starting a one-shot series about wildehopps bc im fucking furry trash .. .. am i sorry? no.

/

off-kilter; or, the one where the tables are turned. (role reversal au)

/

Judy Hopps is slippery, and Nick finds that she does not fail to mention it during their second encounter at a run down bar that she works at, plagued with mold and various types—too many types—of tequila. She begins her interrogation before he even does his, which is after he orders a scotch on the rocks.

"I'm barely in the systems," she remarks with a frown after she scribbles it down, tapping her pen against her pad of paper. "My connections run pretty deep. Farther than the fuzz can find. Really, impossible for the fuzz to find. So how'd you do it?"

Nick settles deeper in the uncomfortable chairs and studies her. She looks like she'd be cute and demure and classically pretty in another lifetime—and she's certainly pretty—but the rings on her paws and the low cut crimson shirt tied close around a tiny waist is carved more out of dangerous than any of the other traits. Her eyes are equally as purple and damaging as ultraviolet rays.

"Does it matter, at this point?" he asks finally. "You've already been found."

"Trying to fix my mistakes," Judy replies. "So I won't screw up again next time."

"It wasn't easy, you know. Doubtful that anyone else could've caught you."

"So how did you do it?"

"Like you said before—connections. Mine run deeper than yours ever will."

Judy smiles, looking wry.

"You're an enigma, Wilde."

He shrugs. "Life's more fun when you're harder to read."

Judy tilts her head. "You know, orange is looking better and better on you every time we meet."

"Is it really?"

"It's a good look on you, actually."

"So is every look," Nick answers deftly, readjusting the hideous vest.

She laughs, and it sounds like sun-kissed summers and blue skies.

"Let me get your drink, Officer."

As she goes back to pour him his scotch whiskey, Nick glances around the area. The joint looks bleached with age, the walls dark and the windows haven't been cleaned in a while. There aren't many mammals around. He watches Judy hop up to get the liquor bottle off of the shelf and bites back a comment about her height.

"So, Slick Nick, what do you need me for?" Judy resumes, setting the drink down in front of it. He doesn't pick it up immediately. "I haven't got all day, sugar. Duty awaits."

"As does mine," Nick replies with a sharp-toothed grin. "Slick Nick. Haven't heard that in a while. Since third grade, in fact."

"Dusting off an oldie, I suppose."

Nick chokes out a laugh, wiping away a bead of condensation dripping down his glass. "I need your help on a case. High profile. I'm pretty sure you're indirectly affiliated, so I need your help."

She leans across the wooden counter to look him in the eyes. "What's in it for me?" she asks simply.

"Lots of benefits." Nick traces the rim of his glass with a claw. It's greasy. "First, you get to spend time with me, and who wouldn't want that? Second, you get pardoned from the charges when I solve the case. No one will even bat an eye in your direction, and—" he sips his scotch, which burns his next words, "we know that's exactly what you want, Carrots."

Judy raises an eyebrow. "You're going to want to refrain from calling me 'Carrots'."

Nick leans back with an easy smile. He touches his belt for his recorder and smiles when he feels cool metal. "Well, what'll you do about it?"

"You're wasting my time," Judy says, definitely miffed now.

Nick scoffs. "What, is a little questioning taking away from your sea of customers? Pretty sure you rely on my tip for your entire salary, sweetheart."

Judy rolls her eyes. Nick presses record.

"Wilde, this is only a side job. I make two hundred bucks a day, three hundred sixty five days a year. My salary would hardly drop if you decided to be a dick."

Nick frowns. Presses pause on his recorder. "Really? Because according to my research, you've reported…" He takes out her file and dramatically flips through, and gasps, "No salary? Does that mean that you've been committing federal tax evasion?" He takes a sip, shakes his head in disbelief just for fun, and wonders, "Well, this doesn't add up. Whatever will we do?"

He watches the delicate line of Judy's jaw clench with amusement. "How will you prove it to the court?" she asks. "It's my word against yours."

Nick presses play.

"Actually, it's your word against yours," Nick says pleasantly, mockingly, as a pitched and crackling version of Judy's voice voices her salary, "so I don't think court will have a problem with that."

Judy's gaping—very unlike her usual put-together, no-nonsense expression—but he prefers it to the latter.

He also very much prefers the resigned smile that Judy's face stretches into afterward.

"So," he continues, "it's your call, babygirl. Want to help me with me with this case?"

A peal of surprised laughter blooms from Judy's lips and Nick's heartbeat stutters. "Babygirl?" she repeats. "I feel as though the nicknames are shifting from speciest to vaguely kinky."

"Would you still prefer Carrots?"

"Can't argue with that logic," Judy says, and she looks even more like danger when she smiles like that. "Okay, I'll bite. I'm yours for the afternoon, Slick, but no guarantees. I've got a business to run."

"Fantastic," Nick replies, and gestures grandly to the tiny traffic car parked outside. "Ladies first. Welcome to your ride of luxury."