnick went on. “You been rehearsin’ already? Tryin’ out the whole domestic life thing with that bunny?”
He smirked.
“Bet that was your idea too, huh, Nicky?”
Nick sighed. There was no winning a poker face against Finnick. Ever.
“Her name is Judy,” he said flatly. “And yes, she’s coming over for a movie night. A movie. Night.”
He pointed a finger for emphasis.
“Not to… mate,” he added dryly. “As you so grossly, rudely, and crudely put it.”
Finnick’s ears twitched.
“A movie night,” Finnick repeated flatly. “In your den.”
“People watch movies together all the time,” Nick shot back.
Finnick leaned against the van, grinning like he’d just won something.
“Uh-huh,” he said. “And you ain’t never invited anyone to your place.”
Nick froze.
Finnick raised an eyebrow.
“Not one girl you dated. Not a fling. Not even me.” He gestured at himself. “That’s different,” Nick muttered.
“How?” Finnick asked calmly.
Nick didn’t answer.
Finnick’s grin widened.
“So lemme get this straight,” he continued. “You cleaned, reorganized, and gave away half your junk—just so this one bunny could come over and watch movies.”
Nick opened his mouth. Closed it.
“I just wanted the place to look… decent,” he said quietly.
A deep, booming laugh escaped Finnick.
“Oh my god,” he wheezed. “You dennin’.”
“I am not denning.”
“You dennin’ hard, Wilde.”
Nick sighed.
Finnick kept laughing as he started loading the boxes into the van.
“Just wait,” he said. “Next thing you know, you gonna be obsessively cleanin’, scent markin’, feedin’ her, makin’ sure she comfortable.”
Nick rolled his eyes.
“And hey,” Finnick added, hopping into the van, “when you two get married—invite me to the wedding, yeah?”
The van doors slammed shut.
Nick stared at them.
“…Great,” he muttered.
Thursday — 7:05 PM
23 hours and 55 minutes until movie night
Later, Nick found himself rubber gloves on, locked in battle with a tower of dirty dishes.
Fighting for his life felt like an accurate description.
Ever since joining the ZPD, he’d somehow perfected the art of procrastination. A skill he was now paying for, plate by plate, questionable smell by questionable smell.
Turns out ignoring a problem didn’t make it go away.
It just made it crustier.
That was when his phone started ringing.
Nick glanced at the screen and was greeted by a picture of a very confused-looking bunny.
He smiled despite himself.
“Hey, partner,” he said, taking off the rubber gloves and wedging the phone between his ear and shoulder. “How’s your thrilling day off treating you?”
Judy let out a sigh on the other end.
“A little boring,” she admitted. “I just… I feel like I should be doing more. You know? For the case. For Gary.”
Nick snorted softly as he reached for another questionable plate in the sink.
“There’s nothing left for us to do,” he said, nudging a stack of dishes aside. “Everything’s moving along just fine. That’s just you being a workaholic.”
Judy chuckled.
“Yeah… I guess. Maybe I really do need to relax.”
There was a brief pause.
“So,” she added, casual but curious, “what are you doing?”
Nick looked down at his soapy paws. At the sink. At the mountain of dishes.
“Oh, you know,” he said lightly. “Living the dream. I’ve been lying around all day.”
He lied.
“Some of us actually know how to take it easy.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you have,” she chuckled. “So… are you excited for our movie night?”
His tail immediately betrayed him, swishing behind him like it had a mind of its own.
“Well, Carrots,” he said smoothly, “I can’t wait to educate you in real cinema. We’re starting with our dear mayor’s finest work—Neighsayer one through five. A true cinematic journey.
Judy snorted into the phone.
“Absolutely not. We’re watching The Devil Wears Preyda. That’s a classic.”
He gasped, deeply offended.
“Wow. Okay. First of all, you clearly need more film culture.”
“It is a classic,” she shot back. “Meryl Sheep is a titan in that movie. Fashion. Drama. Iconic lines. You’ll love it.”
Nick laughed, shaking his head.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he teased. “But I do love hearing you defend it this passionately.”
She huffed, but he could hear the smile in her voice.
“Just admit it—you’re excited.”
“Please,” he said lightly. “I’m doing this purely out of selfless cultural exchange.”
“Uh-huh.”
He smirked.
“Still gonna make you dinner, though.”
“…You know how to cook?” Judy asked, genuinely surprised.
“Are you implying something, sweetheart?” he said smoothly.
“Well,” she replied, trying—and failing—to sound innocent, “with the amount of junk food you ingest, I didn’t really peg you as the cooking type.”
Nick scoffed, clearly offended on a deeply personal level.
“Oh, I’ll take that as a challenge. Careful, Hopps,” he added. “You’re about to unlock a very exclusive Wilde family specialty.”
“Oh yeah?” she teased. “Should I be scared?”
“Only if you’re afraid of being impressed.”
She laughed softly.
“Wow. Someone’s confident.”
“Please,” he replied. “Confidence is my brand.”
Judy giggled.
Which, unfortunately, made him chuckle too.
“Well then, Slick,” she said playfully, “I’ll leave you to… do nothing and lie around all day, like the lazy tail you are. I have to call my parents. See you tomorrow?”
“Sure thing,” he replied easily.
“Don’t be late for our date,” he added without thinking, and hung up.
Silence.
He stared at his phone.
Wait a minute.
Did he just—
Date.
He had called it a date.
To Judy.
Oh no.
No no no no no.
He slowly lowered the phone, horror dawning on his face.
His tail wagged.
He grabbed it.
“This is all your fault,” he hissed at it. “Absolutely all of it.”
He stood there for a solid five minutes, staring at his phone like it might explode.
Okay.
Options.
Option one: call her back. Clarify. Explain that he didn’t mean date-date. Just… a date.
Like a scheduled event.
Like a dentist appointment.
Or jury duty.
That sounded terrible.
Of course it did. The word date had already left his mouth. There was no walking that back without making it worse. Way worse.
Option two: do nothing and hope she somehow hadn’t caught it.
Which was ridiculous. Of course she’d caught it. She had ears. Big ones. Excellent hearing. Literally her whole thing.
Option three: do nothing.
Pretend that didn’t happen.
Honestly? Still terrible. But slightly less terrible.
Maybe—maybe—she was the one who thought he meant date in a purely calendar-based sense. A casual arrangement involving popcorn and absolutely zero emotional consequences.
Right?
Right.
Except—
What if she hadn’t?
What if she thought he meant date-date.
As in… feelings. Romance.
As in candles and expectations and conversations that started with “so what are we?”
What if she felt awkward about it?
What if she felt grossed out?
What if she decided not to come anymore?
What if she decided not to come anymore and never look at him the same way again?
What if she decided she didn’t want to be his friend because she thought he wanted more than that?
What if he walked into Precinct One on Monday only to find out she’d requested a partner transfer because she didn’t feel comfortable around him anymore?
He stared at the phone harder.
“This,” he muttered darkly, “is why I don’t invite anyone over.”
He shoved the phone into his pocket.
“Great job, Wilde,” he added. “Really smooth. Ten out of ten. Absolutely did not just ruin everything with one syllable.”
His tail wagged again.
He groaned.
“Stop it,” he told it. “We’re panicking.”
Fifteen minutes later, his phone buzzed.
A text.
Nick froze.
Was it Judy?
He stared at the screen, suddenly very aware of the tight knot forming in his chest. He didn’t pick up the phone right away. Just stood there, mentally drafting explanations, justifications—half a dozen versions of hey, about that thing I said.
What if she was texting to clarify?
What if she was awkward?
What if she—
He grabbed the phone and stopped. Because it wasn’t Judy. It was Clawhauser.
Nick frowned and opened the message.
It was a group chat.
With several numbers he didn’t recognize.
Clawhauser: Niiiiick! Sooo… it was a date. I knew it!!!! 😺✨
Nick’s ears flattened.
“What?” he muttered aloud. “What is this?”
Another message popped up.
Unknown Number 1: Don’t worry, buddy. We’re here for emotional support.
Then another.
Unknown Number 2: You need anything, Nick? We got you.
Nick stared at the screen, horrified.
He typed furiously.
Nick: Who is this?
Nick: Clawhauser, why are there unknown numbers in here?
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
Unknown Number 1: This is Nibbles.
Another message followed.
Unknown Number 1: And Gary!
Nick blinked at the screen.
What.
Clawhauser: I added your friends! Thought you might need some help preparing for your romantic date with Judy 🦊❤️🐰
Nick stared at the phone.
“What in the world,” he muttered, horrified, “have you done?”
He typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
He resigned himself and saved both numbers.
Nick: Clawhauser, how did you even get their numbers?
Clawhauser: From the case files! 🩷
Nick: Just so you know, that’s super illegal.
Wood Eater: Gary my dude! Didn’t know you got a phone!
Gary: It’s new! They gave it to me at the Mayor’s office!
Clawhauser: How’s date night prep going, Nick? Can we help?
Nick closed his eyes.
Clawhauser: I could totally share with you a romantic playlist with Gazelle’s music to set the mood.
Nick: IT’S NOT A DATE.
Nick: IT’S JUST A NORMAL MOVIE NIGHT.Wood Eater: If you need new furniture, I’m your gal ;)
Gary: You okay Nick? Are you nervous? That’s totally normal BTW
Nick: Nope.
Nick: Because IT’S. JUST. A. MOVIE. NIGHT.
Between the cheetah, the beaver, and the snake, there was apparently a very limited number of functioning neurons in that group chat, because none of this seemed to deter them.
Links to articles titled “10 Tips to Have the Purrrfect Date.”
Another one confidently named “What Rabbits Love: Comfort, Chemistry, and Carrots.”
Then the videos started.
“Canine Charm 101: Tail Confidence Without Overdoing It.”
“Outfits That Compliment Fur, Ears, and… Personality.”
And a suspiciously specific one about “Couches, Cushions, and the Art of Sitting Close Without Making It Weird.”
Then came the playlists.
“Slightly Unhinged Love Songs.”
“For Fox Sake, I Love You.”
And one particularly concerning playlist titled entirely in emojis: 🔞💦🍆🍑🔥🔞
Nick didn’t even bother clicking on that one.
“Absolutely not,” he muttered.
Nick watched the notifications pile up, one after another.
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“This,” he muttered, “is cyberbullying.”
He decided to put his phone on airplane mode.
But before he could, a new message popped up.
It was Judy.
His heart stopped.
He was afraid to look at the phone for a full minute.
What if she wanted to cancel movie night with some terrible excuse because of the whole date thing?
What if she wanted to cancel their partnership at the precinct?
Cancel their friendship?
Judy: Just wanted to let you know I’m really excited for tomorrow. Thank you for inviting me. Good night!
Something in his chest finally loosened.
Like a knot he hadn’t realized was there had quietly untangled itself.
She wasn’t mad.
She wasn’t uncomfortable.
She wasn’t transferring partners.
Maybe she hadn’t caught the date thing.
Maybe she’d heard it and hadn’t taken it as a romantic thing.
Maybe—miracle of miracles—he’d been spiraling over absolutely nothing.
He let out a breath he’d apparently been holding for the last hour.
Wow.
What a concept.
He typed back.
Nick: You’re welcome. Sweet dreams, carrot cake.
He set the phone down and looked around his apartment.
At the sink still full of dishes.
At the dirty clothes scattered across the floor.
At the very obvious fact that he was not done cleaning.
Yeah.
He still had a lot to do.
Sweet dreams were probably not in the cards for him.
But hey.
At least she was excited.
And somehow, that made it worth it.