It's been ages since I wrote anything at all, so I apologize for how rusty this might be. Do we still do disclaimers on here? If so, I do not own anything involved with, or attached to, Zootopia.

There's nothing like being on the inside to remind a body what it's like on the outside, is what I think when I first walk into the station of Precinct One. It could be applied to many situations, but in this case, it's just an observation about the air conditioner. It's blessedly cool in here compared to the sweltering heat outside. Come to think of it, though, maybe there's more about this situation it could apply to. The shiny foyer makes me think of money despite the otherwise organic sprawl, and everyone is so much larger than I am. Is this how Judy felt her first day? Did it put her hackles up the way it does mine?

I'm aware that I look like scuzzy in my cheap polyester shirt and the tie I can never pull tight enough without choking myself, but at least it's bright enough to keep 'scuzzy' from turning into 'shifty.' Nobody's looking at me like a criminal, but I'm not sure anyone's really looking at me at all. Just another day, just another fox, and he's not in bracelets, so who cares? So far, I've been careful to remain an anonymous entity, well-liked, easy to relate to, and memorable enough, but never on the radar of someone with a little power who might decide to misuse it. Judy Hopps may not be a good measure of the police service as a whole, being inclined to alternative measures where procedure fails and fiercely committed to doing good rather than doing right; I don't trust these animals.

Not yet, anyway.

I still remember the look on Mom's face when I stood tall and proclaimed, all thirty-nineinches of me filled with pride, that I'd earn all of my Junior Ranger Scout badges and eventually go on and get a real badge, big and gleaming, that allowed me to arrest 'bad guys.' At that age, I only had the most basic understanding of what 'bad guys' meant: probably, my young mind assumed, people who did bad things like steal lunch money and cross the street without looking both ways and make single mothers empty the vacation jar at the beginning of every third or fourth month. The world, I understand now, is more nuanced than that - nuanced enough to add another kind of 'bad guy,' the reason I'm here at all when I know that Judy is out on patrol. I don't need her knowing I've been here until I'm already gone. I get the impression I'll need time to sort through my thoughts before I face her.

"Hi, Nick Wilde," I greet the cheetah at the reception desk. 'Clawhauser.' He's large, for a cheetah, even aside from his flab. Donuts in paw and clad in a slightly-too-large uniform, he has the (shame on you, Wilde) comical look of someone who lost a lot of weight in a short amount of time and is trying to grow back into his clothes. My smile widens. I can feel the tug turning it into a grin some might call sinister, if they didn't understand vulpine discomfort signals. My ears are flat, too, and nothing I try will move them. I don't feel comfortable here. I don't want to be here. Focus, Wilde, and commit to something for once in your life. "I'm here to meet with Chief Bogo about a case."

"I know you," says Clawhauser. He leans forward, balancing precariously on one paw, to get a better look at me. "You're Hopps's fox!"

I can recognize a friendly gesture, even if it's a little tactless. I bet this is the officer who called Judy cute on her first day. I shrug, lowering my eyelids, just to look more relaxed. No use alienating a potential brother in blue...assuming my meeting goes well. "Looks like my reputation precedes me."

Wide-eyed, he gushes, "It sure does. Gosh, I've heard such good things about you! The way Hopps tells it, you were the one who really solved both her big cases!"

I shift on my toes restlessly. This is a waste of time - not to mention uncomfortable - and I hate situations in which I don't know how to respond. It makes me have feelings before I know how to react to them, which for a hustler is not ideal. Supposedly, it isn't ideal for a police officer, either, although it seems to work well enough for both Clawhauser and the Chief. Deciding to take the path of least resistance, I eye the doors behind Clawhauser (a gimmick that usually tricks people into thinking they need to hurry, because I'm splitting my attention between them and whatever's beyond) and say, "You can't prove anything if the only evidence is hearsay. Listen, is the Chief in? We were supposed to chat today, but if he has other matters to attend to..."

"Oh. You're not on the calendar," he says, looking confusedly at whatever's in front of him. I can't see the podium, but I assume it's either a calendar or a tablet or a phone.

"Figures. You know, that's just typical. Who cares about the fox, he'll keep for later," I mutter with a frown, not quietly enough that he won't be able to hear me. That's the point. Guilt works in mysterious ways, and maybe it's dirty of me to play that card, but no one ever got anywhere playing nice. The whole Night Howler affair was solved because one rogue officer had the guts to play dirty while the rest of them stuck to procedure and played crowd control. In a louder and more pleasant tone of voice, I tell him, "I guess he forgot. I'm sorry to waste your time, Sir. I'll...I'll come back later. Maybe see if Hopps will put in another good word for me."

And, three...two...

I can see when his resolve breaks. People like Clawhauser aren't hard to manipulate, because they're genuine. He grimaces and waves his paw at a big second-floor office whose door, made of frosted glass, isn't legible from here. "I'm sorry, the Chief gets so busy that sometimes he forgets to notate his in-person stuff. Go on up, I'm sure he's wondering why I kept you so long."

Well, if that's not your standard corporate doublespeak for 'covering my boss's lazy tail,' I'll give up coffee for a month. I smile, toss a wave and a thanks over my shoulder, and slink up the stairs, avoiding the big careless feet of officers too busy to look where they're going. When I reach the frosted door, I pause, take a deep breath, and jump to get the doorknob. How undignified. I'm not uncoordinated, nor am I out of shape, but I'm not exactly athletic, either; that will probably change, but at this moment I'm only glad I didn't stumble. I'm nervous, I'll admit it. There's a big mass of anxiety in my chest, multiplying rapidly like a tumor...

Chief Bogo looks as displeased with me now as he was back in the Rainforest District, which is the last time I actually spoke with him. I managed to sneak into the ambulance when it took Judy away and slip out of the hospital before anyone came to take her statement, and I gave mine directly to Officer Grizzoli because they thought 'a fellow predator' would make me more willing to be honest, but the last time we actually exchanged words was right after he publicly shamed Judy, and he looked at me then like he's looking at me now: angrily, and with mild disgust. I didn't expect him to change. I do expect him to listen.

"Who let you up?" he asks. Fair question. I was never on his schedule.

I shut the door behind myself and ignore him until I've successfully parked myself on the seat across from him. He has his hoof on the call button and is in the middle of saying Clawhauser's name when I say nonchalantly, "I'm here about Judy Hopps. I'm sure you don't care about her, or me, but the public does, and I have plenty of contacts who would love to know how Chief Bogo treats key witnesses. Now, maybe I'm wrong, but that Gazelle app you so hastily shut off tells me you probably have time for a teensy-weensy little chat."

He hangs up the phone. He is not happy. I know this both intuitively and because his glare is a sight to behold, but I don't flinch. I don't think I've cared about anything as much as I care about this, at least since I was old enough to tell the difference between 'care' and 'want.' This has to be done, and again, if I have to fight dirty...it's not like I haven't fought dirty before. Heck, more than one of my permits is forged, and I sold a skunk-butt rug to a mafia don. My judgment, not to mention my sense of right and wrong, isn't totally on point.

He sighs heavily, but his glare does not diminish. "What do you want."

Not a question. He doesn't want to know. I don't actually care what he wants. "Hopps asked me to be her partner. To do that, I have to spend several months in training, putting my body and mind through unpleasant experiences, and then sign my life away to the government. I don't tell people this, but I used to want to be a cop, before life happened and little nine-year-old Nick thought he got wise. I'm telling you because I want you to understand where I'm coming from."

"Get to the point, or I'll throw you out," he threatens.

I nod diagonally at him, not conceding, but allowing him to infer that if he wants. "I want to know if the work is worth it, Chief. I want to know that I won't regret it. I want you to look me in the eyes, right here and now, and tell me that in nine months or whatever, I won't be standing in the Rainforest District watching my Chief and my brothers walk away, mocking me because of my species. I want you to tell me that you're done tormenting Hopps, and that I won't be her replacement. If you won't assure me of that, or if you're lying, I'll walk out of here for good - and that's not a threat to you, but I think we both know Hopps would probably follow me."

My heart's pounding so loudly I'm sure the whole station can hear it. Maybe the whole city. I can't count the beats, but I can count my breaths as I watch his face turn darker and darker and finally...light. But not, I suspect, the kind he appreciates as much as I do.

It's not a lie, and I think he knows that. Beyond the fact that Judy trusts me and trusts my judgment (which, after this, we may need to revisit), she's no longer blind to the way things work here. Bunnyburrow is a rabbit town, but Zootopia isn't. That matters. I can go out to Sherwood, one of the fox towns in this part of the country, and be welcomed as one of them immediately, simply because I'm a fox. I was lucky enough to grow up cognizant of the speciesism that plagues the first country to successfully cohabit, but she only grew up with the theory that didn't hold true in her own isolated life. She sure got a face full of it the minute she stepped foot in this station, and it didn't stop until she saved the day. That part matters, too. If I decide not to become an officer, she'll ask me why, she'll ask me if it was something she did or didn't do, she'll fret and blame herself and I'll tell her the truth. She'll have to decide between her job and her dignity, and I'm confident she'll choose the latter. It's never been her dream to be a cop. It's always been her dream to make the world a better place. She - we - can do that without badges or uniforms or bigoted, micromanaging superior officers.

A large part of me still wants to be a cop; I never thought my childhood dreams would come true, and now, they can. But if I'm going to change my life around completely, then I need to do it with the integrity I always pretend I don't have. If that means passing up this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, so be it.

The wall clock ticks, at odds with the pounding of my heart, and I look at it. This office looks exactly like I thought it would: tidy, sparse, utilitarian. Everything in its right place. Even liking Gazelle enough to have her app on his phone makes a funny kind of sense. Her music is catchy, she's gorgeous, and although she's a big name in activism, she's no real threat to the status quo. No amount of charity concerts and candlelit vigils are going to change minds that aren't open to being changed. I hope that his is, but hope only makes sense when you haven't already been let down.

Please, don't let me down, I think anyway. Silly. Stupid. The only reason I have to pretend to be so hard in the first place is that I'm soft. I always have been. That's the reason I live in a crummy apartment way out in the low-income housing projects instead of doing the reasonable thing and going home to Mom: I was always afraid that if I let her back in, I'd have to let everything else in too, and I might not ever stop screaming. Okay, crying. What's the difference? A few decibels and a facial expression no one will ever see anyway.

I have to learn that self-control and self-denial aren't the same thing. Thank goodness I have someone in my life who won't let me get away with hiding.

Chief Bogo nods once at me and says, "I wasn't on my best behavior that night. I was taking in more cases than we could manage, I had City Hall up my tail about too many things at once including what I could only see as affirmative action taken too far, and the tales you two were telling were unbelievable. I said some things I shouldn't have."

"You implied that Hopps made it all up because Manchas was a predator and she's small prey!"

"And I was wrong about her making it up, but was I wrong about the rest?"

I can feel my face twitch. I want to woo him, to stay polite and make him think highly of me, but how can I, when he says things like that? I know the truth now. It took longer than it should have, largely because I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to think things through, but I do know. "Yeah, you were, and because of that, you blew it. You blew it so hard that she had to turn to me, a shifty lowlife with no power, because I was the only one in the city she knew she could trust. I get it; you're not used to being challenged, and Judy Hopps has no time for anyone's opinion on what she's capable of. Can I take this to mean you still think of her as nothing more than a pawn in someone else's politics? Because if that's the case, we're done here."

"I didn't say that," he says, sounding as irritated as I feel. "What's your stake in this, Wilde?"

"So you do know my name."

"Don't play games, fox. Why is this so important to you? You left her to rot when she was almost too depressed to function, so forgive me if I don't believe this is loyalty. Why is what I think about her the answer to whether you become an officer?"

"Well," I say dryly, raising one eyebrow instead of doing what I want to do and spitting in his face (because how dare he just casually state anything about anyone's mental health), "the easy answer is that the way you treat the officer you like the least is a measure of the way you'll treat anyone you dislike, and in any other case that would be the right answer. I'm not stupid enough to think you're ever going to like me. But between you and me, it's more complicated than just that. If I'm going to make a late-stage career shift, I want to make sure I'm serving under someone who understands the meaning of the word 'integrity.' None of this macho-posturing, I-feared-for-my-life-ing, dashcam-editing nonsense. If you'll throw your own officers under the bus because they're not the right species, what will you order me to do to someone on the other side of the blue line?"

There: I've said it. My biggest fear. It's not disappointing Judy. I know that's going to happen, because it happens in all relationships sooner or later. It's not flunking out of the police academy. I know that's not going to happen, because I'm really good at doing what it takes to get what I want. It's having to look some vixen in the eye and tell her I'm sorry, her teenage son isn't coming home because some trigger-happy officer 'feared for his life,' and nobody's going to face consequences because my own Chief figures her son was probably to blame anyway. I don't think I could take that. I hope Judy never has to.

"Those are good questions," he says gruffly. I don't want to be wrong about the respect in his face, so until he proves it, I'll assume it doesn't exist. "They're the kind of questions a good officer should ask, and they aren't asked enough. I don't know how to prove to you that we are what Hopps says we are, and I don't have the kind of time it would take to try. Take that or leave it, Wilde, but whatever you do with it, do it somewhere else. I have a meeting with the new mayor in fifteen minutes."

I didn't expect anything more, but I did expect less. Chief Bogo is condescending, irritable, and prejudiced. I get it. He's part of the old guard, the ones who hide behind their privilege and believe that things could be worse, so nobody should complain about how they are right now. That might not change very much, but at least he's aware of the problem. And - I have to admit, now that I'm taking responsibility for my life - I used to be part of the old guard too, until I met Judy. Not in the same way that he is, but I didn't believe anyone should bother trying to change things. I thought I'd just be stuck, forever, as that shifty fox, never Nick Wilde. I even created roadblocks that would prove me right: hustling for a living, then getting angry with people who only saw me as a no-good hustler. Profiling is a problem and it needs to be stopped, but I shouldn't have expected anyone to trust me, because I've been a conman since I was twelve.

"Thank you, Chief," I say, exiting the office quickly. I don't want to hear his response, if he has one. He'll probably always grate on me...

"That's him," says an elephant to a tigress, as though I can't hear. Maybe they don't think I can, or maybe they just don't care. I can feel their eyes on me, which I hate, but I don't pull my usual charm 'n sweep routine. There's no point, if I'm turning over a new leaf. As I move on toward the bottom of the stairs, I hear the elephant finish, "He's the fox who almost killed Hopps."

"She would have deserved it," the tigress says sourly.

"Fangmeyer!"

"What? I'm just saying, what kind of idiot trusts their natural predator when that predator is a fox? Bunnies are dumb. You'll see, one day her body will turn up and he'll be long gone. So don't get too attached."

...But clearly I'm needed as backup. These are the people Judy works with. They're the people I'm going to work with. I make the deliberate, malicious decision to make this Fangmeyer's life as obnoxious as possible, if I have to call in some favors to do it. After all, they'll be useless to me once I begin my training. What's a little mischief among friends?

§ § §

Judy's place is worse than mine. It's small, austere, the kind of room I imagined when I read Jane Mare, not the kind of room I imagined a police officer voluntarily living in. Apparently, this is nicer than the one she was leasing when she met me for the first time. Her old one, she's told me, didn't even have a bathroom, but the 'kind old landlady' offered her an upgrade for only thirty bucks more in rent. I'm not sure I have the heart to tell her she's being scammed. In pricier areas like the Savanna and downtown Tundratown, shared bathrooms in exchange for lower rent aren't unusual, but this is technically the Forest District; here, an apartment with no bathroom is a code violation. It's more likely that the 'kind old landlady' realized what Judy does for a living and wants to stay in good favor with the resident cop.

Helping Judy unpack was...underwhelming. She has maybe five items and a few changes of clothing, all of which fit in one single carry-on bag. No wonder she told me she didn't need my help. As I sit in the one rickety chair, looking at the family photos full of kids wearing hand-me-downs in front of a massive vegetable field, I wonder how I ever thought she came from money. Maybe it's just the way she refuses to back down. There are two kinds of people most likely to refuse the limitations of society: spoiled rich people who've never been told 'no,' and motivated poor people who've always been told 'no.' After hearing the whole sordid story, I'm more inclined to put her with the latter, even though she swears she was never very unhappy.

(I wasn't either, as a kid, until I got a look at what I didn't have.)

"I heard from Clawhauser that you had an appointment with the Chief today," she says casually, setting our pizza on the table in front of me once she's done dealing with the delivery guy at the door. She opens the box and puts two slices on a paper plate, then pushes the box toward me. It's hard to decide what's more worthy of my attention: the pizza, or the way she bounces onto her bed without anything slipping off her plate. Well, if the police thing doesn't work out, she's always got the circus as an option.

I did consider teasing Judy about my meeting, but I won't - not after everything that happened. So when she pins me with those big eyes, I just say, "Yes, I did visit the station while you were on patrol. I was just getting clear with Chief Bogo before I commit."

She looks better out of her uniform. It's not that her uniform looks bad on her, but we did our best work when she was dressed like she was selling carrots at a roadside somewhere. Besides, she looks happier when she doesn't have to act like she cares about upholding the law when what she really wants to do is 'serve and protect,' like it says on her badge. Maybe someday I'll tease her about that, tell her the Courts have found that police aren't required to serve or protect, but not today. Not tomorrow, either. I think we both need time to heal after what happened. If I tell her that now, she'll probably take it as a condemnation. I don't want to be that fox anymore. If Judy, someone I deliberately hurt and tore down, thinks I can do better, then I'm sure I can.

Her excitement warms my heart, not that that's unusual. "So you've decided to be my partner after all?"

"Yeah." I look carefully at the pizza so I don't have to see her smile. It's always like a punch in the stomach. There's something between us that neither of us want to define until after we've made sure our friendship isn't just trauma bonding, but it's so hard to stay casual when she looks at me like she really does believe in me. It makes me want to pour my heart out to her, show her how intolerably squishy I really am, and we're both lucky she's the type to miss the trees for the forest, or she'd be able to read it right off my face. "He and I don't see eye to everything, but it's probably workable. I don't think either of us will hold a grudge."

I take a bite just to occupy my mouth before I can tell her what the elephant and the tigress said. There are still raw edges here, on both sides.

"What he said about you was wrong," she agrees.

"That's not really what I was worried about, but thanks for saying so," I tease.

This time, she smiles while she's chewing, and I don't know how I can find it charming when on anyone else, I'd think it was disgusting. Thankfully, she swallows before saying sweetly, "Aw, you were worried about me! Nick, you know I'll be fine."

"Yeah, I do. And so will I. I just needed to be sure, and now I am."

She shifts back and forth. She's probably weighing the pros and cons of jumping up and hugging me, so I make the decision before it drives her nuts. She doesn't have to be so delicate with my feelings. They're mine. If that's the kind of impression I'm giving her, I'm doing friendship wrong. I set aside my pizza, stand up, and take a seat next to her before opening my arms and saying, "After today, I need a hug from someone who won't give me a hard time about it."

She leans in after carefully setting her plate down beside her. She pauses. Her eyes, somehow, become even bigger, her little nose wiggling, and this rush of happy associations just isn't fair. "How about a medium time?"

"Oh my God, please stop," I mutter, pulling her into my chest and pretending that wasn't one of the sweetest things anyone's said to me.

The brutally honest truth is that I've always wanted to be loved more than anything else. When I was a kid, I was so desperate for it that I begged my bullies to tell me what I did wrong. When I was a teenager, I was so desperate for it that I started hustling just to see my mom smile when she looked in the vacation jar and saw that there was still money in it. In my early twenties, I was so desperate for it that I sought acceptance from a crime family, but I didn't fit in with Mr. Big's men, either, because I've never had the stomach to do real crime. Judy was able to hurt me so easily because I put my heart in her paws and expected her to reciprocate just because she seemed to like the Nick Wilde behind the public charade. I know now that she loves me. It's not just the words she says: it's the way she's made an effort to learn my language, the way she holds onto me like I might disappear if she lets go.

"If I were the teasing kind of bunny," she says into my shoulder, clutching me so tightly I can feel her lips move even through the thick pad of fur beneath my shirt, "I would probably say something like 'Oh, you foxes, so emotional.'"

"If I were the tender kind of fox," I reply, very much aware of the side of my mouth moving against the side of her ear, "I would take that as a compliment."

She pulls back a little, not enough to let go, but enough to look me in the eye and say slyly, "But I'd never flip anyone's words around on them, and you have a heart of stone."

"Absolutely. One hundred percent. You're the emotional one. I'm the one with all the good jokes."

Looking at her looking at me like this was all worth it, I know I've made the right decision. I'm not throwing away whatever future I might have had on a whim. I know what to expect, I know how hard it's going to be, and I'm doing it anyway. I'm making this change because we both deserve better; she deserves someone she can rely on to have her back as much as stand by her side, and I deserve a chance to be who I've always wanted to be.

Nicholas P. Wilde: honest, brave, loyal, and trustworthy, someone who deserves respect, someone who is loved.