Chapter Text
Nick lay sprawled across his bed, eyes drifting aimlessly toward the ceiling. The dim light from the cluster of small pendant lamps cast a faint glow over the dark blue sheets, and his uniform lay crumpled at the foot of the bed.
In stark contrast to the lazy look settled in his green eyes, the gears in his head were running at full speed.
It had been a week since the day Judy tore off a strip of her shirt to bandage his wound during the chase after that weasel who'd robbed a jewelry store. Since then, she'd been showing up to work in the same uniform, everyday.
Nobody would notice. Judy had always been the model officer of the ZPD. Nobody would think twice about the fact that her shirt had been torn clean through, or that she'd spent the rest of that day walking around with her waist exposed for the whole world to see. "It was an accident. She won't dress like that again," they'd figure, and move on.
Nobody would remember that first-year officers only got two sets of uniforms issued to them — and that she'd been wearing that same one every single day since the incident.
At first, Nick had figured she'd probably rotate between her duty uniform and her dress uniform until the ZPD's tailor finished making her a new one. But every morning, she'd show up in that navy blue protective vest over the same light blue shirt.
That faint, clean scent of morning sun clung to her and brushed past him whenever she touched him. The smell of fresh laundry. The kind of thing that nagged quietly at the back of his mind, well beneath his unbothered expression.
"It's just a shirt. I can wait until the next uniform cycle. Ordering an extra one costs extra money. No point wasting it," — that had been her answer when he'd casually needled her about where exactly she'd conjured up a spare scrap of fabric to patch the tear. "And the dress uniform is for formal occasions only."
Nick clicked his tongue, barely suppressing a smile. Only Judy would have a dress code for her own closet. He himself only needed something that covered him and didn't break any laws.
His phone rang, cutting through the quiet. Nick reached for the nightstand out of habit and picked up. "Hello?"
"Found what you needed, you idiot. Want me to bring it over?" The familiar gravelly voice came through on the other end.
"Yeah, come on over. I’m waiting."
The familiar red van pulled up outside the basement apartment, exhaling a long, satisfied breath after the endless drive over.
"Here's your stuff. Fabric, thread, needles. One beat-up old sewing machine." The fennec fox shot the red fox a deeply skeptical look. "You sure you can actually sew? I've never seen you sew a thing."
"That's because I never felt like it," Nick replied, eyeing the spread of materials in front of him with a critical once-over.
"And now you feel like it? That fuzz flipped some switches in you?" Finnick tossed out the jab and cracked up, clearly pleased with himself.
"She's not that fuzz. She's Judy." Nick's voice was flat and even. Finnick could catch the edge tucked underneath it, sharp as a blade.
"Whatever," The fennec shrugged. "Why not just order her a new one? Why go through all this hassle?"
"If Judy finds out I ordered it for her, she'll give me an earful for a month straight."
"And how exactly is that different from making me drive a hundred miles to haggle with some black market guys for fabric that only the ZPD uses?"
"I'll tell Judy I know someone who had leftover material and I hired someone to make it."
"Right. And that someone happens to be a cranky old hippo who you know through a certain familiar old fox." Finnick snorted.
"Whatever. How much?"
"Two-fifty."
"Excuse me?" Nick blinked. "That's a quarter of my rent. I'm not running cons for a living anymore, you know!"
"You want to spoil your girl, you pay up, kid."
"Ugh." Nick let his shoulders drop. Same old Finnick — always finding a way to squeeze out as much as possible. The sigh that followed wasn't really out of annoyance, though.
"Fine. You get what you pay for." He pulled out his worn brown leather wallet, a little frayed at the edges, and counted out five crisp fifty-dollar bills into Finnick's waiting hand.
"Now we're talking," Finnick grinned, lifting the bills to his nose and breathing in deep. "Money on the table means you get what you want."
"Don't tell Judy I saw you for this."
"Five more."
The red fox tilted his head back toward the ceiling in pure helpless resignation.
"Fine. Nothing in this life comes free."
Only after the van's sputtering exhaust had truly dissolved into the noise of the city did Nick turn his full attention to everything laid out in front of him.
The slightly rusted sewing machine had been set up beside the work desk. A handful of tailor's chalk and spools of thread in every color sat in a plastic box right on the table. Several bolts of fabric rested quietly beside the foot pedal.
He still couldn't quite believe he'd decided to sew Judy a new shirt himself, instead of just having one made like Finnick had suggested.
Money wasn't the issue. The issue was whether he actually could. What he'd told Finnick — that he'd never felt like sewing — was only half true.
The other half was that he wasn't sure he still had the nerve to face those warm, old days again.
Before his eyes, the old familiar house slowly appeared — full of sunlight and the faint scent of nameless climbing vines that drooped lazily over the windowsill.
Beside that window sat a small wooden table. On it, a thick notebook stuffed with pattern drafts — shirts, trousers, dresses.
Measurements scrawled in a tangle of red and blue ink. Arrows and circled notes scattered across every page.
Some patterns had a client's name and pickup date written in the corner. Most didn't.
Nick moved slowly toward his work desk. He'd already wired up a red lamp to give himself extra light for the job. He picked up the measuring tape, slipped off the rubber band, and smoothed it flat. The smell of fresh plastic hit him. And with it, came a memory: the clear, bright voice of a small fox, long ago.
"Mom! You just took my measurements a few months ago! Why again?!" The little fox squirmed as his mother worked with practiced ease — shoulders, shirt length, sleeves, chest, hips.
"Kids grow fast. Those clothes I just finished for you are almost too small already," his mother's voice was warm, not a trace of irritation at the oblivious question.
"They still fit fine! You worry too much," the little fox pouted. Then moments later, he happily wandered over to poke through his mother's sewing kit on the table.
He swiftly swapped out a nearly-spent spool for a fat new one, threaded the needle with small, sure hands, tugged the thread snug so it wouldn't slip, then dragged a plastic stool over and sat down. Chin resting on both palms, he swung his legs to some unheard beat, watching the most beautiful woman in his world write down what she'd just measured.
"Alright, tomorrow I'll make you something new for going out. But first I need to finish your father's shirt."
The little fox nodded eagerly as his mother settled in at the sewing machine. "Why don't you just buy one for him? It'd be faster."
Her slightly calloused hands lowered the presser foot onto the two neat layers of fabric on the table, then reached up to gently brush the tip of the little fox's ear.
"When you love someone, you'll always want to give them the very best with your own hands." Her smile was gentle, but the happiness behind it was boundless, as if every beautiful thing in the world had gathered itself into that one expression.
"Not because you don't want Dad wearing something someone else made?" the little fox asked, sly as ever.
"Haha, oh my little Nicky. Who taught you that?" She laughed, and reached over to ruffle his head, clearly delighted.
Her feet fell into a steady rhythm on the pedal, the flywheel spinning its quiet, even hum.
Pale golden light fell across her hands as she slowly guided the fabric through the presser foot, laying down neat, firm stitches.
Now and then she'd turn the fabric very slowly, coaxing it around curves, making sure the seams didn't pucker or shift.
Her eyes held the whole sky in them , and yet poured every bit of that sky into the small, quiet work in front of her.
The little fox sat still beside her, his gaze drifting from his mother's face, to the spinning flywheel, to the needle rising and falling in its tireless rhythm.
The front door gave its familiar soft creak as it swung inward. A broad silhouette swallowed up a corner of the afternoon light.
"You're home!" His mother turned, her whole face opening up to welcome her husband back from his trip.
"The two of you sewing for me again?" A deep, warm voice came. Green eyes resting on his wife and son with quiet tenderness.
He hadn't even set his bag down before a small burst of red-orange launched straight at him. "Dad's home!!" The little fox threw his arms around his father, his voice filling every room.
"There's my Nicholas!" Large hands swept him up off the ground. "Still burning bright?"
"Burning like a legendary fox!" the little fox crowed, arms locked around his father's neck.
"Just like his Dad, never runs out of energy," his mother said lightly, stepping over, one arm cradling the freshly finished shirt, the other coming to rest around her husband's waist.
"Without you, this boy and I wouldn't have half the energy we do," the man said, pressing a gentle kiss to his wife's forehead. "Now, let's see what Mom made for me today"
Once the little fox had slid back down to the floor, his mother leaned up and kissed her husband's cheek. "No rush. Rest first. It was a long trip."
"I'm fine. I want to try it on now. Can't wait," he said, and took the shirt from her carefully, holding it the way you'd hold something precious.
The late afternoon light fell across his broad, weathered frame, warm against her slight and gentle shape beside him. The fading amber glow caught in both pairs of eyes, full and soft with feeling.
"Mom, Dad, you can try things on in the bedroom."
The clear little voice cut through the reunion. Both of them laughed, looking at the innocent, guileless cause of all their joy.
"Alright, alright," his father chuckled, scooping the boy up. "Nick, come help Dad try on the new shirt. Which part did you make?"
"Oh! You have to believe me, Dad! This was the first time Mom let me cut the fabric…"
After the two of them disappeared into the study to change, his mother turned quietly toward the kitchen.
The sizzling of the stove carried a different sound that evening, something bright and glad.
Behind the solid ironwood door, the suit jacket that smelled of long negotiations was hung on its hook. Before Nick stood his father's sturdy frame. Practiced hands worked open the shiny plastic buttons of his dress shirt one by one, slowly revealing the slightly coarser fur beneath.
"Dad, if Mom bought you a shirt from a store, would you wear it?"
"Why do you ask?" The quick hands paused. His father's eyes settled on him, genuinely curious.
"I mean, Mom always wants to sew your clothes herself. Some nights she stays up really late. But I think, if Mom bought you something exactly like it from a shop, that wouldn't mean she loved you any less, right?"
A beat of quiet. His father seemed to understand what the little fox was really getting at. He sat down on the edge of the desk and drew the boy close.
"Nick, when you cut the fabric for this shirt, how did you feel?"
"Really good!" He answered immediately. "Like I was about to make something completely one-of-a-kind in the whole world. And Dad would be the only one who had it."
"But…" the little fox's voice dropped a little, "I cut it pretty badly. Mom had to fix it a few times. I was scared the shirt wouldn't look good. Something from a store would've been nicer."
His father laughed softly and ruffled his head. "Your mother feels the same way, you know."
Nick blinked.
"Here, look," his father said, turning the shirt gently inside out and running a finger slowly along the seam. "This stitch — there's only one like it in the world. It's not perfectly flat like something off a factory line."
Nick looked closely where his father pointed. "There are a few wobbly spots… but overall it's still beautiful!"
"You see? Even you can still spot the little flaws in your mother's stitching. But you still think it's beautiful, don't you?"
Nick nodded, fast and certain.
"What matters isn't the perfection of the stitch or the cut. What matters is the love you put into making it."
The little fox sat very still, something slowly turning over in his mind.
His father stood and shrugged the shirt on. The fabric settled against him, folding gently to each line of his body, soft as his wife's warmth. He did up the buttons steadily, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than usual on the thick-stitched buttonholes.
"And I find this shirt beautiful in exactly the way you just described the stitching. A few wobbly spots here and there. The cut a little unsteady in places. But overall, it’s beautiful."
Something broke open in the little fox's chest — quietly, like a light coming on. As if he'd just been let in on something sacred.
"Nick, this'll be our little secret."
"What secret?" the little fox asked.
"The secret is that your father is a completely hopeless romantic — and everything from the people he loves is beautiful to him." His father smiled, easy and warm, and winked.
Nick understood immediately. He launched himself at his father.
"Then I'm a hopeless romantic too. I love you even when you mess up my fur. I love Mom even when she makes that absolutely lethal celery soup."
His father burst out laughing — a real laugh from the chest. "Good grief. Two hopeless romantics under one roof."
Nick laughed right along with him.
The study door swung open. The husband stepped out in his new shirt, every crease pressed smooth and neat. "You know, you just keep getting better."
"Does it feel alright? Are the seams digging in anywhere? I tried to keep the curves even," his wife looked up from the stove, and when she saw him walking toward her, turned fully to face him. He smoothed the placket's edge with one finger, tracing where the thread caught the light.
"I love it. You've never made anything badly."
"Don't flatter me. I know I'll never sew as well as you," his wife gave him a look that could've cut glass, but the corners of her mouth refused to stay still.
"I'm not flattering you. I'm stating facts. You can't hold yourself to the standard of a sewing genius."
And with that, he put his arm around her waist.
"But even a genius like that," he murmured close to her ear, "has never once managed to make something decent for you."
"Don't say that," his wife turned to him, lifting his face gently in her hands, a quiet worry rising in her eyes. "I've never thought that. You're talented. That talent deserves to go further. You're already doing so well. So many people know you and the shop. I'm proud of you."
Her husband smiled, and raised one hand to trace the familiar, beloved lines of her face. He pressed a soft kiss to each of those blue eyes he knew so well — the ones that hid, behind them, so much quiet waiting. "Thank you."
His wife melted gently into the kiss. She pressed her ear to his chest and listened to his heartbeat — strong and steady and at peace.
"Now. Time for the interrogation. Nick told me you were up late sewing." His voice shifted from tender to mock-serious in an instant, though the warmth underneath it was impossible to miss.
"That boy." His wife laughed. "He's been sneaking out at night to check on me, hasn't he?"
"He's taking his self-appointed protective duties very seriously. I'm thinking of officially granting him the authority to drag you to bed if you keep this up."
"Alright, alright, I won't stay up late anymore. But I really did want to finish your shirt as soon as I could," she said, her voice taking on just the faintest edge of a pout, her head still resting against his chest.
"And I don't want you wearing yourself out like that," he said, hands already moving to her shoulders, turning her so her back rested against him. His thumbs found the pressure points at the tops of her shoulders and began to work in slow, steady circles, smoothing the tiredness out of her tightly-held muscles.
"Nick worries about you, you know. I'd wager it wasn't just one night — probably many nights — for him to guard you like that."
"He's such a perceptive child…"
"More than that, he loves you so much. And so do I."
"…"
The sound of the soup pot's gentle boiling drifted off into the background as the couple quietly tended to the love that had outlasted every hardship life had sent their way.
The white porcelain bowls and gleaming cutlery already laid out on the table bore quiet witness to a husband and wife warming a home that had, more than once, held the shape of his absence.
Nick rested his chin on his hand and watched his parents, entirely unbothered, making up for days lost to distance. He was used to these moments by now. He knew better than to break them.
His small tail swayed gently, keeping time with the pendulum clock's steady back-and-forth. Honestly, he kind of liked watching them.
Nick didn't notice he was smiling until his pencil had already sketched out a rough design for the shirt on paper. A crooked smile while something in his chest pulled tight.
As he grew older, the days his father came home grew fewer and further between. He'd asked his mother where his father had gone, why he was home so rarely. Each time, she'd just gently pat his head and tell him to give his father a little more time, he'd be back soon.
But one day, his father didn't come back.
The clothing patterns for his father were still pinned thick throughout the notebook. The measurements still calculated and carefully recorded.
The sewing machine pedal still moved steadily, stitching thread through fabric into finished garments. Only the person they were made for had no known return date.
His question still had no answer.
Even on the day he walked out of that house for the last time, the ache sat unresolved in his chest — when would he come back?
His mother was a strong woman. She never once shed a tear when she was alone in the empty house. But Nick had seen her, more than a few times, sitting in the sofa where the two of them used to sit together. Her hand moved without thinking to the cushion where her husband used to rest his back, her eyes carried depths she tried hard to hide but never quite succeeded in hiding from her son.
There had been times when Nick resented his father for it — for leaving without a proper goodbye, for leaving the two of them behind. But every time he'd let that resentment show at the dinner table, with only two place settings instead of three, his mother would scold him sternly: he was wrong about his father, and he was not allowed to think that way.
But if not that, then what.
The tangle of feeling he'd long since tucked away now rattled loose again, rolling back against some corner of his mind and leaving him unsettled.
The worse thing he'd come to realize was that he was doing exactly the same thing.
He had grown up in his mother's arms. And he had chosen to drift away from her, bit by bit, in the name of what he'd told himself was "freeing her from a burden." The day he picked up his bag and walked out, she said she'd wait for him. He knew she'd watched his back until it disappeared completely from her sight.
He hadn't gone back once since.
Did she still make that sharp, pungent celery soup?
Did she still sew clothes for him, even with measurements that had long since stopped being right?
Did she still pin those pattern drafts for his father into that worn, dog-eared notebook?
Did the climbing vines on the windowsill still trail their shadows across the afternoon glare?
A soft thud. Nick startled. A teardrop had fallen onto the sketch, blooming wet into one corner. He quickly swiped at his eyes, smudged the wet spot on the paper with the back of his finger, and breathed in slow and deep.
"Since when did you catch her sentimentality, Wilde?" He let out a small laugh. Nobody stays quite themselves when they're in love. But maybe it was only now, when he truly knew what love felt like, that he finally understood what his mother had meant.
"When you love someone, you'll always want to give them the very best with your own hands."
But what about the other direction? He couldn't stop himself from imagining Judy bursting out laughing the moment she saw the shirt — all its clumsy, uneven stitching on full display. Or worse, turning it down. Not wearing it at all. Judy was the model officer, the perfect rabbit. She'd have every reason to.
The thought had barely taken shape at the edge of his mind before Nick already wanted to sink straight through the floor and take the shame rising in his throat with him.
He shook the hesitation out of his head. What he actually cared about was making sure Judy had another shirt, so she wouldn't have to struggle through shifts with one battered uniform.
Besides, he'd come this far. There was no going back. He didn't want to go back.
He ran the measuring tape over himself. Shoulder width. Sleeve length. Height. Then sat down and wrote everything out carefully on paper.
Something almost like his mother’s warmth just beside him, guided him quietly through the arithmetic of sizing.
Judy was half his height. Even with her ears straight up, she barely reached his shoulder. Her torso wasn't nearly as long as his. Her head was about half the size of his. Her small shoulders, no wider than one of his handspans, had a faint roundness to the peaks, though her back was broad for her frame, as it would be for the first rabbit officer of the ZPD, the best officer in the ZPD. Nick thought this with a steady pride in his chest. A back that was strong enough to carry the whole world, but the only place it could quietly give way was beside him, when no one else was watching.
Once he'd worked out all the measurements, Nick unrolled the bolt of sky-blue fabric in front of him. The tailor's chalk moved light and easy across the cloth, tracing the outlines of each piece.
Done. He picked up the wide-bladed fabric scissors from the table. He was just about to make the first cut when there was a knock at the door.
Who's calling at this hour? I didn't order pizza tonight. He padded toward the door, turning it over in his head. "Come in!"
The lock turned in the cylinder, made exactly one full revolution, and then some force of nature shoved the door clean inward, nearly taking his nose off with it.
"Niiiiickkkk!! I called but you didn't pick up! Mom and Dad just sent a box of vegetables! There's blueberries in there for you too!! I brought them over!!"
Judy bounced into his apartment with the full, unguarded energy of someone who had no idea she'd nearly committed an act of violence against her partner's face, landing right in the middle of the mess that was his living room. Her eyes lit up the moment she caught sight of the new addition beside his work desk. "Nick, did you just get a sewing machine?!"
"Uh—"
"I didn't know you could sew! Oh, so much fabric! And it's really nice fabric!" Judy was already off, not giving him a second to finish, setting the basket of blueberries down on the table and making straight for the bolt he'd just pulled out. "It's so soft! Exactly like ZPD uniform fabric! Are you making something for me?"
Her voice was teasing, but her amethyst eyes had already slid sideways to the sketch he'd left beside the cloth. "Let me see what you're making. Shirt length… shoulder width… sleeve length…"
Her voice got quieter with each measurement, and finally, as if she couldn't quite trust what she was reading, "Nick, are you really making this for me?"
Nick was still standing frozen in the doorway, one hand pressed between his brows.
"Carrots, could you please stop greeting me by blowing the door open with the same force you use to take down hippo suspects? It's not that heavy."
"Nick, don't change the subject," Judy said, all seriousness now. "You're making this for me, aren't you?"
"If someone else fits those measurements, let me know."
Nick said it with a perfectly flat face, then dropped himself onto the living room sofa, arms crossed. The basket of blueberries sat in his line of sight, ripe and inviting. But right now it might as well have been a pile of rubble from the elaborate plan that had just collapsed in a single door swing.
Sensing the tension thickening in the room, Judy walked back to the front door and closed it quietly. She set his key on the little dish on the cabinet nearby, then came over and settled beside him. The red fox kept his expression firmly unimpressed as a small grey hand came to rest gently on his thigh.
"Nick, I'm sorry. I promise I'll open doors more carefully next time. And the shirt…"
A beat of quiet.
"Thank you."
Nick turned slowly. His green eyes found her small face — open, full of a happiness that reminded him of the way his father had looked when he took a new shirt from his mother's hands.
"I didn't know you could sew. But I'm really glad you're making me another one."
"I just didn't want you keeping that torn shirt at home. Wilde's partner might not walk around in luxury, but she can't have a ripped shirt sitting in her closet either."
Judy laughed — bright, unguarded, completely genuine. The sound of it poured into his reddening ears and cooled the heat still burning in his chest.
She climbed up onto the sofa beside him, the sketch still in her hands. "These measurements are almost exactly right. It's a little bit of a waste you didn't go into tailoring."
"Should I quit the force, then?"
"Noooo," Judy drew the word out, "I want you as my personal tailor!"
Every last trace of sulking in the red fox dissolved. He couldn't quite keep the grin off his face. "Want me to re-measure, just to be sure?"
Judy considered this for a moment. "Go ahead. Then I can point out if anything needs adjusting." She pressed the measuring tape into his hand without further ceremony. "Get to work, Tailor Wilde."
"It would be my honor, Miss Hopps."
Judy settled into a satisfied smile and stood up so Nick could take proper measurements — on a real person this time, not just what memory told him. The one who would actually be wearing whatever he made. Shoulder width. Torso length. Sleeve length. Chest. Waist.
When he got to her waist, he lingered for longer than a beat. Should he take in the seam to follow her figure and let the fabric settle against those understated curves; or cut it loose and let the shirt conceal them from the eyes of anyone on the street who hadn't learned the meaning of the word tact?
Zootopia was a civilized city. But civilized didn't mean there weren't people who looked and then judged a study of a woman's silhouette like it was something owed to them. He had no patience for that kind. They dragged down the name of every decent man. And he had even less patience for them when it was his rabbit they were looking at.
While Nick hesitated, two small grey hands came and rested over his, gently shaping his palms around her waist.
"Cut it loose for me. Just a light taper. Enough room to move without it catching. The uniform shirt is a bit stifling, honestly."
Nick nodded, and wrote it down with care.
In the back of his mind, the gears were already turning at full speed — mapping the cut lines, calculating the serging, working out how the fabric could settle around her in the most precise and unobtrusive way possible.
As the tape measure dropped from her collar, Judy felt a familiar warmth close in near her ear, quiet and sincere:
"Carrots, I'm only doing this on impulse. I can't promise it'll look good. If you don't like it, you don't have to wear it." The red fox's voice was bare, admitting what had been nagging at him without dressing it up. There was a subdued undercurrent in it, something a little melancholy that he was mostly keeping down, but left open enough in the end for her to decide entirely on her own.
Judy turned to face him, both hands coming up to hold his face, looking at him with a quiet, steady warmth.
"I want to wear it."
Their whole world seemed to close in around the two of them, until there was nothing left in it but each other. The second hand of the clock was forgotten somewhere in the room.
"Alright. Miss Hopps, if you'd like to check the measurements." Nick was the first to look away, writing down the last number on the sheet and handing it to her, one finger pressing lightly on the circled section at the waist. "The Wilde Atelier will give this particular detail its full and personal attention."
Judy laughed, pulled her phone from her pocket, and took a photo of the sketch before handing it back. "Then let's get started."
"Why are you photographing it?" the red fox asked, curious.
"Evidence. If the measurements are wrong when I pick it up, I'll have something to file a complaint with."
Nick laughed — a real one, the laugh of someone completely and helplessly in love. "You really do come prepared, Fluff."
"You never know when that fox brain of yours might decide to add some little detail on its own and then claim I requested it," the grey rabbit said, sharp as ever.
"Fair enough, you win." Nick didn't even try to argue. "I'll get started now. It'll probably take an hour or two. You can stay or head home. I'll bring it over when it's done."
"I'm staying," Judy said, with the finality of a nail driven flush to the wood, and immediately carried the basket of blueberries over to the sink.
In the dim apartment, everything could be heard was the sound of water running over fresh blueberries; the low, building rumble of the kettle coming to a boil; and the clean, measured sound of scissors through fabric.
Nick moved each cut along the chalk lines, tracing the exact contours of every piece against Judy's measurements. In a blink of time, he had all the components laid out and ready to be joined.
He dragged his chair from the work desk over to the sewing machine, and went through the preparation steps from the faded impressions in his memory. Re-wound the bobbin to make sure it wouldn't snag. Swapped in a fresh spool. Threaded the needle. Tested the presser foot going up and down.
He laid the two sleeve pieces into the machine first, lowered the presser foot to hold them together.
His feet pressed down lightly for the first revolution. The needle made its first descent through the soft fabric, and he couldn't tell whether it was driving into the stretch of past he'd just unearthed, or stitching the present moment permanently into his memory.
He kept an even rhythm on the pedal, hands guiding the fabric forward. The needle laid down each small stitch in a line, clean and even. Within moments, one sleeve was finished.
Nick worked with increasing ease now, picking up the remaining pieces and assembling them. He didn't notice his lips pressing together as his green eyes fixed with complete concentration on keeping each seam as flat as possible.
He didn't notice when Judy pulled a stool close and sat beside him, watching in silence as the fox in front of her did something she'd never once imagined.
She knew he'd held more jobs than she could count before the badge. But he'd never mentioned sewing. It was probably something he'd learned once and never touched again, she figured. If so, he had a remarkable memory and a steadier hand than she'd expected. Judy didn't know a great deal about garment construction, but she knew not everyone bothered with every stitch the way he was bothering with these. Plenty of the shirts she'd bought over the years hadn't been serged at all.
But Nick was sewing each seam like he was the only one who could ever undo it.
She glanced at the sketch pinned in front of him. Red ink measurements written over the original grey pencil ones. A large circled marking at the waist with notations at the relevant points, a broad arrow pointing to the lines written clearly in block letters:
SINGLE DART, BACK PANEL
LEAVE EXTRA SEAM ALLOWANCE IN CASE OF ALTERATIONS
She smiled at it. She didn't know what a single dart was, or why it went in the back. But she believed that he'd chosen the best approach he had — the most careful one available to him. The fox who was usually so effortlessly self-assured, so untouchably composed — but for her, always reached for the best of what he had to give, even when that meant the most dangerous option, the most difficult one, the one that cost the most.
He didn't know that the reason she'd photographed the sketch was to remember that someone loved her like this. Enough that every measurement he'd imagined had turned out to match the real ones almost exactly; and he'd still crossed all of them out and written new ones down from scratch, with everything he actually measured with his hands. He could be careless, provisional, entirely unbothered about his own life, like how this apartment had never once been tidy — but for her, everything had to be the best he could do.
"Hey, Carrots." His voice pulled her back from where her thoughts had drifted out along the seam line.
"Hm?"
"I'm just sewing the fabric. I'm not sewing your eyes onto me."
Judy realized her gaze had slipped from the sketch entirely and come to rest on the red fox in front of her. His lips were still pressed together, but there was a smile settled into the corners of his mouth. His ears lay relaxed and easy, without any guard in them. His tail swayed to a rhythm only he could heard.
"Done. Try it on now. I can make adjustments while you're here." Nick snipped the last thread, raised the presser foot, and lifted the finished shirt from the machine. He turned it right-side out, pressed his fingers along the seam edges carefully, then held it out to her.
Judy took it with both hands and all the care in the world. "Thank you. Give me a second, I'll try it on right now."
The small grey bundle disappeared behind the bathroom door. Nick exhaled and found that he couldn't stop his heart from hammering quietly, waiting to see how his first attempt in years had held up.
He drifted out to the living room, where a basket of fresh blueberries and a pot of fragrant chamomile tea were waiting. Judy swore by chamomile for settling nerves and helping with sleep.
Nick poured two cups carefully. The tea was clear as the small rabbit's soul. He didn't know whether chamomile truly calmed anything. But as the warm liquid slipped quietly down his throat, he felt something in him settle.
Judy came out of the bathroom and skipped straight to him, practically bouncing. "Nick, look!! It fits perfectly!!"
She turned a full circle in front of him — the way a child spins when they get new clothes for a holiday. She tilted left, tilted right, stretched her arms out long, spread them wide. Her amethyst eyes were bright, overflowing.
Nick leaned in and ran his thumb gently along the shoulder seam. "Does it dig in anywhere?"
"I don't know if it digs in exactly, but it's comfortable!"
"Here—" Nick traced the line of the back dart, "I took this in a little clumsily. Does it sit right? I can redo it if not."
Judy shook her head firmly.
"I don't know what you mean by 'clumsily.' The fit is perfect. The waist taper isn't as close as the ZPD tailor cuts it, but it's still neat — very precise, actually. Sleeves and shoulders feel completely free. And the collar doesn't strangle me."
The little grey rabbit stopped bouncing and looked up into his eyes. "Overall, it is beautiful."
Just those four words. And Nick felt something go out of him entirely.
His legs gave way without him deciding to let them. He sank to his knees in front of her, arms going around her on instinct, pulling her close. Judy startled, alarmed. "Nick, what's wrong?!"
"I just— don't say anything— let me hold you for a second—" The red fox's voice was thick.
She didn't understand what was happening. But she heard the way he said it, and she didn't push. She held him back, quietly, one hand moving in slow circles against his back, feeling each breath move deep through his chest. Nick was doing everything he could not to come apart right there, with her standing in the shirt he'd made for her.
"Hopeless sentimental fox" Judy thought, eyes closing, letting his warmth settle all around her.
After a while, Nick drew back. His hands came up to cradle her small face. His thumbs moved slowly over each line of it, then drifted down to her neck, her shoulders. His broad palms came to rest against her sides, tracing her shape in unhurried silence. His eyes fell closed so his hands could memorize every detail of her. His fingers paused a little longer at the back, pressing in gently. The fabric held with just the right tension — gave a little, didn't grip.
Perfect. At least — perfect with everything he had.
"Nick?"
"Shh. Your personal tailor is committing every detail to memory in preparation for the next one."
"Really? Two shirts is enough, isn't it?" Judy looked at him, genuinely puzzled.
"Who said I was making you another uniform shirt?" Nick said, opening his eyes slowly.
"You bought one bolt of ZPD fabric."
"Nothing's stopping me from buying another bolt, right?"
Judy laughed and climbed up onto the sofa, picking up one of the cups he'd already poured and taking a sip. "How much did all of this cost?"
"Don't talk money with me," Nick said, and finally made his way back to his seat, looping an arm around her and pulling her in close.
"I mean it. I don't know how you got it, but don't think I don't know this fabric is ZPD-only."
"I have a contact. They only sell by the bolt, though."
"You bought a whole bolt just to make me one shirt. That's more expensive than if I'd just ordered a new one myself," Judy said, with a small pout.
Nick laughed at that, tilting his head back against the cushion.
"You know I could've just lent you the money to order one. But I still wanted to make it for you."
Judy looked up at him, a large question mark written plainly across her face. Nick held back a smile, then leaned down close, murmured just low enough so only she could hear.
"My mother used to say, when you love someone, you want to give them the best of what you can make with your own hands."
A soft kiss against the tip of her ear, and Judy went still all over — then immediately dissolved into the gentle hold of the red fox beside her.
"That said," Nick's voice shifted back, completely deadpan, "I'm accepting your counteroffer. Every atelier needs a fitting model. That's you, starting now"
"What? Wasn't the shirt supposed to be paying me back for the one I tore up to bandage your arm?" Judy managed weakly.
"This one was for taking on the position of personal tailor to one Judy Hopps."
He felt her bury her face in his side. She breathed in long and slow, letting the scent of him fill her completely. The fluttering in her chest gradually quieted. Her voice came out small and muffled somewhere in the faded fabric of his shirt.
"My honor."
The week that followed, Judy wore only the shirt he'd made her. He could tell it not because he was watching too closely, but because it wasn't a standard four-panel construction. It was the one with the back dart.
"Hey, Carrots, if you keep wearing that one shirt to work every day, it's going to file a complaint against you for overwork, and your old one's going to sue you for discrimination," Nick deadpanned.
"It's my shirt, I can wear it whenever I want, you have no saying here," Judy said primly, and skipped off toward Clawhauser's desk.
"Morning, Judy! Wow, you seem like you've got a lot more energy than usual this week. Something good happen?"
"Nothing in particular. This new uniform shirt is just really comfortable. None of that itchy, stiff feeling from my old one. I think that's probably why I'm in a better mood," Judy said, and gave another little spin in front of the cheetah. She'd lost count of how many times she'd brought up this shirt to Benji at this point.
"Judy, you really love that shirt. Can you leave me the address of the tailor? I'd love to get one made too."
"Afraid not. This atelier is very discreet. Even if I gave you the address, I'm not sure you'd be able to get an appointment," Judy said, spacing her words out slowly in a performance of mild regret, though the barely-contained delight on her face was plainly visible to anyone paying attention.
"Oh, a private tailor. Look at you. Who's the lucky one who gets to make custom shirts for the ZPD's finest?" Clawhauser looked at her with dreamy admiration.
"That's a secret."
Over at the pantry counter, Nick was leaning against the table, watching the small grey figure with her little white tail swishing at the far end of the room. The tip of the red fox's own tail swayed once in quiet, involuntary response.
"Hopps really does love that shirt, huh?" Wolford appeared at Nick's side, paper cup of soda in hand. "She's been talking about it all week."
"Yeah," Nick said, lifting his black coffee to his lips, unhurried, eyes not leaving the grey rabbit.
"You did it good," the wolf said, following the line of Nick's gaze.
"What do you mean?" Nick asked, hedging carefully at the unexpected compliment.
"I mean the shirt. You did a good job. My wife is a seamstress. She's always going on about how badly ZPD makes our uniforms. Seam allowances all over the place. Cut too tight. She once threatened to stop letting me wear my uniform to work because she thought the stitching was going to chafe my fur raw. I had to promise her she could do a weekly fur inspection, and if there was any sign of damage she could throw the whole lot straight in the bin. Last year I had to order up a size just so the fabric wasn't pressing into me all day," Wolford said, chuckling through the story.
"How did you know I was the one who made it?" Nick went still.
"Someone came by last week asking my wife about where to source the specific fabric ZPD uses for uniforms. She didn't know, but she pointed them somewhere else. Last Monday morning, I figured Hopps had just gotten ahold of the fabric herself and had it made. But the scent on that shirt—"
The hair on the back of Nick's neck stood up.
"Relax. It's faint. Only Canines can catch that. I almost missed it myself. Had actually have to pay attention to get it," the silver wolf said, chuckling at the sight of the red fox going rigid beside him.
"I'd noticed for a while now, too. Judy seemed pretty uncomfortable in that uniform by the end of the day," Nick said, quietly.
"That's exactly why I said you did good. The construction choices were very thoughtful. Kept the internal seaming to a minimum, so there's less friction during active duty," Wolford took a long pull of his soda and shook his head. "Sometimes I really do wish the ZPD's tailoring department had half that much consideration."
"She might just be trying to seem comfortable so I don't feel bad," Nick deflated, dropping his gaze slightly.
"Don't talk less about yourself," Wolford said, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Hopps is an open book. She cannot hide a single thing. If she likes something, she likes it. You think she could keep up a full day of pretending? That's you, buddy. That's your skill set. Hopps doesn't have it in her. Every last bit of her goes into the job. There's nothing left over for performing."
Both of them looked toward the front desk, where the rabbit and the cheetah were deep in cheerful conversation.
"Um, about me making the shirt for her—"
"Don't worry about it. Brotherhood code. House of Canine code. You don't say anything, I don't say anything. Besides, what’s my business to go telling people about what's between you and Hopps? That's yours. Same as what's between me and my wife is ours."
"Thank you. I owe you," Nick said, with a small bow.
"Don't mention it. That's just how it goes. You don't owe me anything. Just take good care of Hopps. That's all. She needs you."
Nick watched the rabbit who had become the center of his whole world come bounding toward him, her smile brighter than he had words for.
"I'll always take care of Judy. No matter what it takes."