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𐚁 ship ݂ 𓏼 nick wilde x judy hopps
ོ 𓏏𓏏 plot ݂ ⑅ a fox who never cared about anyone accidentally starts caring too much.
nick wilde didn’t know what was wrong with him.
which, frankly, sucked, because nick prided himself on knowing everything, especially about himself. self-awareness was his whole brand. sarcasm, charm, and a highly cultivated emotional detachment sharpened by years of practice. he knew exactly who he was and how he worked and which parts of himself were real and which were just stage lighting.
lately, things were glitching. he’d open his eyes in the morning and his first thought—his first thought—was whether judy hopps had gotten herself killed overnight doing something catastrophically rabbit-brained like chasing a suspect into traffic or trying to lecture an armed rhino about civic responsibility.
which was absurd. nick did not worry about people. worrying required emotional investment, and emotional investment led to vulnerability, and vulnerability was a hobby for people who didn’t have memories of being muzzled at age eight. but there he was, in the middle of his kitchen, stirring his coffee and staring into the middle distance like a widowed war wife thinking, did she remember her vest today? gods, she probably didn’t. that bunny’s going to get pancaked.
he tried ignoring it. denial had always been his best coping mechanism, right behind deflection and pretending to fall asleep during conversations he didn’t want to have, but the cracks kept widening. example: three nights ago, he’d heard sirens on the east side of town, standard background noise in zootopia. normally he wouldn’t have looked up from his phone, but his stomach had dropped so violently you’d think he’d swallowed a brick, and suddenly he was calling her, voice too casual, like, “hey carrots, you alive or what?”
she’d laughed, breathless, and said, “nick, i just chased a perp across six blocks! i’m great!”
and he’d said, “you sound like you’re dying.”
and she’d said, “you sound like you care.”
and he hung up on her. immediately. no goodbye, no witty remark. just panic-press-end-call because that word—care—hit him like a tranquilizer dart.
another example: last week she tripped on uneven pavement (judy hopps, sworn officer of the zpd, taker-down of criminals, defeater of corruption, brought low by a mildly cracked sidewalk), and before he even realized what he was doing, he had grabbed her by the elbow. not the sleeve, not the uniform, the elbow. the spot you grab when you’re subconsciously protecting someone you shouldn’t be protecting.
then there was today. today was the final, irrefutable proof that he was broken beyond repair. they were in the precinct break room—him pretending the coffee wasn’t sludge, her rambling about some new community program involving at-risk youth and compost bins—and he caught himself… listening. not pretending to listen, not nodding at convenient intervals, actually listening.
and worse: enjoying it.
her voice kept rising when she got excited, her ears flicking, her paws moving in little circles like she was conducting an invisible orchestra, and he felt something warm unfurl in his chest. something traitorous. something that made him think, she’s actually kind of… cute. he froze, mentally screamed, because nick wilde did not find his partner cute. that was rule number one—right alongside “never trust anyone,” “never let them see the real you,” and “never ever let a rabbit rearrange your entire identity.”
but judy had crawled under his skin like it was her new rental property, and to his profound horror, he’d let her. or maybe he hadn’t noticed until it was too late. which was even worse. she’d made space for herself in the parts of him he’d boarded up. she’d become someone he worried about, someone he checked for in a room automatically, someone he trusted—trusted, for god’s sake—without meaning to.
he didn’t know when it started. maybe it was the night she fell asleep in the patrol car mid-sentence, leaning on his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. maybe it was the time she called him her friend with zero hesitation, as if the word wasn’t heavy or dangerous. maybe it was the million tiny moments where she treated him like he mattered. either way, the damage was done.
nick wilde didn’t know what was wrong with him, but he knew this much: whatever it was, it had gray fur, purple eyes, and absolutely no business being this important to him.
so here he was, sitting in the precinct break room, pretending to read the back of a cereal box, doing everything in his power not to actually look at her, because judy hopps was pacing again. pacing meant talking, and talking meant rambling, and rambling meant her voice doing that thing—rising, falling, full of excitement and sincerity and that unstoppable hopps optimism that felt like getting elbowed in the ribs by sunlight.
“—and if we convert the old community garden into a hybrid space, we could use half for educational workshops and half for actual produce distribution,” she was saying, paws gesturing wildly, tail bobbing, ears bouncing with every step. “kids could learn sustainability and nutrition at the same time! isn’t that great, nick? nick, are you listening?”
“absolutely,” he said, flipping the cereal box around like he’d been studying it intensely. “i’m enthralled.”
judy stopped. “you’re holding the box upside down.”
“well, that’s how you unlock the secret message,” he said, tapping it. “it’s a spy trick.”
she rolled her eyes but smiled, that little twitchy half-grin that meant she knew he was full of it but she liked it anyway, and nick felt that warm squeeze in his chest again, like someone tightening a belt around his ribs and then forgetting to stop.
he hated it.
not her—god, not her. just the way she made him…feel things. dangerous things. things he’d trained out of himself decades ago. feelings were liabilities. attachments were traps. caring got you hurt, muzzled, humiliated, used. judy hopps made caring feel involuntary, like basic biology. like breathing. she hopped onto the stool across from him, swinging her feet. “you know, you could pretend just a little harder to be supportive.”
“i’ll have you know,” he said, leaning back with exaggerated laziness, “that in fox culture, what i’m doing right now is considered extremely supportive. i am radiating emotional availability.”
“uh-huh,” she said flatly. “you’re radiating something.”
“charm?”
“smugness.”
“that’s my second-best trait.”
she raised a brow. “what’s the first?”
“my devastating good looks.” he said without missing a beat.
she snorted, and his stomach did that horrible little flip it had started doing whenever he made her laugh. like a traitor. like a mammal with a crush. disgusting. he turned back to the cereal box, pretending it was fascinating instead of a flimsy shield between him and the existential crisis of i care about her, because he did. undeniably. catastrophically. she was the only person in his life who chose him—consistently, unconditionally, infuriatingly. she saw him, all the way through the snark and the reflexive distance and the fox-fox-run instincts, and she stayed, and something inside him had started anchoring itself to that.
he hated that too.
“nick?” she said softly.
that tone—soft, wondering, concerned in that way that suggested she could see right through him—made his fur prickle. “what.” came out not as a question but self-defense.
“are you okay?” she asked. “you’re acting weird.”
he barked a laugh. “i’m always weird.”
“no, this is like… extra weird.”
“wow,” he said, clutching his chest. “fatally wounded. struck down by a bunny’s cruelty.”
judy just stared at him, unamused, like she was waiting for the real answer, and he felt it again: that squeeze. that stupid, tight, chest-warm pressure that meant she mattered. too much. more than he could ever admit. if she knew, really knew, how much time he spent thinking about her safety, her voice, her laugh… she’d probably call a therapist on him. or worse, she’d look at him the way prey looked at predators. he couldn’t lose her. she was the only part of his life that wasn’t survival.
so he smirked, leaned forward, and flicked one of her ears. “don’t worry carrots,” he said lightly. “if something was wrong, you’d be the first to know. mostly because you’d never shut up about it.”
“hey!” she swatted him. “i don’t talk that much.”
nick opened his mouth, he had so many counterarguments, but then she laughed again, and something in him just softened. he looked at her purple eyes, warm fur, unbelievably stubborn heart, and the truth hit him: she wasn’t just important. she was it. the only person he trusted. the only person who saw him. the only person he’d die for without hesitation.
and he couldn’t say a damn word about it.
so he hid it the only way he knew how, behind humor, behind ease, behind that lazy grin she always saw right through but never called him out on. “carrots,” he said, voice lighter than he felt, “if you’re done planning your adorable gardening revolution, how about we grab lunch? someplace where i don’t have to pretend cereal is a personality trait.”
she brightened instantly. “yeah! let me just grab my notebook—don’t move.” —- and she hopped out of the room, fast and full of purpose.
nick watched the doorway long after she was gone, then he sighed. “…what is wrong with me.”
the tragic part was: he already knew the answer. he just didn’t like it. it came with floppy ears, boundless optimism, and a tendency to sprint everywhere like life was a race and she was late to every finish line. damn, he was in trouble.
judy didn’t walk. she launched. every errand, every task, every sudden idea—she moved like a spark plugged directly into caffeine, and he, idiot that he was, had trained himself to follow. not because he enjoyed cardio (he absolutely did not), not because foxes were naturally inclined to hop after rabbits like loyal puppies (they absolutely were not), but because the moment she darted out of his sight, he felt that cold prickle down his spine.
danger. his danger. her danger. the city’s danger. someone’s danger.
so he chased her. always.
judy would burst out of a room with a breathless, “nick! come on!” and he’d be up before his brain even registered the movement, because apparently, nick wilde—lifelong individualist, professional avoidant, proud cynic—had turned into someone who followed a bunny around like the world’s most sarcastic border collie. he slumped into the break-room chair, dragging a paw down his face. this was her fault. all of it. she’d wormed her way into places inside him he didn’t even know existed. places he’d boarded up years ago with sarcasm, ego, and a firm belief that emotional intimacy was for chumps.
yet here he was, thinking about her safety, worrying about her lunch breaks, timing his steps so he didn’t outpace her or lag too far behind, and trying not to imagine what would happen to him if something ever happened to her.
nope. too real. shutting that thought down immediately.
he stood, brushing imaginary dust from his shirt—he always preened when he was uncomfortable—and leaned against the counter like he hadn’t just been spiraling into his own emotional canyon, because that was the trick. the mask. the performance. nick wilde didn’t pine. nick wilde didn’t yearn. nick wilde didn’t get attached or protective or emotionally compromised. nick wilde teased. nick wilde smirked. nick wilde rolled his eyes and called her “carrots” in a tone that suggested affection was the last thing on his mind when, unfortunately, it was the only thing on his mind.
she had no idea. thank god. if judy hopps ever realized that he—sir smug-a-lot, slyest fox in the metro—found himself tracking her heartbeat from ten feet away like a worried parent or a predator with boundary issues, he would never hear the end of it. he heard her pawsteps coming back—quick, light, excited, like she had five new ideas and only two lungs to store all the words she wanted to say about them.
he felt it. that stupid warm jolt in his chest. like oh good, she’s back. like oh good, you’re not alone again.
he straightened just in time for her to hop inside, notebook clutched, eyes bright. “okay! ready!” she announced. “let’s go!” then she was off again, bolting toward the hallway, tail bouncing like a metronome set to “hyperactive.” he followed at an unhurried pace, not because he wasn’t in a rush, judy hopps existed in a permanent state of fast-forward, and nick had long since accepted that half of his job was catching up, but because he would never let her know he hurried for her. he had a reputation to maintain. smug fox first, cripplingly attached disaster second.
she was waiting for him at the end of the hallway, bouncing on her toes like she’d been there for ages even though she’d arrived three seconds ago. “nick! c’mon!” she chirped. “you said lunch!”
“i did,” he sighed theatrically. “you also said you’d only give me thirty seconds to mourn my lost dignity when i agreed to be your partner, and here we are. years of complaining later.”
she stuck her tongue out at him, an aggressively adorable sight he pretended not to think about, and turned toward the precinct doors. nick trailed behind her by two steps, the perfect distance for what he called stealth vigilance. casual enough to pass as arrogant swagger, close enough to intervene if she tripped, got distracted, got bulldozed by a rhino turning too fast, or—his personal nightmare—forgot how small she was.
judy hopps operated with the spatial awareness of someone who believed she was seven feet tall and bulletproof. which would be charming if it didn’t threaten to take five years off his lifespan daily. she pushed open the door and stepped outside, bright-eyed, ears perked, practically vibrating with enthusiasm about… well. everything. existence. oxygen. gravity. opportunities to lecture him about nutrition. he shoved his paws in his pockets and followed her out. “where to, carrots?” he asked. “please keep in mind i’m allergic to kale, quinoa, and optimism.”
“you’re not allergic to optimism.”
“i am,” he said. “severe reaction. hives. emotional discomfort.”
she started down the sidewalk, fast, like she was leading a parade only she could see. nick walked beside her, not close enough for anyone to assume anything but close enough that he could feel her presence, a little spark in his peripheral vision. she talked the whole time, hands moving, ears swaying, about some case file, or maybe it was a community event, or maybe she’d spontaneously invented a new volunteer program between steps three and four. he honestly wasn’t listening to most of the words. he was listening to her voice.
they rounded a corner, and she hopped ahead a little—too far for his comfort—so he casually stretched an arm out in front of her like a gate just as a delivery truck rolled by too close to the curb. judy blinked. “oh! whoops. didn’t see that.”
“mm.” nick’s voice was lazy, almost bored. “you never do.”
she squinted up at him, suspicious. “were you watching for me?”
he scoffed. “please. i was watching for me.”
he held the door to their usual lunch spot, a small diner tucked between a florist and a tax office. judy never questioned how he always insisted on this place, she assumed it was convenience. it was actually visibility. only two entrances, plenty of windows, and a layout where he could always seat himself between her and anyone he didn’t trust.
which was… everyone.
the kind of place where the seating was too cramped and the umbrellas were too flimsy and the waitstaff pretended not to judge you for existing. judy hopped into the seat across from him like she’d been launched. “okay, so,” she began immediately, opening her notebook. “i’ve been thinking about the tracks near the warehouse. they’re too clean. nobody runs that fast and leaves a print that neat, which means—”
“you know,” nick interrupted, waving a paw at a waiter who glared at him like he’d committed a felony, “normal people ease into conversations. maybe say things like ‘hey, nick, how’s life, treating you okay?’”
judy blinked at him. “i see you every day.”
“wow. be still my beating heart.” he slapped a paw over his chest. “i’m touched.”
she huffed, ears tipping back. “you’re impossible.”
he smirked, leaning back in his chair, letting the sun hit just right so he could pretend he was relaxed instead of busy cataloguing the entire block for potential threats. “yet you still voluntarily spend time with me. curious.”
“because,” she said, lifting her voice with that stubborn indignation he secretly adored, “you’re my partner. we have work to do.”
“sure,” he drawled. “purely professional. nothing to do with the fact that i’m charming, hilarious, devastatingly handsome—”
“oh my gosh, nick.”
“—and modest,” he finished, ignoring her protests, tail flicking lazily under the table. she rolled her eyes, but she smiled. she always smiled at him, like she couldn’t help it. like he somehow made her happy without even trying.
the waiter dropped off their food with a sigh heavy enough to power a wind farm. judy immediately reached for her sandwich; nick immediately nudged the plate slightly closer to her. she didn’t notice, she never noticed the little things he did. good. he didn’t want her noticing. didn’t want her asking why he always made sure she ate first, or why he sat facing the door, or why he paused mid-sentence when a stranger walked too close to their table.
he took a slow bite of his own food, watching her chew with the kind of absent affection that made him want to drown himself. she didn’t even sit still while eating—ears twitching, feet bouncing, fingers tapping her pen against the notebook as she scribbled between bites. “you good?” she said suddenly, noticing the way he’d zoned out, her eyes softening with that ridiculous concern she always had for him.
he smirked, leaning on one elbow, flicking her pen with a claw. “never better, carrots. just wondering how one tiny rabbit manages to inhale an entire sandwich that big.”
“it’s called efficiency,” she shot back. “you should try it.”
he hummed in thought, pretending to mull it over. “nah. i like watching you do it.”
she froze. just for a second, just a blink, but he saw it, a tiny flicker of something warm, something shy, something he absolutely should not be paying attention to. he looked away first, ears heating under his fur. “anyway,” he said quickly, grabbing his drink, “eat slower. you’re gonna choke, and i refuse to perform the heimlich in public. it’ll ruin my image.”
“you don’t have an image.”
“exactly,” he said with a grin that hid absolutely nothing. “which is why i have to protect what’s left of it.”
he watched her again, because he always did. watched her laugh, watched her shake her head, watched her beam at him like he was the one bright thing in her day.
and he hated it.
and he loved it.
and he had no idea what to do with any of it.
