Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Something was different this time around. He was desperate, hoping that this trip would finally be enough to call it quits. That this would be the last time he sat on the chalky sidewalk curb, its gritty texture pressing against his thighs, feeling the hot sun burrow deep into his fur like a persistent flame. The last time he stared at this old, rundown apartment with its peeling gray paint, rusted balcony railings, and cracked windowpanes, wishing for one more chance to step inside. To smell its musty air one last time and see how its rooms had been redecorated to suit someone else's taste.

To see just how happy the ignorant people of Downtown Zootopia could be.

It was hopeless, he knew—staying up late at night, fantasizing over the simple things he once overlooked while rushing out the door. The faint outline of a coffee stain leaving darkened, crusty rings on the speckled countertop. The sticky mud tracks near the creaky front door, remnants of that rainy day without umbrellas. The warmth of a blueberry pie fresh out of the dented oven when he came home from school, its aroma filling the narrow hallways, so lush that he could almost taste the bubbling fruit in the air.

Oh, how he had adored that.

It was almost humorous—in a self-deprecating way—how he compared those eccentric highs to his dwindling presence now. The swelling around his freshly bruised cheek, dark and purple, made him appear intimidating to the other animals. Some stared, curious about how a scrawny fox could even acquire such an injury. Others scoffed, convinced he probably deserved it.

A worn sketchbook and a chipped plastic ruler lay across his lap, surrounded by scuffs of dirt and flecks of broken glass glinting in the sunlight. His pencil tapped lightly on the dogeared pages, scattering graphite dots across his illustrations, like a sandstorm sweeping through Savannah Central. He marred the page without a care, his attention elsewhere.

Nick's gaze lingered on the building in front of him. Its crooked fire escape snaked up the façade like an old, rusted spine. The fading neon "For Rent" sign in the window blinked erratically, casting a faint glow on the dusty pavement below. His tongue peeked out as he focused on the cheap apartment complex, its once-vivid turquoise color now dulled and peeling away in long, curling strips.

He started sketching in his notebook—a heavy graphite line here, a shadow over there. Evening light caught the smudged kitchen windows, making them glint like unpolished gems. His eraser, worn to a nub, left behind ugly pink streaks on the paper. A groan escaped him as he tried to salvage the work. In the end, though, he captured it: the beauty of that ugly building, drowning in the Zootopian sunset, its muted colors softening in the golden light.

A smirk tugged at his bushy muzzle. A crimson-colored lollipop hung loosely from his mouth, the plastic stick sticking out at an angle, contrasting with his sharp emerald eyes that flickered across the worn tar as colorful cars zipped by. Their reflections streaked the cracked windows of nearby shops like fleeting rainbows.

The sounds of downtown were music to his ears.

The hum of air conditioners mounted precariously on walls, rattling like tired beasts. The brown lynx performing every Friday evening at the local bar, his weathered guitar slung over his shoulder like a trusted companion. The twang of its rusted strings filled the air, mixing with the faint scent of fried food from the vendor carts lining the street. A herd of animals crowded around a flickering television in a nearby diner, yelling at the latest sports match. Their cheers blended with the muffled buzz of passing scooters and the distant clanging of a construction site down the block.

Even the arguments had a rhythm to them. A tiger couple debated the nonsensical plot of the latest blockbuster as they exited the retro-style theater with its dim marquee lights flickering like dying fireflies. The acrid smell of gasoline wafted from the nearby filling station, where a pump rattled as it struggled to work. Sparks flew from a car that scraped the deep pothole at the intersection, sending a shower of tiny embers onto the already scorched asphalt.

Moments like these made the orange fox grin—genuinely grin—whether he realized it or not. He shut his baggy eyes, swaying to the noise, letting his mind drift. The weight of the last seven months melted away like fog under the morning sun, leaving him momentarily untethered.

As foolish as it seemed, he almost believed she was still waiting for him to come home.

Suddenly, the lynx at the bar was drowned out by polite clapping, followed by a muttered thanks distorted through a crackling amplifier. Before Nick could refocus, the performer struck up a tune that tugged at his memory.

A nostalgic melody made him hum and sway. His tail thumped rhythmically against the dusty curb, sending up faint puffs of gray chalk. Déjà vu washed over him, making his smirk deepen. A warmth flushed through his face, different from the sun's harsh rays—a pleasant tingling that began at his nose and spread to the tips of his long ears.

He didn't know the lyrics by heart but hummed along to the familiar, repetitive tune. Slowly, the words came back to him. If he had a guitar, he was certain he could figure out the chords and play along. Just like riding a bicycle.

But the moment was shattered by the chirp of a police siren.

Nick clamped his jaw on the lollipop, crushing it into scarlet shards that scattered across his tongue.

One eye cracked open, then the other, locking onto the cruiser parked before him. The flashing red and blue lights sliced jagged lines through the grime-covered buildings, painting everything with an unsettling urgency. A large cape buffalo stood beside the driver's door, his face a mask of exhaustion and authority.

"It's a nice day, isn't it?" the officer asked, his voice heavy with forced sympathy. "A good one for you, I'm sure."

Nick's hand tightened around his backpack strap, his thumb brushing its frayed mesh for comfort. Slowly, he rose from the curb, gripping his black sketchbook tightly.

"Do you need another minute, Nick?" the officer asked gravely.

A lump swelled in Nick's throat, making him swallow uneasily. Moments like this always reminded him of his paltry existence. But what choice did he have?

"No," Nick replied curtly, zipping his backpack shut, sealing his supplies away.

The first time, he had cried—humiliating himself in public, like a child mourning spilled ice cream. A memory too shameful to share. The second time, he ran—a fleeting solution that earned him nothing but trouble. Now, he faced it head-on. The cruiser wasn't just transportation—it was a wake-up call, a stark reminder that this wasn't his home anymore. The city had changed.

Or maybe it wasn't the city. Maybe it was him.

No matter how desperately he clung to the memories—sketching buildings, faces, and songs sung through the streets—it was never enough. He wasn't sure it ever would be.

He caught a faint smell of something familiar—a trace of blueberry pie, perhaps, or a distant echo of home. But it was gone before he could be sure. Lost forever to the hum of a world that had moved on without him.

"Are you hungry?"

Nick didn't respond. He stared out the car window, watching the buildings blur past. The cruiser's interior smelled like leather and old coffee—nothing like his mother's car.

"You're looking a little thin," Bogo added, keeping his voice casual. "Did you eat lunch today?"

Nick shrugged, his fingers drumming against the door's armrest.

Bogo reached for a crumpled paper bag on the console and held it out. "I brought an extra sandwich. Was trying to bulk up a bit, but…" He trailed off, glancing at the fox. "It's yours if you want it."

Nick's eyes flicked briefly toward the bag before returning to the window. "I don't take food from strangers. I'm no charity case," In his mind, he groaned, knowing full well that he was, in fact, exactly that.

"You sure? It's peanut butter and banana."

"I'm sure."

"Suit yourself." Bogo placed the bag back down, his movements deliberate. The silence in the car stretched, filled only by the hum of the engine and the muted sounds of Zootopia outside—tires rolling over asphalt, snippets of conversations on the sidewalk.

The absence of conversation left the sounds of Zootopia to fill the void: tires pressing against asphalt, snippets of a passerby's chatter about a TV show, the town bell of Savannah Central ringing…

Nick's ears twitched as his eyes widened slightly at the sound. He glanced at his cracked wristwatch. 7 PM. His stomach dropped further—something he hadn't thought possible. She's gonna kill me. Shifting uncomfortably in the passenger seat, he winced as his cheek throbbed from the punch he'd taken earlier.

"So... how's the other guy look?" Bogo's gruff voice cut through the tense quiet. Nick glanced at his reflection in the side mirror. His ears flicked at the question, a brief wave of pride mingling with discomfort. He turned his gaze back to the passing scenery, pretending to be absorbed in it. Despite his attempt to mask the evidence of his scuffle by ruffling his fur, the swelling on his cheek was impossible to miss.

"Come on, Nick," Bogo pressed, a hint of amusement curling around his words. "I know a right cross when I see one." He shook his head, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Do I need to call some kid's parents?"

Nick scoffed, the defiant pride that always seemed to rise in him flaring despite the dull throb on his cheek. "Nah, man," he muttered, his tone laced with bravado. He couldn't help the smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he kept his gaze forward, fighting off the subtle heat of embarrassment. Deep down, there was a pang of shame for getting into yet another fight, but the satisfaction of standing his ground felt too familiar, too rewarding.

Bogo gave a low chuckle, his eyes glancing sideways at Nick for a moment, the corners of his lips twitching upward in approval. There was no outright praise, no speech about being the bigger fox—just a knowing look that Nick couldn't quite ignore. "Don't go getting yourself hurt out there," he added, his voice softer, though still gruff.

Nick's smile faltered, but he couldn't suppress it entirely. He glanced at Bogo for a fleeting second, the briefest acknowledgment between them before he turned away again.

His fingers drummed on the armrest in a rhythmic pattern, a small distraction for his already preoccupied mind.

"Y'know," Bogo said, his tone lighter as he glanced at the black sketchbook resting on Nick's lap. "In my line of work, 'little black books' usually mean trouble." He let the comment hang in the air for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Nick's ears twitched, but he didn't look up, his grip tightening on the edges of the sketchbook.

Bogo tilted his head, studying him. "Of course, with you, I'm guessing it's not a list of debts or bad deals. More like... drawings?" He paused, his voice dropping to a gentler note. "I hope you'll show me sometime. I'd like to see what's in there."

Nick shifted uncomfortably, clutching the book tighter against his chest as if shielding it from prying eyes. His silence was heavy, his jaw tightening just enough to hint at the turmoil bubbling beneath the surface.

Bogo raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "It's okay, Nick," he said, his voice deliberately calm. "I know you draw a lot. I've heard Honey talk about it."

Nick finally glanced at him, his green eyes sharp and wary, like a cornered animal debating whether to bolt or stay still.

"You don't have to share," Bogo added, his gaze steady, "but someday, I hope you will."

The silence between them lingered, only broken by the rhythmic thrum of the cruiser's engine. Outside, Savannah Central's narrow streets unfolded, the warm hues of the setting sun painting the city in gold and amber. Towering buildings seemed to huddle together, their worn brick exteriors defying any semblance of uniformity or code.

The cruiser slowed to a halt, its brakes letting out a faint squeak as they stopped in front of a familiar residence.

Nick didn't need to look up to know where they were. He could feel it—the oppressive weight of familiarity bearing down on him like the oversized hoodie around his shoulders.

Above the entrance, the faded sign read: House of Love. Below it, a smaller, slightly crooked placard spelled out: Acorn Heights' Home for Orphaned Predators.

Nick rolled his eyes.

He reached for the door handle with exaggerated nonchalance. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I've got another lecture to sit through," he said, his tone drenched in sarcasm. But as he gave the handle a firm yank, the sharp double click of the locking mechanism stopped him cold.

Nick's head snapped toward Bogo, his green eyes narrowing. "Seriously? Locking me in? That's your play?"

Bogo leaned back in his seat, his large hands resting easily on the steering wheel. "Relax, Nick," he said with the faintest smirk. "You're not under arrest."

Nick reached for the manual lock, flicking it open and grabbing the handle again.

Another double click.

This time, Bogo removed the keys from the ignition and pocketed them with maddening calm. "Nice try, kid."

Nick scowled, his fur bristling as he glared at the officer. "You really think I'm gonna bolt or something? What, you afraid I'll graffiti the city or pickpocket some poor homeless guy?"

Bogo chuckled, the sound deep and unhurried. "I think you'll try to skip out on Honey before she gets a chance to talk to you. And I'm not in the mood to chase anyone through alleyways tonight."

Before Nick could fire back, the buffalo reached for the crumpled paper bag and dropped it onto the fox's lap with a soft thud.

"Eat," Bogo said simply, his tone firm but not unkind. "I know you're hungry."

Nick glared at the bag, the sharp crinkle of the paper grating on his nerves. He folded his arms tightly across his chest, the defiance in his posture speaking volumes.

A voice called out from the sidewalk, cutting through the tension. "Officer Bogo! Over here!"

Nick glanced out the window as stubby feet clapped against the pavement. His caretaker, Honey, approached with hurried strides. Her turquoise sweater looked slightly askew, as though she'd rushed out the door.

"I'm so sorry," she began, her voice tinged with exasperation. "I had to call you again. I'd have gone looking for him myself, but we're so understaffed these days, and—"

"Honey," Bogo interrupted gently, raising a hand to calm her. "It's fine. We've got it handled."

Honey's sharp eyes darted to Nick, softening slightly before narrowing at the sight of his bruised cheek. "Nick, sweetheart," she said, her tone firm but concerned, "are you okay? We've talked about this—you can't keep running off after school. And—" She paused, her voice sharpening. "Is that a bruise? Nicholas Wilde! Did you—"

"He's fine," Bogo cut in smoothly, stepping between them. He bent slightly to meet Nick's gaze, his voice steady but pointed. "Right, Nick?"

Nick huffed and looked away, his eyes locking onto the dashboard as his fingers drummed against his thigh.

Bogo sighed, straightening up. "Give me a minute with Honey," he said, shutting the cruiser door softly behind him.

Nick slouched in his seat, staring at the automatic window controls. He pressed the button half-heartedly, already knowing it wouldn't work. The faint scent of stale coffee and old upholstery filled the air, mingling with the musty odor of his hoodie.

Outside, Bogo and Honey spoke in hushed tones, their conversation muffled but audible.

"Same place again?" Honey asked, her voice laced with worry.

"Every Friday," Bogo confirmed. "Right on schedule. He wasn't causing any trouble, just sitting there... drawing."

Honey sighed, her paws clasping together in front of her. "He can't keep doing this. We're all trying to help him, but he has to meet us halfway."

"I know," Bogo replied. His tone softened as he added, "He's a good kid, though. Just needs time."

Nick slumped lower in his seat, the rough fabric of the chair scratching against his fur. He gazed at the side mirror, catching his reflection in the fading light. His emerald eyes looked back at him, tired and guarded.

He pulled his hood tighter around his ears, wincing as the fabric pressed against his bruised cheek. His gaze flicked to the badge glinting on Bogo's chest outside.

To protect and serve.

The words felt like a cruel joke. He scoffed, turning his attention back to the paper bag on his lap. The crinkle of the paper as he picked it up felt unbearably loud in the silence of the cruiser.

His stomach growled, but he pushed the thought aside, cramming the bag into the corner of the seat. If Bogo thought he could buy his trust with a sandwich, he had another thing coming.

Grumbling, Nick reached over the center console to the driver door controls. After pressing the unlock button, he hopped out of the cruiser with his backpack forcefully slinging around his shoulder. He slammed the door with a hefty amount of gravitas, causing the two adults to look back at him with surprise.

Nick marched past them, only taking a moment to grumble, "I gave you a 'minute'," to the officer. His long claws clacked on the sidewalk as he moved, eyes unflinchingly locked on the door to his residence.

"Nick… sweetheart we need to talk about this," Honey started, compassion filling her voice as Nick walked by her.

The fox stopped at the door, the aged handle in his small hand. "You don't need to call him to pick me up every time. I can take the bus back."

"That's not the point, Nick! You can't just keep running off after school." Nick scoffed loudly. "We can set up a designated time where you can be supervised. Bring you someone from our staff so that you-"

"Supervision," Nick repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Right. Sounds real fun."

Before Honey could respond, Nick shoved the door open and stepped inside. The hinges groaned in protest, and the wood rattled as it swung shut behind him.

But just before it could close completely, it stopped. Nick peeked his head out, his green eyes narrowing as he glanced between Bogo and Honey.

"See you next Friday," he said, his voice flat, before letting the door click shut with finality.

The alley fell silent, save for the distant hum of the city.

"Sorry about that," Honey sighed, adjusting the hem of her cardigan as she watched the orphanage door swing shut behind Nick. She didn't say anything right away, her amber eyes focused on the worn handle, as though waiting for it to burst open again. Finally, she muttered, "He's not like the others."

Bogo leaned against the car, crossing his thick arms, his badge catching the last of the fading sunlight. "Kids like him rarely are."

Honey turned her head slightly, a flicker of something—skepticism, maybe—crossing her face. "And what does that mean, exactly?"

The bison shrugged, looking down at his polished boots. "Means he's figuring it out. In his own way." He paused, then glanced at her. "You ever tell him you noticed the sketches?"

"I see them all the time," she replied, her tone almost defensive. "Doesn't mean he's showing them to me." She folded her arms, mirroring his stance. "Besides, he doesn't exactly... open up."

"Would you, in his shoes?" Bogo asked, not unkindly.

Honey hesitated, running a paw through her fur. "Guess not," she admitted. Her voice softened. "Still, I wish he'd talk to someone. Doesn't have to be me. Just… someone."

"He's thirteen." Bogo's tone was dry, a hint of amusement playing in the corners of his mouth. "He's probably got a lot going on. Talking isn't exactly top of the list."

Honey snorted softly, the sound more tired than amused. "Yeah, well, what is? Sneaking off to sit on a dirty sidewalk? Avoiding everyone until we call you to bring him back?"

"That, and apparently skipping lunch." Bogo expression half bemused, half resigned.

A silence hung between them, stretching out as the city noises grew louder. Honey rubbed at her temple, her exhaustion creeping through. "I keep thinking… if we just gave him more time, more space… but it feels like the more we give, the farther he pulls away."

Bogo's voice was steady, quieter now. "You care about him."

"Of course, I do," she said sharply, before catching herself. Her tone softened again. "I just… I don't know what I'm doing with him, Bogo. Half the time, it feels like I'm guessing. And he knows it. Probably better than I do."

Bogo nodded slowly, his gaze distant. "Kids like Nick, they're… tricky. You think they're not paying attention, but they see everything. And they remember it, too. More than you'd expect."

Honey looked at him, something thoughtful flickering in her eyes. "You sound like you're speaking from experience."

He didn't answer right away, instead letting out a low chuckle. "Let's just say I wasn't exactly a model citizen at his age."

Honey tilted her head, studying him. "No kidding."

"No kidding," Bogo echoed, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "But I had people who saw past that. Gave me a shot when they didn't have to. It's kinda how I found this job."

She was quiet for a moment, turning his words over in her mind. "So what's your advice, then? Since you're the expert now."

He shrugged, his smile fading into something more subdued. "Stick around. That's all you can do. Let him figure it out, but make sure he knows you're there."

Honey tilted her head, studying him. "You've got a soft spot for him, don't you?"

The bison shrugged, his grin widening. "Don't tell anyone. It'll ruin my reputation."

Honey laughed, a light, melodic sound that seemed to lift some of the tension in the air. "Your secret's safe with me, Bogo."

His radio crackled to life, breaking the moment. The clipped static and coded dispatch commands were familiar, grounding him back to the present. He responded quickly, his voice firm but calm as he relayed his acknowledgment.

"Duty calls," he said with a hint of regret as he tucked the radio back onto his belt. He took a step toward the car but paused, glancing back at her. His voice softened again. "Don't worry. I'll keep an eye on him. That's a promise."

Honey's smile deepened, genuine this time. "I know you will," she said warmly, her voice carrying a quiet trust that felt earned rather than assumed. "Thank you, really."

As Bogo climbed into the patrol car, Honey lingered a moment longer outside, watching him go. The heavy door of the orphanage groaned as she finally turned and disappeared inside, the echoes of her footsteps fading.

Bogo glanced at the empty spot where his lunch bag had been, a small grin tugging at his lips.

The patrol car's lights flickered on, the city swallowing him as he drove off into the deepening dusk.

Deep inside of the orphanage, on the second story, sat an aged vinyl door taped with several sheets of childlike crayon drawings that swished as Nick walked up to it, completely overlooking the plastered name tags that read, "Nick" and "Finnick" - with the latter being considerably more aged and scuffed. He glanced down at his broken wristwatch, staring at the hands as they spun around, hearing each tick as the seconds passed by. It was 2:48 in the morning, a time that he was slowly becoming familiar with.

Their hallway existed in the darkness of the early morning, only serving glimpses of the well worn floor by the moonlight's illumination that creeped out from underneath the many doors that lined it. The fox daintily twisted the gummed-up knob - making extra sure to keep tension on it so that it would not make any noise - and gently pushed the door open, causing the crayon-coated papers taped to the front of the door to slightly rustle due to the influx of air.

It must have been amusing for anyone that could've watched the fox, seeing him twist the doorknob with the precision of a surgeon in order to open his normally squeaky door. With the door finally shut Nick released a relieved sigh. He leaned against the door once it was shut, his forehead pressing into the wood. The weight of the night, of everything, threatened to pull him under, his body yearning to just drop to the floor and sleep until everything was different. But before he could give in, a low voice from behind him snapped him back to reality.

"Ahem." The semi-gruff voice behind him shook Nick out of his funk as he rapidly spun around on his heels, before splaying his arms over the door, like he was in trouble. The smaller and younger fennec fox sat up on his bunk bed, navy blanket still wrapped around his small bare torso as the two foxes eyed each other up and down. The silence was equally as awkward as it was amusing to both of them.

Nick was the first to break the silence, offering up a measly, "Hey."

"You're doing it again, aren't you?" The young fennec fox interrupted his roommate, already used to the spontaneous routine that they had created. His question seemed like more of a statement to both of them. Nick could only flash a cheesy smile. He was like a child with his hand caught in a cookie jar.

Nick's smile soon faltered, guilt creeping into his features. "I know, I know. I promised, but I didn't think—" His words trailed off, swallowed by the weight of his own excuses.

"Yeah, you don't think Nick!" Finnick's whisper was quiet and soft, but at the same time those words were hot and sharp and dug into Nick's fur. "You think that because I'm asleep, you can just... sneak out and forget about our pinky promise? That's not how pinky promises work!"

Nick then placed his entire paw over his friend's mouth, but it did little to help as the small fennec continued to mumble through his hands. "You're right, Fin. You're right. Okay? Now I need you to just quiet down a bit alright? It's late." Finnick's muffled voice began to die down as his eyes began to widen. Nick's eyes began to widen along with him, subconsciously imitating his small friend.

Then, on the drop of a dime the fennec squinted at him. Nick was taken aback, hand still wrapped around Fin's mouth, he quietly whispered, "What? Do I have something on my face?"

Finnick muttered something before realizing he was still being muffled by his roommate's hand. He back smacked Nick's hand away from his face and grumbled before whispering, "No, you dummy. Just saw your cheek finally. That's all."

Nick let out a sigh of relief. "Oh yeah. That." Finnick's hesitation spoke volumes in their tiny room. The small fox huffed before swinging his stubby legs over the edge of his mattress, and faced his roommate.

The fennec fox sighed as his eyelids drooped, "Alright, bring it here. Let me see." Nick slid his flip phone out of his pocket and handed it over to his friend. Finnick flipped the phone open and used the light from the LCD screen to look at... His eyes widened, at full attention now. "Yikes."

Nick's eyelids fell with his slumped shoulders in annoyance. "Oh c'mon Fin. It can't look that bad." He shrugged off his backpack and unzipped his hoodie, silently flourishing it across the room to block the gap beneath the door with practiced precision. Walking to the dresser, he switched on a battered lamp with cigarette burns dotting its shade.

"Oh." He had stared at himself in their cracked mirror before (countless times before, actually), but never had he seen himself like this. He stood in a sweaty black shirt and baggy sweatpants. His fur was long and unkempt, bushy and wiry. His left cheek wasn't as swollen as it was earlier in the day, but it was definitely not a pretty sight to see. The small teenage fox tilted his head to the sides trying to see every angle of his bruised cheek, which turned out to be a problem as the pain started getting worse and worse as it swelled up again due to his prodding.

Frustrated, Nick ran his fingers through his messy fur, trying to hide the swelling. The long strands felt like they could conceal the worst of it, but as he tugged his fur in place, he accidentally brushed against the bruise. Pain shot through his cheek, and he winced, his whole body tensing. He immediately recoiled, clutching his jaw with a soft hiss, his heart racing in irritation.

"Just great," he muttered under his breath, his eyes closing in frustration. He couldn't even fix his fur without hurting himself. Despite the sting, he ran his fingers through it again, slower this time, hoping to smooth it out just enough to mask the bruise.

Nick turned to face his friend, their lamp creating a harsh backlight against his fur that glowed a charmingly beautiful umber in the darkness of the morning.

The silence in the room was dense, barely hovering above the wooden floor with the weight of itself, consuming the whole room in a thick murky discomfort.

"You broke our promise, Nick." Finnick sputtered as he laid back down on his bed and faced away from his orange furred friend. "And you woke me up early. Again."

The words hit Nick like a cold splash of water. He knew they were true. Promises had become fleeting in his world, but for Finnick—still so young—their significance was unshakeable. He remembered what it felt like at that age, when a pinky promise was a fortress of trust.

Finnick turned away, his back to Nick, and the orange fox felt a familiar ache of guilt settle in his chest. The sound of a zipper echoed in the quiet room, followed by a soft thud as something landed on the comforter. He knew it was bait and yet - like the curious child he was - he hesitantly rolled over to find a small comic book lying there—Adventures of the Time Train!, his favorite.

"Issue 42. Came out on Wednesday," Nick said, his voice softer now. The tan fox's petite paw snatched the booklet in total silence.

After turning it over for the 6th time Finnick couldn't help but produce a hint of a smile. "Thanks Nicky."

He nodded back. "Thanks for keeping this a secret."

Nick grinned at the younger fox. It was definitely a shock to him when he found out they'd be rooming together; A fox with a fox. True the circumstances were a bit more exaggerated with himself being only a thirteen year old red fox and his Finnick being a 9 year old fennec, but it did make him a lot more comfortable being stuck in that room together. Knowing that both of them were considerably more alike than previously thought.

"You're still not off the hook."

"I know Fin. We'll talk about it in the morning, okay bud?"

In hindsight, it made perfect sense to make two of the same predators roommates. Though he didn't understand why, Nick had always assumed that he'd be paired up with a species more intimidating (at least as intimidating as a fellow pre-teen could be), like a polar bear or lion.

Truthfully, he saw a lot of himself in the kid. Rightfully so, he'd found himself taking responsibility with Finnick as a sort of guardian himself, helping him with the nightly chores, giving him the leftovers of his food and tutoring him with his challenging homework and so on and so forth. In a way, they were perfect for each other.

"I hope you don't mind that I looked through it already. The line work was a little sloppy this week, but I'm sure they were in a rush to ship it with the holidays coming soon," Nick explained as he emptied his bag onto their small wooden dresser. "You hungry? I got half a sandwich from earlier today and I don't think I can finish it."

"No thanks," The fennec droned as he flipped through the thin pages, struggling to read the text in the darkness.

"Okay," Nick answered with a smile as he routinely handed his friend his phone, like muscle memory, "It's kinda your loss though, it's actually not bad. Got it from my 'weekly chauffeur'."

"Welp, that explains why I didn't see you after school." Finnick solved, flipping the phone open and using its LCD screen to illuminate the meticulous drawings in his book.

Nick shrugged, his movements stiff with something heavier than just the day's weariness. He shifted to his dresser, rifling through the drawer like it was an old, familiar ritual. The soft clink of the pill bottle was drowned by the hum of the city outside—the noise always there, always pressing in. He poured a couple pills into his palm without a second thought, swallowing them dry, his throat tightening as they went down.

"You feel any better after going back?" Finnick asked, voice soft but still probing, his gaze following Nick's every move in the low light.

Nick's response was quick, almost automatic. "No." His voice, low and flat, hung in the air for a moment before he tucked the bottle away, a flicker of something colder passing across his eyes.

"Well… you're not the first one of us to try and go back," Finnick yawned, his warm breath turning into vapor in their dark room, "You won't be the last either, I'm sure."

In the dimly lit room, the air hung heavy with a tension neither of them wanted to acknowledge. Nick's movements were deliberate as he stashed away his anti-inflammatory bottle beneath a stack of socks in his drawer, the silence between them punctuated only by the faint rustle of fabric.

Finnick, ever the instigator of levity, broke the quiet with a casual inquiry, though his feigned disinterest couldn't mask the genuine concern in his eyes. "So… How did it turn out?"

Nick shot him a sideways glance, his exhaustion evident in the slump of his shoulders. "You're the one with my phone, kid. Why don't you find out?"

With practiced ease, Finnick tapped in his friend's passcode and delved into the photo gallery, skimming through snapshots of their recent escapades. His gaze lingered on a particularly endearing image of the two of them, goofy grins plastered across their faces, before he reached the newest addition.

"Wow," he breathed, genuine admiration coloring his tone.

A rare hint of vulnerability flickered across Nick's features as he reclaimed his phone, his fingers tracing over the screen with a mixture of pride and uncertainty.

The graffiti sprawled across the weathered brick wall was an explosion of vibrant colors, contrasting sharply with the drab urban backdrop. In the center of the mural stood a majestic fox, its fur a tapestry of rich oranges and fiery reds - as if it were made of fire itself. The fox itself stood strong, its determined eyes reflecting both resilience and vulnerability. Its body strained under the colossal sphere of an unknown planet, delicately balanced on its back.

The planet itself was intricately detailed, swirling with deep blues and lush greens, continents etched into its surface like delicate lacework. But what caught the eye most was the subtle weight pressing down on the fox's shoulders, conveyed through the slight strain in its posture and the furrow of its brow. Its muscles tensed and its tail curled in a mix of effort and determination. The planet seemed both a burden and a responsibility, a symbol of the immense weight that the fox bore.

"You did that?" Finnick asked, awe coloring his voice.

"All me," Nick confirmed, a small smile quirking his lips.

"It's got style, Nick. You're really coming into your own," Finnick praised, his admiration palpable as they both took a moment to appreciate the artwork.

Nick rose from the bed, his movements now fluid muscle memory as he avoided banging his head against the top bunk. "Those highlights are looking good, too. Almost as good as the ones in my comic."

Nick chuckled, his laughter a welcome respite from the weight of their conversation. He wasn't used to taking compliments. As the fox peeled off his sweat-drenched shirt, Finnick wrinkled his nose at the pungent aroma that enveloped the room. "Jeez, you smell like a dumpster."

Nick chuckled, the sound low and dry. "Ah c'mon. You know you love it."

Finnick scoffed, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Just promise you'll keep the window open tonight. I'm too young to die like this."

Handing back Nick's phone, Finnick couldn't resist one final jest as he pretended to hold his nose. But even as they bantered, Finnick couldn't shake the underlying worry that tugged at his heartstrings, his gaze lingering on the bruise that marred Nick's face.

The room was bathed in the ethereal glow of moonlight streaming through the window, casting Nick's fur in an otherworldly hue as he shuffled about, shedding his clothes with weary movements. His body, slender and tired, seemed almost translucent in the silvery light, a stark contrast to the darkness that enveloped the room.

Finnick settled into his bed, the springs creaking under his slight weight. "So, what's with the bruise?" he asked, gesturing to the bruise blooming along Nick's cheekbone.

Nick shrugged, his voice tight. "Some guys thought they'd be funny." As he spoke, the fox hopped on one leg, struggling to remove his gray sweatpants that clung stubbornly to his ankles.

"Funny, huh?" Finnick pressed, his brows furrowing. The room was filled with the muted sounds of fabric rustling as Nick finally managed to shed his clothes. His damp garments were tossed into a dilapidated laundry hamper, the musty scent of old fabric and worn-out duct tape lingering in the air. Finnick, now settled into his bed, watched the scene unfold with an amused grin. "What'd they do?"

"Oh nothing important." Nick shrugged again, his back to Finnick. The words felt hollow, like a thin shield he threw up too easily. "Tried to grab my sketchbook." His voice softened, losing its earlier bite. Nick's fingers fidgeted with his shaggy fur as if he could distract himself from the sting in his chest. "Didn't work out for 'em."

Finnick cocked an eyebrow. "What'd you do?"

Nick's lips quirked into a faint smirk as he turned slightly, the moonlight glinting off his tired eyes. "Handled it."

"Handled it?"

"Yup."

Finnick snorted. "You're terrible at details, you know that?"

"No teachers saw, and I'm not suspended. Is that enough for you?"

His attempt at humor fell flat, more a defense than a real joke. Nick's voice held a teasing lilt, but his shoulders sagged slightly, betraying the exhaustion that crept into his bones. He climbed up the bunk bed's creaky ladder and stopped at the top to sit, his feet still dangling in Finnick's view.

The room fell into a comfortable silence, the only audible sound being the soft hum of the night outside. Finnick's eyes, adjusting to the dimness, traced the patterns on the worn mattress above him as he listened to Nick's rhythmic breathing.

As Finnick's gaze wandered, he noticed Nick's nightly ritual – staring out of the window from his top bunk. The room, previously immersed in moonlight, now seemed to glow with a gentler luminosity. Nick's tired eyes flickered back and forth, capturing the brilliance of the night sky, where the stars flared in almost every direction despite the Zootopian street lights that contributed to the severe light pollution.

"What're you looking at?" Finnick asked, his voice quieter now.

Nick's ears twitched. "Stars."

"Can't see much with all these lights," Finnick muttered, though his own eyes wandered upward as if trying to spot them.

"You'd be surprised," Nick said, his voice gentler now, almost wistful. "Gotta know where to look."

The air felt thicker now, weighted with things unspoken. Finnick could feel it too, the space between them stretching. The silence was palpable, and Finnick wasn't sure if it was the night itself or Nick's quiet that made him feel so distant.

"Nick," Finnick started, his voice quieter now, filled with uncertainty. "Are you really okay? I mean, you said you'd be careful, but today—"

Nick, now hanging fully upside down, shifted just enough to look at Finnick with a forced grin. His arms were braced on the top bunk's edge, his body curling with the awkwardness of the position. "Of course, I'm okay," Nick replied with forced cheerfulness, his tone betraying the uncertainty gnawing at his insides. Finnick could hear it, the little crack in his voice that no amount of joking could cover up. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because you're bad at lying," Finnick's face scrunched into a scowl that didn't quite match the worry in his voice. "You just... look different nowadays. You said you'd be careful. But you're not, are you?" His words tumbled out in a rush, and he gripped his blanket tighter. His pulse quickened, not from fear, but from the rawness of what he wanted to say—what he didn't know how to say. "I'm not stupid, Nick. I can see it.

He leaned even further over the rail, his fiery red fur falling like a curtain over his face as he dangled upside down. His eyes flickered, avoiding Finnick's, the sudden vulnerability in the moment making him feel like he was hanging by a thread.

"I just don't want you to get hurt. You're like family to me, y'know," Finnick shot back, but his small voice cracked with the strain of unsaid things. His large ears drooped as he whispered, "And I worry about you sometimes."

Nick's grin faltered, just for a moment. "Hey," His eyes drifted toward the window again, to the stars scattered against the endless expanse of black. The glow of the stars flickered in his eyes like distant promises that weren't his to claim anymore. "I'm not worth the trouble," he said softly, turning back to Finnick. "Besides, I'm tougher than I look."

Finnick shifted in his bed, his heart sinking as he felt Nick's distance even more clearly now. The words weren't just a deflection, they were a plea to stop caring. With a resigned sigh, Finnick settled back into his bed, the weight of their unspoken conversation hanging heavy in the air. It was a familiar pattern, one that Finnick had grown accustomed to over the months. Nick's guarded demeanor, his reluctance to open up about his innermost thoughts and feelings – they were all part of the fox's defense mechanism, a shield to protect himself from the pain of vulnerability. And while Finnick understood the reasons behind Nick's walls, it didn't make it any easier to watch his friend retreat into himself.

"Goodnight, Nick," he grumbled into his pillow, though it was more to end the conversation than anything else.

Nick stayed where he was, hanging upside down, the conflicted feeling sitting heavily in his chest. The words Finnick hadn't spoken hung in the air, and as much as he tried to ignore them, they clung to him, like the weight of something too big to bury. He pulled himself back up onto his lumpy mattress, careful to miss the protruding springs that had ripped through the thick strips of duct tape.

He could hear the distant hum of the city, a constant background noise that seemed to fade into the background as he focused on the twinkling stars above. And as he lay there, lost in his thoughts, he couldn't help but feel a pang of longing for the warmth of her embrace, the comforting touch of her paw against his fur.

The absence of her warmth pressed down on him again, more suffocating than before. Her smile, her touch—gone, leaving him hollow and uncertain.

But even as he yearned for her presence, Nick knew that she was gone, her absence a void that no amount of wishing could fill. A small, empty part of him wondered if he would ever stop missing her so much. And so, he turned to the stars, seeking solace in their silent company. They offered him no answers, no comfort, but in their twinkling light, he found a fleeting sense of peace.

So this is it! A story that I've been working on for a while, circa 2016, and now have been reviving. I originally posted this onto FF but I've since switched sites as I enjoy AO3 a lot more. This story will continue to post on both sites, as I don't want to abandon either one. This is my first time posting in AO3; I've been reading here for years but have yet to submit my own story here out of laziness. Please go easy on me as I've gotten quite nervous posting chapters again! Little Infinities has become my passion project over the last couple of years and I'm excited to fully flesh this out and make something worthwhile

I will finish this story. I've said it before and I'll say it again. I will not abandon this story until it's completion. I promise you guys. Scouts honor.

I would like to thank you all so much for putting up with my garbage. The comments and PM's were my driving force during this hiatus and I am excited to get this ball rolling again. Your support is so incredibly valued and I thank each and every one of you. To the moon and back.

Working on the next chapter as I type this. Till then, missed you guys.

Chapter Text

The warm glow from their lamp had tinted their room in an decorous orange, complemented by the soft pink glow of the August sky, beaming from Sahara Square. The light had reflected off of the cracks of Nick's broken watch face, projecting wispy streaks of light on their roof, much akin to a stagnant aurora borealis floating without aim in their room, or the way sunlight refracted in a swimming pool. Nick twisted his wrist a few times, watching the projection float across their ceiling like a single cloud on a warm summer day, relishing the amusement.

He lay in a discolored tank top weathered with little rips and holes in its cotton weaving and some sweatpants that were so large that they bunched up around his ankles. He laid with one hand behind his head, the other hovering above his face in a reflexive daze, catching his tennis ball as it bounced off the ceiling.

He had been tossing it against the water damaged ceiling of his bedroom, squinting as the ball bounced off the popcorned texture sending specks of yellow-tinged polystyrene floating down like snowfall in Tundratown.

Their fur glistened and their clothes were splotched with drops of sweat, an unfortunate consequence to their broken climate control. It didn't help that they were living in such proximity to Sahara Square, as the heat from the artificial biome was bleeding off into their street and soaking into the concrete sidewalks and tarry roads. Their bricked building fell casualty to the warmth as well, drinking in the heat and pushing it inside the orphanage. The insulation within the walls were degraded into pathetic mounds of squishy rubble, not offering any protection against the weather outside. Not that Nick minded, he loved the heat, he grew up in it, as silly as it was to say, it was a part of him. It made him nostalgic. Reminiscent of a time long passed.

You could imagine that he wasn't looking forward to the winter.

"And what did I say?" His tiny roommate exclaimed from beneath him as the day began winding down.

"You said, and I quote, 'Doc would use his hoverboard capacitors to charge the Time Train-'"

"And escape the Wild West! And what did Doc do?"

An amused chortle escaped Nicks long snout as he repeated, "He used his hoverboard capacitors-"

"To charge the Time Train! You see? I totally called it!" Finnick remarked from his bed, his chest puffing out in confidence. A pile of comics lay near his legs and one sat in his hand as his tinny voice challenged the metronomic thumps of the tennis ball smacking the roof. "I swear these stories are just getting so predictable now."

Nick rolled his head to the side to avoid a rather large clump of debris falling. "Well yeah, I mean, after forty-something issues, how many more storylines can Time Train have?" He sputtered out as the clump still managed to maneuver its way through the air and into his mouth. "It's the same story every couple of months, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess you're right." Finnick continued flipping through his dogeared comic, his blonde face disheartened and ripped of his confidence. "Some of my friends at school think it's gotten pretty stupid the past couple of months too."

The tennis ball landed in Nick's palm with a dull thud, as his eyebrows narrowed into a straight line - a look that he always had while he was deep in thought. "Hey, I never said it was stupid." He spoke towards the ceiling, his other paw began to scratch the long fur behind his head. "I mean, you wanna talk about stupid? I used to watch Star Quest every single day after school, before I ended up here."

"You did?"

"Yeah… and I was really into it too." The fox mumbled as he reminisced on his previous life, staying up till 3AM in their barren apartment, his droopy eyes glued to their hulking CRT TV as it played reruns upon reruns of that old show on the many Zootopian public broadcasting channels. "I loved every single episode. Even the boring filler ones."

"Geez no wonder why you're such a nerd." He could hear Finnick smile through his delighted chuckles and the warmth of his words.

"Oh like you wouldn't believe, kid." His voice was decorated with a loving nostalgia, which reflected the defined dimple forming on the side of his cheek. "Besides, you shouldn't be ashamed of the things that make you happy, you know?" Nick admitted with an affectionate smile.

"Can't believe I've never heard that story before." The fennec remarked, amusement lacing around his words.

Their evenings were like this most of the time. After he finished his homework, Finnick would talk to Nick about how his day at school was, while Nick would try to find something that could occupy his mind until night time. Sometimes he would practice sketching their small dilapidated room from corner to corner, or their glimpse of the worn streets of Savannah Central seen outside their window, or even his roommate when his face was candid, face buried in his comics with a subtle grin. Other times he would grab the duct tape from the downstairs kitchen drawer and cover the loose springs that had popped out from his mattress, finding something to do to fill in the gaps of his evening.

They had been in the same room for almost half a year together and even though their evenings had become routine like and repetitive, they never tired of it. They always found a way to revitalize their conversations, which ranged from Finnick's first elementary school heartbreak all the way to which of their favorite superheroes could beat each other in a fight.

There were certain topics that wouldn't be discussed however. Nick's late night shenanigans were a huge no no. Finnick's insecurity about his height was another. They had been with each other enough to respect each other's wishes.

This was most notable when it came to reminiscing on Nick's stories about his mother. They were never spoken outside their room, never pried into or elaborated or else he'd close himself off. Sometimes he would deflect them outright.

The sudden sound of their door squeaking open without warning startled them, revealing their caretaker standing in her nighttime attire, lavender pajamas covered by a thin light blue cardigan. Finnick jumped at the intrusion as she peeked her head inside their room and looked around.

"You boys okay in here?" She asked as she continued scanning around. She could see Finnick turning to look at her sitting in his bed wide-eyed, whereas the red fox's hand was the only thing visible from ground level.

"Yeah, we're good Honey." Finnick replied as the fox on the bunk above him continued thumping his ball against the roof.

"Nick?"

He didn't reply.

"Nick, Sweetie?"

"Yeah?" He answered in his monotone voice, a sharp contrast to his joyous tone when he was laughing with Finnick moments ago.

"Can you put that ball down now? It's getting late and it's quite loud."

From the doorway, Honey heard a long sigh as the fox's red hand extended over his bunk bed and dropped the tennis ball to the floor. It began to bounce off their undulated flooring faster and faster, until it rattled like a rolling snare drum. Finnick couldn't help but giggle from the sound filling in their uncomfortable silence.

"And Nick?"

"I'm sorry Honey, it won't happen again." Nick automated, as his limp hand hanging over the handrail jumped to life in a half-assed surrender. "Scouts honor."

"No Nick, I would like to talk to you. In the kitchen, if you don't mind." The mattress squeaked as Nick's head popped over the wooden handrail.

"You serious?" He questioned as his eyebrows furrowed.

"Yes, I'm serious. Now come on." Honey answered with a slight smile on her face.

After Nick reluctantly descended from the creaky bunk bed, he trailed behind Honey through the dim hallway and rickety stairs, their every step echoing in the silent house. The journey led them to the dark and austere kitchen, where a barebulbed light hung above, casting long shadows that seemed to dance with their movements. The air was heavy with the musty scent of old wood, and the kitchen itself wore the scars of time – worn-out linoleum, chipped paint, and faded memories.

As the honey badger made her entrance, her presence seemed to disrupt the tranquil atmosphere. With a purposeful stride, she navigated through the sea of scattered toys and discarded snacks, her sharp eyes scanning the room for signs of disarray. The animated chatter of the children faltered momentarily as they glanced up at her, their attention momentarily diverted from the captivating scenes unfolding onscreen.

"Alright, kids. It's getting late," Honey's firm voice cut through the animated chatter like a sword, drawing reluctant groans and protests from the younger ones. Undeterred by their resistance, she stood her ground, her gaze unwavering as she addressed each child in turn. "Time to wrap it up and head upstairs."

With a collective sigh, the children reluctantly began to extricate themselves from the sunken couches, their protests muted by the undeniable authority in Honey's voice. Slowly but surely, they shuffled towards the staircase, their footsteps echoing softly against the creaky floorboards.

Once the last of the children had disappeared from view, Honey wasted no time in springing into action. With practiced efficiency, she began to tidy up the room, straightening cushions and gathering stray toys with a sense of purpose. Nick sighed before moving in to help, finding the TV remote in between some lumpy cushions.

"Come on down to the Carrot Days Festival! The Burrows' biggest celebration of the year! Located right-"

Nick's ears pricked up, his gaze drawn to the wholesome images portrayed, a stark contrast to the dilapidated surroundings of their makeshift home. The allure of the festival, with its promise of camaraderie and merriment, stirred something within him, a longing he couldn't quite articulate.

Honey finished tidying up the dusty couches and began to smack her hands together, stifling the urge to cough. She looked up at Nick and saw his locked gaze. Her eyes glanced back and forth to the TV and then back to the child in front of her, a smile forming on her stubby face.

"You want to go?" Her voice held warmth and understanding, an invitation rather than an imposition. Nick's gaze snapped toward her, a mixture of surprise and guarded vulnerability in his eyes.

"What?" It's as if he was offended that she had the nerve to ask him such a stupid question.

"Do you want to go?" She started again, this time moving away from their brown couches and stepping towards Nick. "A couple of the other kids said that they're interested. I'm looking for some chaperones to go with me. You can tag along if you'd like to Nicky."

Nick scoffed at the idea. Him willingly heading to the heart of bunny territory? To the farmlands of the prey that hated his kind? It was an easy pass.

"I think that'd be the last place I'd ever want to go, Honey." He glanced at the commercial once more as it read the dates and times for the festival. It stopped on a shot of a bunny smiling with his parents, looking right into the camera. Nick felt a tug inside of him, of some sort. A longing, maybe. He ignored it all the same, denying himself the chance to feel anything at all.

With a click of a button, the TV shut off eliminating the static hum that it produced, leaving a newfound silence between the pair as Nick tossed the remote onto the couch cushions.

"Well, you can let me know if you change your mind, okay?" Honey's reassurance carried a persistent warmth, and she settled into a seat at their well-worn table, a subtle smile tugging on her lips.

Nick scoffed once more, a defense mechanism against the stirring emotions. Like changing his mind about the festival was ever going to happen.

She gestured to the chair across from her as she watched the lanky fox who stood alone in the living room. "Would you like to sit down?"

"I'd rather stand." His hands were buried inside his pockets.

"Alrighty… Well, how are your therapy visits going?"

The fox's gaze was laser focused straight back at her, knowing that she was studying his body language. Honey wasn't stupid and she had been doing this a long time. She could tell you were lying just from a miniscule glance away from her, Nick had learned (the hard way, he might add.) So he remained vigilant, and played his part, letting his silver tongue take the lead.

"They're good." He crossed his arms across his chest, all the while keeping his eyes laser focused on his caretaker. The response was unwavering, the tone was confident and the look on his face didn't show an inkling of doubt. It was a perfect performance.

But Honey, ever perceptive, saw through his facade with ease, her keen gaze piercing through his defenses. "I got a call from Ms. Otterton's office," she continued, her voice gentle yet firm. "She says that you haven't been back for the past 2 sessions."

"And?" he challenged, his words laced with defiance.

"And, she wants to check up on you, that's all," Honey countered, her tone gentle yet insistent.

"I told her last time, I'm fine. It's all in the past," Nick replied, his voice tight with emotion, the words ringing hollow even to his own ears.

"If that's how you feel." She affirmed, her face as stoic as a statue. She didn't believe him, Nick could tell, but for whatever reason she allowed him to make his own decision.

The silence had taken over once again.

"You're probably wondering why I asked to speak with you right?"

"Was that not it?" Nick answered with his arms now crossed.

"No, there's more." Honey answered matter-of-factly. "There's been some chatter among the local orphanages and…"

"What?" Nick interrupted, his demeanor weighed down with great seriousness. His ears snapped to attention upon hearing her proposal, fear flooding his already racing mind, drowning it. He already could see what was coming, like it was a semi truck hauling down an icy road heading straight for him and no matter what he tried he couldn't get a decent footing to run away. Clumsy and just waiting for a collision.

"And… I'll cut to the chase, Nick." She continued, her frustration turning into empathy. "There is a fox foster family looking to adopt here in Savannah Central." Nick raised his eyebrow. "They're young, passed all their background screenings and they're-"

"No Honey, c'mon! We've already been over this." His prepubescent voice was seething, and amplifying in volume.

"They're looking for a 12 to 15 year old tod. I wanted to let you know that I put your name in for the running-"

"You told me you'd put Finnick ahead of me! You said that you'd give him a chance-"

"Finnick will get his chance, when the right opportunity presents itself. Right now, he's just… he's a little out of their age range-"

"God Honey, it's like you're not even listening to me! I don't need fake parents to play make-believe with!" Their remarks layered over each other creating a symphony out of their escalating argument in their living area. He found his voice escalating in an more embarrassing manner than he would like to admit.

"Nick, that's not... That's not what I'm saying." Honey stood from her chair with a gentle grace, pushing her chair flush against the table with incredible fragility. "I don't want you to–"

"No. No, Honey. Forget it." His final phrase shot from his mouth like a rattlesnake striking its prey and was just as venomous. It came hot off his tongue, in a challenging way, as if he was daring her to bring it up again.

The fox never used to be argumentative, truth be told he loathed confrontation, but whenever Honey had tried to warm Nick up to the idea of adoption or foster care… It sort of sent him into a frenzy, no holds barred. He had told her countless times that this was not something that he wanted and yet - for some reason - she never believed him. His body began trembling, but was it due to his rage or his panic? He couldn't place a finger on it.

He didn't like being cold and bitter all the time, but what other choice did he have? Sure, there must have been an infinite amount of better ways to handle this conversation and communicate his feelings, but his naivety and inexperience to his hormonal body made him resort to the most prominent emotional states of his recent memory.

Fear, and anger.

"Just drop it, Honey." His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes welling and turning pink like the outside sky.

She inched towards him - each step was taken with a considerable gravitas - and grabbed his paws into her own as if she were clutching a feather that fell from the sky. "I know how you act when no one is around. You're so polite and respectful, responsible and smart. You deserve this shot Nick, you deserve it so much more than you realize."

He was so horrible at taking compliments, so much so that his first thought that flashed through his malleable mind was that she was lying to him, prying him for information or consent. He knew it was sad to make that initial assumption, but that was how he survived. It was the only way to survive. To him, compliments weren't for free, they were playing cards in a game that he was desperate to win.

However, if there was a single trait Honey reliably displayed, it was her authenticity.

"I… I know how much you want this, son," He flinched at the word. "Even if you don't want to tell me, even if you don't know it yourself, I can feel it. What family wouldn't want to have you Nick?"

He didn't know if he should be a smartass or sincere. His head hung so low he felt as if it were going to sink below his waist. He was unable to look her in the eyes, not right now.

It was no secret that most predator families were picky when it came to adoption or foster care. Many would stick to their own kind or branch out to animals that were still in their relative species, yet for some reason, it was consistent for young foxes to be overlooked. Nick could count the number of times he was selected to join an all boys foster home and then was later on dropped for no particular reason. Sure, Finnick and him weren't considered hot-tickets when it came to adoptions - especially of the predator variety - but to be unadvertised and unwanted? It stung.

So, Nick kept his head down, accepted the fact that he was going to age out at eighteen-years-old just like the rest of the young adults inside of his orphanage. He let his hope of being adopted or fostered dissipate, like a drop of water evaporating on the hot Saharan sidewalk.

"I really think I can get this one to work out. We can do this. All you have to do is trust me, okay?" She put her hand under his chin and lifted his heavy head until she could look into his eyes. "Trust me, yeah?"

The majority of his face remained impassive - his flush and watered eyes being the only inkling of emotion peeking through. His slumped nature was a stark contrast to Honey's own straight posture, as if he were trying to make himself smaller.

"All I need you to do is stay out of trouble. No more fights, no more rides from Officer Bogo, and no more running away after school." She patted the side of his face in much more of a maternal way, watching as he flinched away from her contact. Though he was shocked when he found that there was no aching pain when she comforted him, the sting never came as her delicate hand cradled his jaw.

"Just promise me you'll try not to let that anger get the best of you Nick, alright?" He had never seen a grin so warm in such a long time.

Honey then wrapped her plump arms around him, embellishing him in such a sweet and beautiful smell. The fabric of her cashmere cardigan was soothing against his rough fur. She had to hop up on her tippy toes in order to reach his shoulder where she rested her chin. They stood there underneath the single overhead lamp in the kitchen, as the orange glow illuminated the room in a warmth that seemed hotter than usual.

"You're gonna be okay, Nick. You're gonna be okay." She spoke softly, but the words hung heavy in the air, offering a promise that wasn't his to make. She kept her gaze fixed ahead, her voice as steady as the world seemed to be around them, while Nick remained motionless, staring out at nothing in particular. The emptiness in his gaze felt louder than her words.

He didn't respond. There was nothing to say. She spoke as though his silence was an agreement, but in truth, Nick hadn't agreed to anything. There were no promises made—not to her, not to anyone. His chest felt hollow, a space filled with doubts too big for any comfort. He wasn't sure he could hold on, let alone heal, no matter how much time passed. The days bled into each other, a blur of forgettable moments.

"Just give it time." She said again, a soft plea.

Time. He could hear it, ticking like the distant echo of a clock. But it wasn't gentle or kind—it was a cruel reminder. His body was changing in ways he couldn't stop, his fur growing longer, his bones stretching. Each change felt like another betrayal. His reflection in the glass, distorted and foreign, made him flinch. The bruising on his cheek had darkened, but even the pain was fading, lost in the noise of everything else.

As the days passed, his mother's smile became more of a vague outline, a blurry image he tried too hard to remember. The way her fur curled at the edges, soft and comforting, was slipping from his grasp, like trying to hold sand in his paws. Her touch, the way his small paw used to fit perfectly in hers, now felt like a distant fantasy. The warmth of it, the security, had evaporated, leaving behind only the cold reality of what had been stolen.

Sometimes, he imagined himself standing in a train station, watching her from the window of a departing train. He would press his face to the glass, but the harder he focused, the more she seemed to fade, her figure dissolving into the horizon. It felt like a movie he wasn't in, where his mother was the star and he was just a spectator. She would leave, and all he could do was watch. That was all he had left. Watching. Witnessing his life, his memories, blur and shift with every passing moment, like the film of a movie reel unraveling in slow motion.

There was no turning back. Every moment, every second, felt like a piece of her being taken from him. The more time passed, the more he lost her—each sunrise a reminder of what could never be again. She'd never see him grow. She had never even gotten to see him turn into a man. And that thought, the thought that she had missed it all, gnawed at him, burrowing deep under his fur.

The concept of time, he had concluded, was utterly unashamedly selfish.

He was no longer staring at the dining room wall, now he stood at the entrance of a particular building. One that he passed from time to time, never fully making direct eye contact with it out of shame. Standing at the top of the stairs, he glared at a pair of double doors adorned with thick window panes, looking straight at his dark reflection.

There were no plans for tonight. No piece that he wanted to paint anywhere. Hell, he even thought he forgot to grab a spray can before he left.

His facial expression remained the same, closed off, distant, dreary, yet now he was shrouded in darkness. The moonlight was excessive and bright tonight, leaving harsh highlights on the tips of the fox's bushy fur. His left eye seemed to disappear into the shade of the night, camouflaged by the burst blood vessels of his bruise, similar to a soldier going into battle.

That rancid building stood in front of him, as stoic and daunting as ever. The numbers '2339' were printed high on the rounded top window above him, its address bold and mighty so that anyone who wished to visit the structure couldn't miss it.

He remembered seeing the illuminated sign out front whenever he would take walks with her, seeing just how excited the other kids seemed when their parents would drop them off out front. Daydreaming about the day he would get to join them and be a part of a pack to call his own. God, he was so stupid.

If life was just a long string, this place was where everything began to fray. The Junior Ranger Scouts Outpost for Troop 914.

The lights were off inside, the doors were as secured as a wealthy animal's bank vault and not a speck of dust was to be seen anywhere on any surface as per the troops expectations. Despite how hard he tried, Nick could never forget their rules even as the years passed. They were so heavily studied and hammered into his brain that he could still see that old slideshow illuminated from an antique overhead projector whenever he shut his eyes. He'd even helped sweep and mop those linoleum floors long ago to show his dedication. Oh, how blind he was.

He thought about the previous person he was three years prior, how excited he was to be running up those steps for his very first troop meeting.

The fox noticed that the uniform always seemed to find a way to make his posture perfect and professional; she would often giggle and point out every time he puffed his chest out, making him laugh as well. There was something about seeing the many patches all over his uniform that made him feel stronger, more important, a comforting sense that he belonged.

He had her to thank for all of it, of course. All those late shifts she worked scraping together as much overtime as she could, watching her count every spare penny from her savings box (which was actually a cookie tin hidden in the top shelf of her closet), every form and document that they signed together, even the moment he had first tried on that uniform - when he stared at himself in that oval mirror in their apartment and for once, didn't see himself as a fox but just as a normal kid - culminated into that singular moment. She had seen him so proud, at the very least.

By god, he was gonna fit in, he recalled thinking to himself as he ran down into the basement, his heart fluttering with every step he descended.

"Okay Nick, are you ready for initiation?" One of the troops had asked him as the others wore their perfect and rehearsed smiles.

"Yeah, pretty much born ready!" He veins ran icy, reminiscing on that youthful naivety. If only he hadn't been a fox.

The amount of adrenaline that rushed through his veins made his skin crawl whenever he thought about it. Every time he replayed the events of that night in his head he could feel their speckles of spit hitting his whiskers, the way they held him down and shoved a muzzle over his mouth, the exact tone of his exasperated cries as he cried out, "What did I do wrong?"

Most of it was a blur. He really only came to when he was clawing at his own face, desperate to rip off that intolerable muzzle.

He could still taste the salty tears that were running down his face, and smell the concrete that was soaked in rainwater. Even the smell of copper reminded the fox of the scent of the muzzle itself, from time to time.

The shame it brought on him was immense. He remembered how he wandered the streets for hours after it happened to make it seem like he attended. Even weaved his mom a thorough and well orchestrated story about how it "wasn't for him," as a way to make her less suspicious. The real story about that night never met her ears, but with every outpost meeting he skipped he had a feeling that she had pieced it together.

That meeting had changed him for the worst, without a doubt in his mind. The things that used to make him excited and cheery were drowned out in the image of a small fox who sat under a streetlight alone.

What did he do wrong?

Never did he think he'd be back here - standing less than two feet away from where he was so traumatized - at the top of those stairs again.

Nick didn't even know why he came back, for there was no logic in it. He could admit that he was on autopilot the moment he went back up into his room. He deflected Finnick's prying questions and lay in his bed, staring at the close ceiling for hours. Something was triggered inside of him, something that he didn't have a grasp over, something that made him hop out of the bathroom window - just like every other night - and just start walking through the streets of Acorn Heights. After some time, he found himself kicking rocks in the streets of Downtown Zootopia. He couldn't even predict what time it was as he forgot his flip phone in his room. There was no direction or purpose, just mechanical movement.

Maybe he was walking back to that run down apartment complex and got caught up here, but he didn't know. There were two unmistakable facts that he did know, however.

The first was the fact that returning to this place was stimulating something very deep inside his hormonal brain, causing his vision to have a vibrant scarlet tinge over everything he saw. The second, that an unused can of spray paint sat in his ripped hoodie pocket.

Without cognizance, he wrapped his fingers around that cold aluminum can with a fierce grip, clenching it so hard he thought it was gonna pop.

The can slipped out from his pocket, solid in his tight paw.

"I, Nicolas Wilde-" It began to rattle in his hands as he shook, the clanking getting more and more aggressive with every bounce. That sound began to fade as he honed in on his actions, every vibration around him becoming more and more muffled. There were few times in his life that he recalled being as angry as he was now. Through his vengeful scowl, he continued the oath.

"Promise to be Brave," He smacked the lid of the can against his thigh, feeling it pop off from the sudden force. It was routine for him to check and see which nozzle he had on, to see what spray he was going to get, yet his eyes were immovable from his own reflection.

"Loyal," A test spray, letting the mist of paint fall onto the cement floor. Red, Nick affirmed with a squeeze as he never even took the time to look at the color before leaving his orphanage.

"Helpful," The first stroke across the double doors was thick, painting over his face in the reflection. The paint began to drip down over the rest of the door, branching off and covering more and more of the window panes like the veins and arteries in his body.

"and trustworthy." The kid was meticulous at the start, moving his hand with the precision of a symphony conductor to make sure that his work was difficult to remove once it dried. However, the more his hand ached from squeezing the nozzle the quicker he sped up, moving in wild and desperate patterns until he covered the entire entrance with matte red lines. He didn't know what he was painting, it wasn't anything he had practiced before, yet it didn't matter, it never mattered. This wasn't going to solve anything, but it would make it even.

"Even though I'm a fox." Spit flew from his lips as he finished his oath, seething by the end of it.

He maybe only ended up using half of his can, but still the message came through. Bright and red.

As the spray paint misted the air, casting a crimson haze around him, Nick's own reflection blurred in the glass, distorted by the red defiance he was etching onto the surface. His hand holding the can shook from its exertion, his muscles spasmed and his breathing hitched as he took a couple steps back from his work area. He had a hard time seeing his masterpiece through the tinge of his own anger.

The door itself was covered in wet glossy paint and so was he, in fact. He had splotches of red lining his sleeves and a fine red mist covering the majority of his torso. The tiny drips falling from the door began forming small puddles on the cement floor.

The word 'VERMIN' stretched across the doors, each letter a declaration of his defiance against the cruelty he had endured within those walls.

Despite the chaos of his emotions, there was a precision in Nick's movements, a deliberate intent to make his mark indelible. The letters were sharp and clear, standing out starkly against the dark backdrop of the night.

The fox's shoulders rose and fell with every huff, his eyes scanning the view in front of him like a madman, taking it all in.

The message was clear, he could turn tail and head back to the orphanage right now and still have some time to get some decent shut eye. Yet, he stood there hoping that he would find… some sort of solace in his actions, a way to move on or accept and forget. The longer he stood there, the clearer it was that this wasn't providing any sort of closure for the kid. It didn't change the past like magic. It didn't return him to the blissful and unaware nine-year-old that he used to be.

No, instead it just reaffirmed his own fears deep inside of himself. He was just as shifty and untrustworthy as the world made his kind out to be.

It was much more transparent to the altered fox now, that a thick layer of spray paint was not enough.

Nick spun around, anger flaring in his eyes as he searched the floor around him for something, anything. Flinging himself down the steps, he began to scrounge the concrete in desperation as his eyes darted from one side of the dark street to the other. It was in the soil of a nearby tree plot where he saw it, a large brick sized stone with the texture of harsh sandpaper. Its mundane gray hue made him snarl, yellowed canines showing and all, reminding him of how putrid the shade was.

Untrimmed claws raked the porous concrete, step by ferocious step. His stooped shoulders and lowered head had made him look like a barbarous boxer in his twelfth round, bruised and bloody but not yet broken, slumped but unyielding, fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white, exhaustion be damned.

No longer did he care about his image, nor his reputation. There was no way he'd ever be able to control how people viewed him or treated him. After tonight, he'd deserve it all, he decided. Every name that he was called, every disgusting glance shot his way would be worth it if he could just get this final blow, get the symbolic last word in this unspoken argument.

He wound himself back, ready to send that stone straight through those front doors, reeling just like a pitcher on his mound, and just as he began to throw-

"Get him!" He was slammed to the ground with such an incredible force that he skidded on the sidewalk like a pebble skipping on a pond.

Nick writhed in pain, arching his back and clenching his teeth as he reeled from the torment. Eyes squinted shut, he was able to hear the sound of two distinct footsteps. The first was light and precise, the second was hefty and heaving.

"Pick him up, hurry!" One of them spoke through clenched teeth, trying his best to stay quiet in the middle of the night.

Nick scrambled to his hands and knees, vulnerability gripping him in the clutch of the unknown. Before he could regain his footing, a blinding flash seared across his vision, accompanied by a savage kick to his gut. A fox's yelp echoed in the desolation, the world convulsing around him.

A vice-like arm coiled around Nick's neck, tightening, cutting off his breath. Fear surged within him, replacing the initial anger. Eyes wide, veins coursing with adrenaline, he found himself dangling, his toes barely brushing the ground. These were no ordinary assailants; they were formidable creatures, shadows cast by malevolent intent. His paws reached for the arm squeezing his neck, pulling on the long musky hairs that hung off of it in order to keep his trachea from pinching shut under the weight of his thin body.

"My, my, my, what do we have here?" The voice had the texture of cement, a rough and coarse guttural growl was buried deep in his vocal chords. It took a second for Nick's vision to realign, but once it did the sight of an arctic wolf stood in front of him, a thin scar running across his left eyelid.

This was no chance encounter; they had been watching, waiting. "What do you think you're doing, tagging Mr. Big's territory?"

His captor contracted his muscles, squeezing Nick's throat as tight as a boa constrictor as it tightened with every labored breath he attempted, forcing the fox to sputter an angry, "I didn't know."

"Oh, you didn't know, huh? Well how's about we educate you then? Does that sound good?" The voice was springy and belligerent; the cadence coming out similar to a violin's staccato. Nick was angled upwards facing the roof of the outpost, restricting his vision to only horizontal glimpses, but he didn't need to be a genius to hear the sound of a pocket knife clicking open.

His head was jerked back with a shocking amount of strength, as he felt the force of his hoodie being ripped off his face. It felt like he had gotten whiplash from a violent car crash. He felt the arm around his neck loosen as he sucked in a huge gasp of oxygen, "He's just a kid."

"Doesn't matter." The wolf's voice dripped with retaliation. "You know what the boss wants. No person left unpunished, he told us."

"He's a kid, Mac. Look at his face. Can't be older than fifteen." Nick strained his neck a little more in order to get a good look at the animal holding him. His arms were thick, similar to Bogo's but not as defined, powerful but not lean. Also, that smell… The fox looked up at his face, confirming that it was for sure an ox. "We don't do that to kids."

There was a suspenseful beat, the tension pulling tighter and tighter like a guitar getting restrung, before he heard the knife click shut. Nick had to admit that he felt a wave of relief wash over himself, but he was by no means safe yet.

"Well then, kid," the word flicked off his tongue, "how's about we give you a chance to meet the boss, huh? See what he wants to do with ya."

At that moment, a wave of dumb courage came flooding into the fox, "I don't care what you do." He began to struggle out of their grasp, kicking his feet and trying to wiggle his way free.

"Ooh, a little fire in you. I like that, I like that a lot." The wolf leaned down at eye level with Nick, his hand clamping his shoulder like a vice. His fist struck the fox in his stomach in the same spot he was kicked, causing Nick to shriek as stars began to dance around in his vision. "Taking it like a champ! Atta boy! There's hope for you yet, kid." Another strike followed, though Nick was smart enough to tighten his abdominal muscles this time, hoping that it would decrease the impact.

"Hey Mac, I don't like this." The ox commented over Nick's grunting, the punches were sharp and unrelenting. "Mac!"

The wolf stopped, releasing his hold on Nick's shoulder in order to face his partner, "Will you shut it! I'm trying to educate the youth here."

The neurons in his head were firing like pistons in a V8 engine as he struggled to breath. The grip around his neck made every inhalation feel like fire, burning the inside of his mouth. His whole face was red hot, particularly his eye and nose. The familiar taste of copper found it's way into his mouth, making him panic.

It was as if his body began to move on its own as he reached in his pocket for that can of spray paint once more. He held it up and covered both the eyes of the wolf and ox with a swift wave of his wrist, spraying their faces with a thick red line.

Nick was dropped to the ground, placing his hands out in front of him to break his fall. The can of paint crumpled under his weight, releasing tons of stored pressure out of its cracked nozzle spraying dark crimson all over the three predators on impact. To an ordinary bystander, it looked like a bloodbath, like the animals had reverted back to their savage ways and ripped each other open. The hairy ox rolled on the sidewalk while clutching his face, shouting obscenities into the Zootopian streets at a deafening volume.

There was a beat as the fox struggled to catch his breath, coughing so hard that the sound became strained and scratchy, before he was lifted up once more by the fabric of his hoodie.

"Oh, now you messed up kid. I never forget a face. Especially a young one like that." His irritated eyes were pink and strained, anger blazing within his dark irises. Their fur and clothes dripped with red paint, saturated and soaked, stained and smeared.

The fox had never been in this much physical pain before. The taste of his long digested dinner was ever present in the back of his mouth, bile forming from every punch. His teeth hurt from being slammed shut, grinding against each other in his mouth. He couldn't even begin to comprehend the throbbing inside his head, each wave distorting his vision into blotchy blobs.

He was too tired to be angry, too weak to fight. Instead he glared holes into the wolf's own eyes, a nasty, never-before-seen snarl carving itself onto his young face, fronting a false sense of self-confidence.

The headlines of animals turning feral in the moments before their deaths flashed before his eyes, as well as the overwhelming hysteria that would consume others when they'd hear about it. In that moment, though, Nick understood. He empathized with those creatures that were faced with the exact same decision he was. A decision between life or death.

Long, untrimmed claws extended from his fingertips.

Then they heard it, the sound of a siren rebounding off the bricked buildings that surrounded them. There were brilliant flashes of red and blue that blazed down the street, feeling like time had slowed down so intensely that he could see a fruit fly's wing flap. As it got closer, the red lights were dousing them in such a vibrant hue that it negated the paint staining their clothes, the blue lights stretched their dark shadows along the sidewalk and tinted the color of their fur into a deep violet. They both were stunned from the spontaneity of its presence, the wolf shifting his gaze as it sped down the street.

Sensing a window of opportunity, Nick pulled his scraped knees to his chest and shoved him in the stomach as hard as he could. He felt the wolf's hot breath on his face as he knocked the wind out of him, feeling himself fall to the ground once again. The feeling of his fall felt infinite, like he would continue to fall forever and ever and eventually wake up in his bunk bed. But of course, that was wishful thinking.

They both collapsed onto the ground, ears ringing, respirations heaving and exhausted. It was then when they heard the squealing brakes from the police cruiser that they peeled their heads off the floor to take a look.

Nick knew that time was running out, so he once again picked himself up on all fours, resting on his elbows as he caught his breath. He pulled his red splotched hoodie over his face, hoping and praying that he wouldn't be recognized.

"Get on the ground and put your hands up!" The immediate clapping of all their footsteps stomping away was all that Nick needed to hear, as he decided to make a break for it himself. He pushed himself up onto his hands and attempted to stand, pulling his foot up before he lost his balance and collapsed to his side once more. It was a pathetic sight to behold.

After another attempt, he steadied himself with a heavy breath before hoisting himself up onto his feet. Lightning shot through his leg, the pain hot and sharp like a knife that was heated above a gas stove, the steel glowing bright and red. A full grimace formed on his face as he started sucking air through his clenched teeth. He began to put weight down on it, which then turned to walking and then evolved into a half-jog. He felt clunky and uncoordinated, but his top priority was to get the hell out of there.

"Hey! Get down on the ground!" Many aluminum trash cans lined the bricked walls, dented and stained with years of abuse. With a quick flick, Nick pulled them to the ground behind him, hearing them rattle and clank on the tar, hoping that it would be enough to even the chase between the fast approaching officer.

"Stop right there!" Nick turned to glance at the shortening gap between them, producing a sly smirk as he saw the large officer pause to push a couple trash cans out of the way. It was a small, short lived victory though as he ended up sinking his foot into a pothole and slamming his chest into a large murky puddle, pooled from singular drops of an air conditioning unit's condensation.

Nick's heart pounded in his chest as he hastily pulled himself out of the murky puddle, his clothes clinging to him like a second skin. Water dripped from his soaked fur as he quickly scanned his surroundings for an escape route. The alley seemed to stretch on forever, with looming shadows and the distant sounds of the city creating an eerie backdrop.

"Hands where I can see 'em," The cop growled, his voice thick with irritation and exhaustion. "Now!" He approached the tod, footsteps tenacious and calculated, his flashlight beam riding the asphalt and reflecting off that large puddle's surface. His large hoof rested on top of his weapon holster as the kid slowly lifted his arms until his palms rested on the back of his head. "Turn and face me."

As Nick turned to face the approaching figure, his heart hammered louder in his ears. The flashlight's glare momentarily blinded him, intensifying the dread coiled within his chest. But as the beam steadied, revealing the familiar contours of Officer Bogo's face, a tumult of emotions surged through Nick's veins.

Recognition flickered in Bogo's eyes, momentarily overshadowing his stern facade. His brow furrowed in disbelief, the lines of exhaustion etched deeper into his features. For a heartbeat, time seemed to stand still in the eerie alley, the tension palpable between them.

"Nick?" Bogo's voice cut through the silence, laden with a mix of surprise and concern. His hoof, once poised on his weapon holster, now hovered uncertainly, betraying the tumult of thoughts racing through his mind.

Nick's forced smile wavered, the weight of his predicament pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket. "Officer Bogo," Nick managed, his voice strained with exhaustion and a hint of resignation. "Fancy meeting you here." His attempt at levity fell flat, drowned out by the gravity of their reunion amidst the shadows of the alley.

Officer Bogo's expression softened, but there was a hint of disappointment in his eyes. "What are you doing here, Nick?" he asked, his tone firm but not unkind.

"Taking a stroll," he replied, his words dripping with false casualness.

Bogo shook his head at the kid. "You wanna explain any of this to me?"

The umber fox gulped and shook his head, struggling to catch his breath.

Nick's tarnished outfit was a sight to behold, his now exposed chest becoming more scarlet and swollen with every passing minute. The long fur around the kid's throat where the ox had him in a chokehold was matted and ruffled, forcing a raspy strain to encompass his usual sarcastic and charming voice. His lanky body was wet, revealing just how skinny and ungroomed he really was. Unrecognizable, a new kid with a new demeanor and appearance stood before the baffled officer.

Bogo sighed, letting all of the stress from the chase dissipate before tapping his hoof to his temple, "Nick. Just how involved are you in all of this?"

How would you tell a stranger that you were getting payback for one of the most traumatizing moments of your life? In what world would that conversation ever be accepted in the court of law?

Instead, he shook his head, a silent admission of guilt.

Bogo's eyes narrowed in disappointment, he already knew that the tod was responsible, hell, it didn't take a genius to see it. Nick's hesitation to own up to what he did however - though not stated - spoke volumes to him.

"Damn it Nick, what am I supposed to do? Have a thirteen year old kid run off in the middle of the night, after he got assaulted?"

Nick bristled at the accusation, his defenses rising instinctively. "I told you already, I'm fine." But the lie tasted bitter on his tongue, a bitter reminder of his own vulnerability.

"Look at you, kid. You need to be checked out. You need a hospital. I need to call you an ambulan-"

They were interrupted by the distorted squelch of Bogo's radio, the dispatch coming through the worn down speaker hanging over his shoulder saying, "115, are you still in pursuit?"

"No Bogo, I..." The fox took a deep breath, steadying himself. "If you take me in, I'm gonna lose my chance at getting fostered." It wasn't exactly a lie; that chance would pass if word got out. Most foster's didn't want predators that had a history with law enforcement, but it wasn't like he cared at all, as crucial as he made it out to be. He just needed that buffalo to buy it. To second-guess himself.

Nick glanced around the dimly lit alley, his eyes tracing the lines of several brick walls that towered above him, their surfaces cracked and weathered with age. Fire escapes zigzagged across the buildings, casting elongated shadows that danced eerily in the faint glow of the distant streetlights. The maze-like layout of the alley seemed to offer both concealment and escape routes, tempting him with the possibility of disappearing into the night. With a quick intake of breath, he made his decision.

Nick's eyebrows furrowed, pressing into a straight line as he stared at the cop. Both of them looked to each other in wide-eyed curiosity as Bogo reached for his radio, neither knowing what they should do or how they should move forward.

Bogo pushed the talk button, hearing a familiar beep signifying that he was transmitting, "115, that's a negative. Suspects got away."

They both continued staring at each other in that numbing alley way, the distant emergency lights tinting their fur in flickers of red and blue as the handheld spurted out a quick, "10-4".

Nick continued his heavy breathing, feeling his shoulders slump upon hearing his words.

"I'm going to call Honey to come pick you up. She can take you to the hospital so you can get checked out." His tone was deep and authoritative, the cadence slow and articulated, not leaving room for any sort of miscommunication. There was no room for argument in his tone, only a command that brooked no disobedience. "Stick with me. We need to sort this out, before those punks come back."

For a fleeting moment, the idea of facing juvenile detention seemed preferable to Honey's wrath – a wrath he had encountered too many times before.

Bogo motioned for the kid to follow him as he turned around and walked towards the end of the dilapidated alley, only stopping to look down the nearby street where his cruiser sat. He scanned the worn road, looking for those same aggressors before deeming the coast was clear.

"Alright Nick, lets-" He turned his thick neck towards the dark alley once more, to see the the fox had fled.

It's safe to say that I am really proud of this chapter, especially since I have started and scrapped this chapter around 3-4 times. On top of that, I've completely updated the previous chapter as well, making it similar in structure to this one in order to keep things consistent.

The majority of this chapter was written in the span of a week, completely starting from scratch once again. A blank page to almost 10k words. I also now have the entirety of this story mapped out in my notes, every story beat, chapter recall and character moment has been addressed and defined. This story has an actual direction now that it's never had before! It's looking to be around 18 chapters as of now, but it may be more. Only time will tell.

I would like to thank FF user A5TRON4UTA for checking in on this story and supporting me throughout the 2 years. He's one of the reasons I've been so giddy to release this, despite all the bumps in the road.

Like I've mentioned before, I will finish this story, no matter what. I hope you all don't mind joining me for the ride. I would sure appreciate the company. Till next time.

Chapter Text

As unfortunate as the circumstances were, the fox had to admit that the Zootopian skyscape was beautiful.

The sunlight brushed tender strokes across the worn rooftops and through the trashed alleyways, the colors blending like an artist's palette—blushing pinks mingling with fiery oranges, melting into the velvety blues that still clung to the edges of the night. Its crepuscular rays seemed to be flexing like paint brush bristles, saturating each nook and cranny, every dark alleyway with a lustrous beam.

It was mesmerizing to the ragged fox.

Nick closed his paint-crusted eyelids and captured the moment in his mind like an artist preparing to sketch. He longed to tuck the tranquility away, trying to cover himself inside of it as if it were a warm and cozy blanket he could curl up in later, when the shadows of his life would inevitably grow long again like his knotted fur. The breeze, gentle and affectionate, swept through his fur, carrying the touch of a new morning. It kissed his forehead, causing the long strands of fur to sway like the branches of a tree in the wind.

Its caress was as tender as his mother's touch used to be when she roused him from sleep. He could almost hear her voice, so real that the imagined memory made his chest tighten, as if his ribs were being bound by iron bands.

He sniffled.

He wiped his thrashed sleeve against his blood-crusted nostrils. His bushy eyebrows furrowed beneath his long fur. Even with no one around, he had to look strong. Mostly to force himself to believe it too.

The young fox's shoulders sagged under the weight of his pain and exhaustion. The outside air tasted stale, like paper left out in the rain, with a faint metallic tang of exhaust. It clung to him, thick and viscous, seeping into his lungs with every painful breath. His legs felt like splintered wood, each step sending shocks up his spine as though his nerves were frayed wires sparking against raw muscle.

Patience was a foreign language to Nick, but he was no fool. In his current state, running from Bogo again would've been suicide. He had lain low long enough to let his head clear and map out his escape. From the fifth-story fire escape where he crouched, he could see the route he'd take home. A cruel irony—freedom was within sight, but his body refused to cooperate.

He remembered the moment so well. It was as if time had come to a halt and his vision had narrowed as the world around him chromatically aberrated. He remembered bolting, the world blurring around him like smudged charcoal on canvas. Scaling the rusted fire escape had been a miracle of desperation, but now, staring down at the unforgiving ground, he couldn't believe he'd made it up there at all.

When Bogo's patrol car had finally left, the expected relief never came. Instead, Nick felt hollow, like a balloon stretched too thin. Vulnerable. Exposed. He had been in fights before, taken a punch here or there, but never before had he been so vulnerable. So close to the knife's edge of mutilation. The cogs in his thirteen-year-old brain were spinning so fast; the friction created so much heat that they might've welded together.

The coast had been clear for over an hour, but every nerve in his body screamed against moving. Still, he had no choice. His paws dragged across the coarse grating of the fire escape. Every other step sent sharp pains shooting up his leg, starting at his aching heels and ricocheting up his spine like a pinball. He stopped and leaned his arms against the rickety handrails and gazed at the cracked asphalt several stories below him. He wasn't thinking about jumping. But he wondered what it would feel like not to care if he did.

By the time he had made it down to the dirty alleyway his paint-stained fingers had been coated with a fine powder of rust. By the time his feet met the ground, his limbs trembled like the branches of a tree in a storm.

The alleyway greeted him with its familiar filth, its walls sweating with condensation that dripped like tears. Nick limped forward, a lone figure swallowed by the yawning streets of Zootopia. His black hoodie hung in tatters, exposing his bruised torso to the rising Saharan sun. The morning light kissed his back, soaking the fabric with sweat until its faded color revived.

The red streaks on his cheeks, once stark like a vandal's war paint, now softened with the sheen of cold sweat, blending into his fur like coagulated blood. His pace was strained yet consistent, proven by the metronomic thumps he made as he hobbled down the sidewalk with his jaw clenched in discomfort. He clutched his chest with his right hand, trying his hardest to soothe the swelling by massaging his ribcage with his fingers. When his hand started cramping up, he would switch to bracing his scraped knees as he walked.

Yet despite the pain, he was alive. Battered, yes, but still standing. There was nothing in this world that could stop Nicolas Wilde.

He had to believe it. If he didn't, who would?

As he turned toward the path home, the rising sun painted his shadow long across the cracked pavement, a small figure against the immensity of the city. Above, the sky burned with the fire of dawn, its beauty an indifferent witness to his struggle. For a fleeting moment, Nick's heart lightened in the way that a child's would, the colors above whispering promises of a brighter day.

But only for a moment.

Nick couldn't tell when it had happened, but at a certain point he'd put his head down and let his legs move on their own, as if they were pistons in a damaged four cylinder. His movements were slow and robotic, moving step by step until he had crossed the Zootopian suburbs and reached the small streets of Savannah Central.

He raised his throbbing hand and clenched his fist - a painful reminder of the recent encounter that had left him injured - before twisting the door handle with surgical finesse.

The fox found himself in a state of unease as he stepped inside the turbulent silence of the foyer. The normally bustling and lively atmosphere was absent, replaced by an eerie stillness that sent shivers down his spine. He couldn't help but feel that something was terribly wrong.

It was as if the building had died in the night.

The clock on the wall read 8:42 AM. Nick blinked—he hadn't expected it to be morning. The others must have headed out toward school, Finnick included. He had been out for so long, surely his absence must have been noticed. With each step he took towards the staircase he felt relieved that no one had caught him, yet the realization that his presence was indeed so miniscule that no one had seemed to question where he was in the first place was… desolating. It was as if no one actually cared about him.

As he moved through the sunlit foyer, memories flooded back to him - memories of sneaking in and out of the building countless times before, except this time it was different.

As he gripped his backpack straps, he couldn't help but notice the dry taste of stale bread and disinfectant that crept onto his tongue. It was both familiar and oddly comforting, a staple of the atmospheric taste inside his orphanage, but it couldn't alleviate the growing sense of dread that gnawed at him.

He slipped into the kitchen without turning on the light. The fridge hummed, a soft, comforting sound in the silence. Nick cracked the door open, letting the pale light spill out. He grabbed the orange juice carton, twisted off the cap, and drank straight from it, ignoring the sting in the back of his throat.

As he leaned back and wiped his mouth with the back of his paw, his elbow clipped something.

A flutter.

He looked down. A sheet of printer paper had fallen off the fridge door and now lay face-down on the floor.

Nick sighed.

He crouched slowly—his leg barking in protest—and picked it up. Flipping it over, he realized it was that group photo from the last spring outing: the whole orphanage huddled under a tree, messy fur and goofy grins.

Nick stared at his own face in the back row. Half-smile. Hands in his pockets. Already taller than half the adults.

He ran his fingers lightly across the scuffed surface, brushing away a smudge of dust that had settled over his image. His thumb paused on his own face, almost like he was trying to wipe off more than just the grime—trying to find some truth in that almost-smile.

He looked at the others. Honey's arm flung over someone's shoulder, her eyes full of mischief. Finnick, wrinkled and wide-eared, caught in a moment of ridiculous timing. The way they all leaned into each other, touching without thinking. Like it was normal.

A hollow ache bloomed in his chest.

He couldn't remember the last time someone had leaned into him like that.

Nick glanced toward the fridge door, then back at the photo in his paw. A small part of him—a voice he usually didn't let speak—wanted to tuck the picture away, keep it for himself. Proof that he'd existed there. That he had been part of something, once.

But he didn't. Instead, he stepped forward and gently pressed the photo back against the cold metal. He used the same crooked magnet as before—paint chipping off one corner, shaped like a cartoon carrot.

He pressed it down carefully, making sure all four corners were flat.

As if that might make it stay longer.

As if someone might notice it was straightened, and know he'd come home.

The muscles that pulled the sides of his mouth suddenly dropped.

Did they even notice I was gone today?

Suddenly, he came to a halt. Gripping the countertop, his ears perked up, swiveling to catch the faintest noise. It was a subtle sound, almost imperceptible.

There was a moment of silence, before Nick decided to break the ice.

"You don't have to wait-up for me, y'know." Nick's hoarse voice carried through the quiet room, the faintest crack in his tone betraying his nerves. He kept his back turned, staring at the worn wooden floor beneath his feet.

"Yes, I do," she replied, her voice quiet but sharp.

Honey glanced at him from across the room, her face tense but calm. She was still in her loose pajamas, arms crossed over her chest as she sat alone at the dinner table. The dim kitchen light cast long shadows, making the room feel smaller, more intimate than usual.

Nick shrugged, shuffling toward the hallway, avoiding her gaze. "No, you don't."

"Yes. I do." There was more weight in her words this time. Honey's eyes narrowed, the tension in the room thickening. She remained seated, but her body was coiled tight, like a spring about to snap. "Where were you?"

Nick paused in the doorway, fingers twitching at the edge of his hoodie. "I was out." His voice was flat, emotionless, offering nothing.

The badger's eyes narrowed as she noticed Nick's attempt to avoid her gaze. She stood up, her chair scraping against the floor, and walked closer to him with a stern expression. "Out doing what?"

"Just out." Nick's ears drooped slightly as he avoided eye contact, his attempt to deflect the conversation evident. He kept his back facing her in an act of defense, convincing himself that he was doing her a favor by offering her a chance to remain ignorant. As if he were trying to protect Honey from witnessing the price that his body had already paid, despite a part of him knowing full well that he was only trying to protect himself and his image.

"Look at me. Nick." He stood frozen, his hand clenched tightly around the fabric of his hoodie. He could feel her eyes on him, waiting for him to turn around, to face her. But he didn't. He couldn't. He stared instead at his reflection in the blank TV screen, trying to ignore the growing tension behind him. "Take off your damn hood and look at me." He hesitated, a part of him wanting to comply, to let the weight of the moment pass. But the other part—the stronger, more stubborn part—refused to give in. With a sudden, defiant motion, he yanked his hood back, exposing his battered face smeared with red paint. His green eyes flicked toward Honey, a glare already forming, daring her to react.

Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a sharp gasp. She wasn't prepared for the sight of him like this—bruised, disheveled, and clearly hurting. "Nick?" she whispered, her voice softening, the anger from earlier dissolving into something more fragile. "Is that-"

Nick's jaw tightened. "It's just spray paint, not..." he muttered, his voice barely audible. "It's nothing. Not a big deal."

"This is not nothing," she said, her voice still gentle but firm. Honey's eyes searched his face, taking in the streaks of red, the bruises blooming under his fur, the exhaustion etched into his features. "You've been out all night. Now I found out you've been skipping school, and now you come home like this? You have to tell me what's going on, Nick."

He didn't respond. He didn't want to. His shoulders slumped slightly, but he refused to look her in the eyes.

"Fine then." Honey took a step closer, the frustration building in her chest. "I want you to go upstairs, change your clothes, and then we're going to the hospital. After that, you're going to tell me everything's that happened."

"I don't need-" Nick protested, his stubbornness flaring up.

"This isn't up for debate," Honey replied, her tone hardening. "I'm the head of this orphanage, and you'll do as I—"

"Oh, for god's sake, Honey!" Nick snapped, his voice a crack of thunder that silenced the honey badger's protests. Anger churned inside him, a molten tide threatening to erupt. He could almost see it—smoke curling out of his ears like he was an overheated steam engine, throttling toward derailment.

The dried red spray paint on his fur clung to him, making him feel as if he were wearing someone else's skin, someone tougher, angrier. His hoodie, split unevenly down the middle, hung off his narrow shoulders like a battle flag torn and tattered in the fray. The copper tang of dried blood from his nose mingled with the sour sweat soaking his fur, creating a scent that felt like a living reminder of his mistakes.

"Just stop, alright? Just stop pretending like you actually care about what's going on with me!" His words shot out like barbs, sharp and unforgiving.

"Don't you dare talk to me like that, Nicholas," Honey's expression wavered between hurt and frustration, but she refused to back down. "I care about you. I care because you're part of this family, whether you like it or not. And we look out for each other."

"Family? What family? You call this family?" Nick spat the word like it left a bad taste in his mouth. His fur bristled, his tail low and stiff, as if trying to make himself bigger, more imposing. "You think anyone here cares about me? About Finnick? They don't trust us. They don't even like us. And maybe… maybe I don't blame them." His voice cracked, the edges raw and frayed like his hoodie. "This isn't a family. It's just you playing make-believe."

Honey flinched, his words hitting harder than she expected. She could feel her patience thinning, her calm exterior cracking under the weight of his anger. "You can barely hobble your way through the front door and you're trying to make me the bad guy? Geez Nick, the mayor is already looking for any reason to cut our budget! if someone found you coming home in this state—"

"Oh, give me a break," Nick interrupted, throwing his arms up in exasperation. "Like I care about the mayor or the stupid budget. I have bigger things to worry about." The scent of his own sour sweat mixed with the faint aroma of Honey's lavender perfume, a sensory clash that only heightened his irritation.

Honey's jaw clenched, her frustration rising. "Like what, Nick?" she demanded, her voice sharper now. "Like getting yourself killed?"

His eyes burned with a fury that felt too big for his skinny frame. His face twisted, a flicker of pain flashing in his good eye before fury took over.

"Well, maybe, huh?! Have you ever thought of that?"

The words tumbled out like shards of glass onto concrete, smashing into microscopic slivers that would never be fully swept away. The moment they escaped, regret coiled in his chest, heavy and suffocating.

Shit.

Honey froze, her breath catching. The room felt smaller, as though the walls were closing in, pressing them together in this unbearable silence. A roiling storm of emotions neither of them dared acknowledge fully.

She could see it now, that darkness behind Nick's tough exterior. It wasn't new, not really. She'd caught glimpses of it before, flashes of the grief he worked so hard to bury. But this? This was different. It wasn't just a fleeting glimpse; it was like staring into a chasm, endless and raw.

So long was the boy who had pretended to be okay, stripped away by his own bitterness. His bravado had crumbled, and in its place was a vulnerability so sharp that it cut both of them.

She wanted to reach out to him, to comfort him, but she knew that words alone would not be enough. The scent of the room—an odd combination of old wood, dust, and the faint, comforting aroma of honey-sweet tea from earlier—did little to mask the emotional chaos that had erupted between them.

Nick could see the crack in her armor, the way her expression faltered just enough for him to notice. And he hated it. Hated how she saw past the spray paint and blood, past his snarls and barbs, straight into the mess of a kid he was. She was staring at him like he was a puzzle she couldn't solve, and it made his skin crawl.

His swollen eye throbbed with each heartbeat, a painful drumbeat in his skull, reminding him of his own recklessness.

"I didn't mean it like that," Nick muttered, his anger faltering for just a moment. His voice cracked with a mixture of regret and stubborn pride. "That came out wrong." But it didn't matter—the words had already escaped him, baring more than he ever intended to reveal.

Shame coiled in his stomach, cold and sickening, as he stood there, feeling smaller than ever in the presence of the only person who had ever dared to look at him like he was something more than just a kid.

Honey's expression softened, her frustration melting away as concern took its place. "Nick…" Her voice was gentle now, laced with a tenderness that made Nick's chest ache. "I can't just stand by and watch you tear yourself apart. I won't." She placed her paw on his shoulder, brushing against the rough fabric of his hoodie. "I know that things have been hard on you, and that isn't fair—but lashing out like this won't make things better. It… It won't bring her back, son. Ms. Otterton needs to know about-"

The word hit Nick like a slap across the face, sharp and stinging, cutting through him with the precision of a blade. His ears shot up, then flattened against his skull, betraying the flash of vulnerability before his face twisted into something cold and unyielding. His eyes, one swollen and bruised, the other burning with fury, narrowed into icy slits. The air between them seemed to crackle, heavy and frigid, as he pulled back from her touch as if it carried poison. "Don't," he snarled, the word spat out with a venom that startled even him. His voice was sharp, his eyes flashing with a fury that had been festering for far too long. His words echoed in the small room, bouncing off the walls and lingering in the air like the aftermath of a gunshot. "Don't you call me that."

The silence that followed felt like a taut string, pulled so tight it could snap with the smallest movement. Nick's breath came in short, shallow bursts, his chest rising and falling like the rhythmic crash of waves against jagged rocks. His eyes darted away from Honey's face, searching the room for something—anything—he could fixate on, as if looking at her would unravel him entirely.

Honey felt the sting of guilt bloom in her chest, sharp and unwelcome. She hadn't meant to call him that—the word had slipped out, unbidden, from a place of instinct and care. But now, seeing the way he recoiled, she realized the word carried far more weight than she'd ever imagined.

She stepped back, her hand falling to her side. "Nick… I didn't mean—"

But Nick cut her off, his words a rapid-fire barrage that struck like arrows. "You think just because you took me in, read a couple of files about my past, that you know me? That you know what I've been through? You don't. You don't know the first thing about her. She's gone, I get that okay? She's gone and she's never coming back."

Honey flinched, her face tightening at the venom in his words, but Nick didn't stop. He didn't care if he was hurting her. In some twisted corner of his mind, he almost wanted her to feel it, to taste the bitterness that churned in his chest every day. Let her feel what it was like to drown in it, the way he did.

"She wasn't just some story in a file, Honey," he spat, his voice dripping with disdain. "She was my mom! The only person in this world who ever really knew me." His breath came in harsh gasps now, his chest heaving with the effort of keeping his emotions in check. But he couldn't—he was unraveling, every word dragging him deeper into a dark place he didn't know how to escape. "She's the one who left me! She gave up on me!"

Honey stood rooted to the spot, her mouth pressing into a thin line as she fought to hold herself together. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, but not out of anger—out of a desperate need to stay steady, to be the anchor Nick so clearly lacked.

"And you wanna know something else? I'm fine with it. I'm fine being alone," Nick's voice dropped, a quick swallow, a bitter laugh escaping his lips as his teeth bared in a smile that looked more like a grimace. "I don't need you. I don't need anyone." His voice dropped lower, harder now, as if he were trying to convince himself of his own words.

Honey felt her throat tighten, the pressure of unshed tears weighing heavy behind her eyes, but she pushed them back. Not in front of Nick. She took a deep breath, straightening her posture, her hands steady even though her heart pounded fiercely in her chest. She wouldn't be weak—not for herself, and certainly not for him.

Nick glared at her, his breath ragged, the fire of his fury burning through the room. "You don't get to pretend like you understand," he spat, his voice sharp and bitter.

Her eyes softened—not with pity, but with the quiet, unwavering resolve of someone who had lived through her own struggles and came out stronger.

"You're right," she said, her tone calm but firm, her gaze never leaving him. "I don't know exactly what you've been through. I don't know your pain like you do. But that doesn't mean I haven't lived through my own losses, my own hurt. You're not the only one who's been broken, Nick." She paused for a beat, letting her words sink in. "But I'm still here."

Nick blinked, caught off guard by the strength in her voice. He had expected her to break down, to crumble under the weight of his words like so many others had. But Honey didn't. She held her ground, facing him with a calm, unshakeable resolve that made him feel small, his anger suddenly uncertain in the face of her quiet strength.

He felt cornered, exposed, like she was stripping away the armor he had worked so hard to build. He didn't know what to do with that. He didn't know how to be anything other than angry—anything other than alone.

"I don't need you. I don't need any of you. The only person I need is me, and I'll be damned if I'm ever going to need… I don't need anybody." The strength in his words waned as he spoke, a fierce pride collapsing under the weight of his own vulnerability.

Nick could feel it—the walls he had erected beginning to crack. He hated her for it. Hated the way she made him feel exposed, like she was peeling back layers he had spent years fortifying. His anger was the only thing that had kept him safe, and here she was, unraveling it with nothing more than calm words and an unwavering gaze. He clenched his fists, wanting to shove her away, but the fire in his chest sputtered out, leaving behind only cold ashes. His voice, once strong with defiance, now felt weak. He hated that too.

Honey didn't press any closer, didn't try to break him further. She simply stood there—solid, unshakeable. Her presence was a quiet declaration: she wasn't afraid of his anger, of his barbed words, of whatever armor he threw up. She would stand her ground. No matter how hard he pushed, she wouldn't leave. And somehow, that was worse than if she had.

A knock on the door suddenly interrupted the heated exchange. The sound of the knock echoed through the hallway, momentarily silencing them both.

Honey glanced towards the door, her frustration with Nick momentarily forgotten as she realized someone was at the entrance. She exchanged a puzzled look with Nick, who also seemed taken aback by the unexpected interruption.

"I'll get it," Honey said quietly, her voice slipping back into a calm neutrality. "You stay right here."

Nick watched her walk away, the anger still swirling in his chest, though now mingling with something heavier, something he didn't want to name. His stomach churned, a cocktail of rage, guilt, and exhaustion fighting for dominance. Maybe it was the lack of sleep. Maybe it was the endless fight—both outside and within himself. Maybe it was the memory of the blows he had taken earlier, the bruises forming beneath his fur. He felt unsteady, as if the ground was shifting beneath his feet.

The door creaked open, and Honey's heart sank as Officer Bogo filled the frame. His massive, hulking presence seemed to suck all the air out of the room. Sunlight streamed in from behind him, but it did nothing to soften the intensity in his eyes or the dark, heavy expression on his face. Honey could feel the gravity of the moment before a single word was spoken. Something was wrong. The city sounds outside had faded into a strange silence, leaving only the anxious thrum of her heart pounding in her chest.

"Bogo," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. "Is something—"

"Honey," Bogo cut her off, his tone flat but laden with something darker. "I need to speak with him."

Honey's heart sank. The steely look in his eyes told her this wasn't just a check-in. This was something more, something worse. She hesitated, her mind racing as she tried to calculate her next move. Protect Nick or let Bogo in? But the decision was already made. She couldn't shield him from this—not this time. "Okay," she said at last, her voice calm but measured. "He's over here."

Bogo didn't wait for an invitation. He stepped inside, his hooves thudding heavily against the floor, each step sounding like a judgment being handed down. Honey moved aside, feeling the weight of his presence like a physical force pushing her back. It was like standing beside a mountain, and yet, despite his size and authority, she wasn't afraid of him—not in the way that Nick was. She watched as Bogo advanced into the room where Nick waited, and she followed, her footsteps careful, light, but determined.

Bogo's presence filled the room with an oppressive weight, his deep voice reverberating off the sterile walls. "You're coming with me. Let's go," he said, the words loaded with authority, as if it were a verdict rather than a greeting. Nick could almost feel Bogo's gaze burrowing into his soul, like a drill seeking the truth buried deep beneath his bravado.

The previous night's turmoil gnawed at him like a persistent itch he couldn't scratch away. Every moment replayed in his mind—the adrenaline, the chaos, the guilt, the suffocating sense of betrayal.

"Wilde," Bogo's expression darkened, his arms crossed, the sheer bulk of him seeming to cast an intimidating shadow. Yet, there was a flicker of something—pity, perhaps?—in his eyes. It made Nick seethe in red hot anger, creating a heat inside of him that snuffed out any chance of resolving this peacefully.

The buffalo saw through the smirk and the flippant remarks. Beneath the surface, Nick was just a scared kid lashing out at the world, and Bogo wasn't going to ignore that. "You seem like a smart kid, Wilde," Bogo said, his voice softened but carrying an edge of disappointment. "But you've been making some real stupid decisions lately."

Nick's pulse quickened, dread coiling within him like a tightening noose. His fur bristled, and he fought to maintain composure, a battle between fear and bravado playing out within the depths of his mind.

"Now, do you want to keep playing dumb, or do you want to act like an adult and get this over with?" Bogo's demand cut through the air, like a sharp blade poised to pierce Nick's defenses.

"Nick, what is this about?" Honey's voice broke the mounting tension, her usually fierce demeanor replaced with a look of genuine concern. It was a small comfort amidst the storm, but it was not enough to calm the roiling tempest inside him.

Bogo's voice rumbled again, heavy with frustration. "Earlier this morning, Wilde vandalized one of the Wilderness Explorer's Outposts and got assaulted by two unknown assailants. I was trying to protect him before he scurried off. Now, I gave him a chance Honey and I don't do that twice."

Honey fired off question after question towards the buffalo, trying to figure out every single minute detail of the morning's encounter. Most were met with a simple, "We're still investigating," to the badgers dismay.

The dimly lit room, with its cold, sterile walls, seemed to close in on them. It was as if the entire room held its breath, waiting for the inevitable reckoning. Nick's heart raced as he watched Honey turn her frightened eyes towards him. Her stern gaze never left Nick, and it felt like her penetrating eyes were peeling away the layers of deception that had shielded Nick's secret life and saw him for the monster that he truly was.

"The Outpost, Nick?" The honey badger inquired, her look of terror transfiguring to one of resolution as she remembered what the contents of his personal file contained. "But, I don't understand. Weren't you a Junior Ranger Scout?"

"Funny, I figured you'd be too busy handing out parking tickets to care about someone like me," Nick interrupted, his words filled with bitterness quickly changing the subject.

"Nicholas! Knock it off-" Honey started, her concern evident.

"Yeah, those guys deserved what they got, and yeah, maybe I got the brunt end of the stick. It doesn't matter, buffalo butt, I handled it," the teenage fox snarled, his emotions getting the better of him.

But then, to Nick's surprise, Bogo leaned forward, his shadow engulfing the young fox. It wasn't anger that loomed over Nick now, but something heavier—something that felt like concern wrapped in the rough bark of authority. "You think the world owes you something because of your past? Well it doesn't. That's not how justice works."

Nick faltered, his ears flicking in surprise. The fire in his green eyes dimmed, but only for a moment, replaced by a smoldering anger. "Look, Officer Bogo, I've had my fair share of dealing with your 'justice' when my mom died. I learned a long time ago that the ZPD is more about the show than actually giving a damn about people like me. Cold, uncompassionate bunch—just like you."

The sting landed. Honey flinched, but Bogo didn't even blink. His gaze stayed locked, unwavering, like he'd heard worse and expected better.

"You're angry. Fine," Bogo said, voice level. "But don't confuse anger for truth. What you did was reckless. Dangerous. And yeah—illegal."

Nick's laugh came sharp and bitter. "Oh, right. The law. Funny how that only shows up when someone like me screws up, huh?"

Honey's ears perked up, sensing a deeper layer to Nick's story. She intervened once more, her voice a lifeline amidst the gathering storm. "Nick, whatever this is, we'll sort this out, alright?"

Nick's fingers trembled, the dirt and paint on them cracked like the surface of an old, dried riverbed. "You still don't get it, do you?" His words tumbled out, raw and unfiltered, as if he was ripping open a wound that had been festering for years.

"Nobody sees me. They only see what I do," Nick's words hung in the air, echoing like a pebble dropped into an unfathomable chasm. He paused, his chest rising and falling as he wrestled with the boiling frustration coursing through him.

"And that Outpost?" Nick's voice caught on the edge of something sharp. "They don't give a damn. The people there—"

His fingers twitched, then curled like they were bracing for a hit that never came. One hand drifted to his wrist, rubbing the fur in slow, desperate circles. The gesture was automatic, like he was trying to scrub something invisible off his skin.

He stopped himself.

But the lump in his throat didn't.

"They didn't see me," he muttered. "Not the real me. Just… a loudmouth. A nuisance. Some broken thing to keep at a distance."

His breathing quickened, but he didn't stop. Couldn't.

"They just stared. Like I was a problem they forgot how to fix." His voice cracked, not from weakness, but from the weight of too many unspoken years. "Like I was this ugly little secret they hoped would go away."

The room didn't move. Even the air seemed to hesitate.

Honey took a step forward, ears tilted back, face soft but cautious. She was trying—he could see that—but it still felt like she was reaching through fog. Wanting to help but unsure what he needed saving from.

Bogo didn't speak. Just stared, unmoving. A statue carved out of authority, radiating rules and structure but not warmth.

Nick glanced between them. Then lowered his gaze.

"You want to know why I don't go near places like that anymore?" he asked, quieter now. "Why I can't stand the smell of the uniforms, the stupid pledges, the fake smiles?"

He raised his eyes again—this time to Honey.

"Because when I was nine, they um… put a muzzle on me."

The words hit the air like shrapnel. Cold. Final.

"I wanted to join. I wanted to belong. And when I tried... they laughed. Called me names. Said I'd bite. So they held me down and strapped it on, like I was some wild thing that needed to be caged."

He didn't cry. He didn't flinch. But his voice shook with a quiet fury that came from remembering every second of it.

"I remember the way it felt. Not just the muzzle. The eyes. The way they stared at me—like I stopped being a person."

His hand was still at his wrist, gripping it tight now, as if that memory still had teeth.

Honey's face collapsed into something broken and horrified. She stepped toward him, but stopped short.

"Nick…" she whispered.

He pulled away slightly—not from her, but from the moment.

"That was the day I stopped trying to be one of them. Figured if they already saw a monster, I'd give them what they were looking for."

The silence afterward wasn't empty—it was sacred. The kind of silence where something real finally surfaces, and no one dares interrupt it.

Bogo looked down, his jaw clenched. No easy words. No cop clichés. Just understanding, heavy and unspoken.

"So when you told me about that family? The foxes?" His tone tightened, words clipped like he was holding something back. "You said it like it was some big break. Like it meant something."

Honey's mouth parted, but he kept going.

"And I thought—maybe. Just for a second. Maybe it'd be different this time. But I couldn't shake it. That feeling. Like the second I let my guard down, they'd take one look and change their minds."

Honey nodded once, like she was piecing something together she already suspected.

"You didn't want it to be real," she said gently. "Because if it was, it could go wrong. So you blew it up before it could blow up on you."

Nick didn't respond. Didn't deny it either. He just stared at the floor like he was trying to hold onto the last of his anger before it slipped away.

Bogo watched him carefully, but said nothing.

"You didn't go there to tag the place, did you?" Honey asked.

Nick's silence was answer enough.

"You don't even know why you were there," she said less as a question, but more as an affirmation.

He looked up at her, expression guarded, but not angry.

"I didn't start that fight," he muttered, almost to himself.

"I know," Honey said.

That surprised him. Just enough to make him blink.

He looked away again, voice quieter now. "Doesn't change what I did."

"No," she said. "But it changes why."

The silence that followed didn't ask for more.

Nick's fingers drifted to the frayed strap of his battered backpack, but his mind was already miles away—back in the quiet of an old apartment kitchen, sun slanting through cracked blinds, his mom humming off-key as she stirred her coffee.

He'd sit across from her, sketchbook open, pencils scattered like fallen leaves. He'd draw everything—rooftops at dusk, pigeons in flight, the glint of headlights in the rain. She'd look over, eyes tired but warm, and say, "You see the world different, Nicky. That's a gift. Don't let them take it."

He never forgot those words.

And he never told her that they already had.

"That sketchbook was the only place I felt like I made sense," he said, voice barely more than a breath. "The city, the colors, the shadows—it's like I could finally explain what was going on in here." He tapped the side of his head. "Even when everything else… didn't."

His eyes stayed fixed on the floor. "She always said I saw beauty in places others didn't. In things people threw away."

A pause, heavy and cracked.

"After she died… it felt like no one saw me anymore either."

He didn't mention the machines. The sterile white. The way she stopped looking back.

He didn't say how he stood at her bedside and said nothing, because he didn't know if she wanted to go.

So he painted instead.

"Unless I'm breaking something, no one even looks. Unless I'm loud and angry, I might as well not be here at all."

He clutched the sketchbook to his chest, knuckles going pale around its edges. "I didn't tag that Outpost to be a criminal. I did it because I wanted someone—anyone—to stop and say, 'That's real. That means something. I'm sorry.'"

His eyes finally rose to meet Bogo's. Not confrontational. Not defiant.

Just… searching.

"I just… I'm not some mistake waiting to be thrown out."

Silence stretched, long and aching. The kind of silence that holds breath, waiting to see if truth will echo back.

But nothing came.

Honey's face was soft, her eyes shining with something close to grief—but it was distant, like she saw the wound but didn't know where to place her hands.

Bogo stood rooted, his expression unreadable, the law still hanging from his shoulders like armor. His gaze cut through Nick—but not past him. Not yet.

"You don't get it," Nick said, quieter now, reflecting on all of his drawings that sat in his sketchbook. "If I don't make people notice, then it's like I don't even exist."

He glanced between them—his voice no longer sharp, just hollow.

"And if I don't exist to anyone… then what was the point of any of it?"

He looked to Bogo again—not pleading.

Just hoping.

The room held its breath.

Then Bogo looked down, slow and deliberate.

"I get that Wilde, but there's still a shop owner pressing charges," he said. "There's still damage to answer for."

Nick blinked once. The hope flickered. Then vanished.

He turned to Honey, almost instinctively, but her face had changed. Too gentle. Too careful. Like someone watching a wounded animal and not knowing whether to approach.

"Nick," she said quietly, "what you're feeling is valid. And I'm not saying this to brush you off—but this is bigger than tonight. It's not going to get better in a single moment. You need time. We all do."

Nick gave a short, brittle laugh. "Time," he echoed. "Yeah. That's what everyone says when they don't know what else to say."

And without another word, he stepped toward the door.

As he passed, his shoulder collided with Bogo's—hard, deliberate. A spark of rebellion, maybe. Or just a way to say I'm still here without asking anyone to say it back.

His hoof gripped Nick's bicep firmly but not harshly, his strength undeniable. "You say you want to be seen, kid. Then why do you run every time someone tries?" Bogo warned, stopping him in his tracks.

Nick clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms—almost like the pain made the words real instead of just noise.

No words came. No excuses. Just the quiet ache behind his eyes.

He wanted to shout back, to push Bogo away like everyone else, but instead he swallowed the lump in his throat and looked away, the weight of those words sinking deeper than he could admit.

"Let me go!" Nick snapped, wrenching his arm back. The sudden movement jostled his unzipped backpack, sending its contents tumbling to the floor.

The sound of something heavy hitting the ground drew all eyes downward. Among the scattered items lay a weathered journal, its corners frayed and its cover bearing faint marks of age and use.

Honey instinctively bent down to pick it up, her brow furrowing as the journal had opened to the first page. The sight stopped her cold. Her usual sharp demeanor softened into something fragile, almost mournful, as her gaze made contact onto the page.

'My Dearest Nicky,

By the time you read this, I'll be at peace, and I pray someday you will be, too.'

Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Nick..."

Nick froze, his bravado crumbling in an instant. His wide eyes flicked from Honey to the journal and back again, his breath coming in shallow bursts like a candle guttering in a draft. "Give it back," he growled, his voice rough but hollow, devoid of the fire it had moments before.

Honey's grip on the journal tightened, not out of defiance, but out of care. "Nick… does Mrs. Otterton know about this? Does anyone?" Her voice was quiet, a soft rain after a storm.

Nick's jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. "It's nothing," he spat, but the word stuck in his throat. It's not nothing. It's everything. His chest heaved.

Honey didn't flinch. Her eyes, pools of understanding tinged with sorrow, locked on his. "Nick, this… this isn't nothing. This is—"

"I said give it back!" Nick's voice cracked, and with a sudden burst of desperate energy, he lunged toward her.

But before he could close the distance, Bogo's massive hoof shot out, his grip firm and unyielding as he caught Nick by both arms. The buffalo held him fast, his strength like a stone wall against Nick's frantic pull.

"Nick," Bogo said evenly, his tone low but steady, "calm down." His grip didn't tighten, nor did it loosen; it simply held, like an anchor grounding a storm-tossed ship.

Nick's breath came in short, frantic gasps, his limbs trembling with the effort of holding back the tidal wave of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. At 13 years old, he was far from the tough, self-sufficient fox he tried so desperately to be. Beneath the scowl, beneath the bravado, was a kid—scared, lost, and fighting against the world with all the strength he could muster. His heart hammered in his chest, each beat a painful reminder of how small he really was. He was a child, despite everything he wanted to believe about himself.

His eyes sealed shut, bearing down against the volcanic emotions that were colliding in his head.

"I'm sorry!" he blurted out, his voice breaking on the word as tears threatened to spill down his cheeks. It wasn't the defiant apology of someone trying to end a scolding; it was something messier, more desperate. "I didn't mean— I wasn't—" The words tumbled out, incoherent, choked, his throat tightening until speaking felt like trying to breathe underwater.

The weight of Bogo's grip on his arm felt like a chain, the massive buffalo's hold solid, unyielding, yet not cruel. Bogo wasn't forcing him. He wasn't being violent. It was just that steady, calm strength—the kind of thing Nick had never known in anyone else. It was like a parent trying to stop a child in the middle of a tantrum, not out of anger, but out of compassion. But Nick couldn't see that. He couldn't see the concern hidden in Bogo's stance—how his large frame wasn't intimidating, but protective, like a wall against the storm that raged inside Nick.

His knees buckled slightly, and he sagged against Bogo's hold, not fighting anymore but too mortified to stand fully upright. "I said I'm sorry," he whispered again, quieter now, his voice thick with shame. The fire in him had burned out, leaving only ashes and the bitter taste of his own humiliation.

Bogo released him slowly, his strong grip becoming a guiding hand as he helped steady the trembling fox. "Take a breath, Wilde," he said, his voice firm but calm. "You're not in trouble for how you feel."

But Nick couldn't hear him. All he could feel was the crushing weight of his own failure. His claws dug into his arms as if the sting might wake him from the nightmare of what he'd just done. He had lashed out, acted like a stupid, selfish kid—exactly what everyone probably thought he was. His tail curled tightly against his legs, trying to make himself smaller, trying to disappear.

Honey's voice cut through the tension, her tone a gentle but unyielding tether. "Nick, breathe. It's okay. Look at me."

His breath hitched, and his tail lashed behind him in frustration. Thirteen, but shaking like a kid half that age. And ashamed of it. Nick wanted to run, wanted to escape, but where would he go? His mind swirled in confusion, the answers slipping through his fingers like sand.

In front of him, Honey's voice cracked through the fog, but it wasn't scolding. It wasn't angry. It was just... concerned. "Nick," she said softly, stepping forward as if she could make him understand, as if she could reach him. "Please, stop. It's okay."

Honey's eyes were full of the kind of quiet, heartaching concern only a parent could show. She wasn't trying to control him, wasn't trying to make him feel small. She was worrying about him—genuinely, deeply. And for a moment, that hit harder than anything else. Because Nick didn't want her to worry. He didn't want her pity or her sympathy. He wanted her to leave him alone, to stop trying to dig into a part of him that he hadn't let anyone see. He hated that she could see through him. That she could see the scared, broken boy underneath all the anger.

"Don't look at me like that," he snapped. "Like you care now."

He couldn't hear her right now. All he could hear was the echo of his own fears, the whirling storm inside his chest that was as unpredictable as his next move.

He snatched the journal away from Honey's outstretched hands. It was like a lifeline, the one thing that had never let him down, even as everything else around him had crumbled. He wasn't worried about his incriminating sketches that'd trace him back to each property he'd ever vandalized. Her words were scrawled on those pages, soft and curling, like she was whispering to him across time. He'd read them so often he knew every stroke, every smudge. They were hers. They were his. They were all he had left.

But Honey just stood there, her face softening as she looked at him. Her expression was one Nick couldn't read, but he felt it. Her eyes weren't filled with anger or disappointment—they were filled with the same quiet pity he had seen in so many others, the kind that made him feel like an outsider in his own skin. He hated it.

"Get off of me, I'm fine," Nick muttered through clenched teeth. His voice was barely more than a whisper, but it was enough for her to hear the lie in it.

"Nick, I don't think you are," Honey said softly. "I know you're hurting, but this… this won't help."

Bogo was still holding him back, his grip gentle but unyielding. Nick could feel the warmth of the buffalo's large hand through the thin fabric of his shirt, and for a moment, he wished he could just let go—let himself collapse into Bogo's strength and let it carry him away from everything. But he couldn't. Not when it meant admitting how much he was really hurting.

"You don't have to do this alone, Nick. We can go to the hospital, get you checked out and then get things straightened out there." Bogo said, his voice steady but full of something Nick wasn't ready to face. It wasn't authority. It wasn't judgment. It was something else—something softer.

Much like his relaxing grip.

Nick yanked his arm free, his heart pounding, and in that moment, he felt both small and old at once—like a child trapped in a body that had seen too much. The walls of the orphanage pressed in on him, each breath more labored than the last. He couldn't stay here. He couldn't face them.

Not because of punishment.

But because being seen—really seen—was worse.

He couldn't let them see him like this—weak, exposed, a scared little kid who still cried himself to sleep at night.

Because if they saw him now, the fragile parts, the scared parts, the real parts… there'd be no hiding left. No shield of sarcasm. No fire to mask the cracks.

Just a broken kid.

So he ran.

Without another word, without another look, Nick bolted. He moved on pure instinct, his legs carrying him faster than his thoughts, the bruises on his body burning with each step. His mind screamed at him to stop, but his heart pushed him forward, away from everything that felt like it was caving in on him.

Bogo's voice, heavy with concern, bellowed behind him. "Wilde! Get back here!"

But Nick didn't slow. Didn't look. Didn't listen. He plowed through pedestrians like they weren't even there. Every footfall was a rebellion. Every breath a refusal to collapse.

The pounding of hooves behind him began to fade—swallowed by the city, by morning traffic, by noise that didn't care who he was.

His lungs burned. His chest ached. Still, he ran.

I don't need anyone. I don't need anybody.

He had no destination. Just distance. Just movement. The streets of Zootopia blurred past—morning light streaking through steel and glass, cold air biting at his face.

He ran past familiar corners, past memories he didn't want, down roads that never led anywhere good. He didn't care. He just had to keep going—away from the orphanage.

Every street he passed was just another escape route. Every turn a prayer for somewhere away.

Away from Honey's eyes that looked too much like understanding.
Away from Bogo's voice that sounded too much like someone who might stay.

He tore through an alley, breath hitching, lungs refusing to cooperate. His mother's absence slammed into him like a wall. He could barely see. Barely think.

The ache in his chest was unbearable.

But the anger? The anger was louder.

So he ran harder.

Until the world disappeared, and all that remained was the sound of his heartbeat hammering against the inside of his skull. His feet on the pavement. His pain, in rhythm with the city that had never once slowed down for him.

Sorry for the wait... again. I rewrote this chapter so many times that I've actually lost count. I ended up writing and deleting PAGES of words and dialogue since it started to feel like I was pandering rather than writing. I also shortened a lot of the dialogue between the characters to have it flow like an actual conversation. I always imagined this chapter as the 'crash-out' scene for Nick, so I wanted him to flow through many difficult emotions and have him say the things that burrow into the back of his mind. To give him the sort of embarrassment that we all harbor from childhood tantrums and to give him this sort of panic attack feeling. I wanted him to be mostly selfish purely for self preservation, so I'm sorry if he seems a little OOC this time around. I'm probably going to refresh to the previous chapters so that it is hopefully not as jarring.

Upon rereading, I think I may have overdone this chapter. Though, it is a sort of climax to the rising action so I think that it deserves a little extra polish.

I'm trying not to make annual updates a thing, but at this point just know that I'm still working on this story, but it's been necessary to put this on the backburner due to adult responsibilities. I've got an actual desktop setup now, so I have a feeling that I'll be able to carve out a lot more time to write. Nevertheless thanks so much for reading, it truly means the world to me. I hope that you are all doing well in these trying times and know that I'm rooting for you.