Author's Note:

Special thanks to WhatABummer, Anon8043, Nehkles and Cimar of Turalis WildeHopps for their help with editing.

A Whiskey Lullaby

"I have taken more out of alcohol than alcohol has taken out of me."

― Winston Churchill

Nick raised his paw, swinging the glass shakily between his fingers. The bartender frowned but filled the shot glass.

"Alright, last one. Don't want your liver quittin' in my bar."

The fox nodded.

Minutes dragged by as Nick nursed his final glass of whiskey. Drunk as he was, though, Nick couldn't be sure how long he sat hunched at the bar. Even in his inebriated state, the inner con-mammal at his core demanded that he case his surroundings.

Dull emerald eyes, glazed over by copious alcohol consumption, scanned the room once more. Through the haze, Nick could still make out the bartender - who he remembered was a portly old ram - and some of the other patrons, though exactly who or what they were the fox no longer knew nor cared. Somewhere in the room he could hear cards shuffling, and the tell-tale signs of a frustrated card player were obvious to anyone who wasn't currently hammered.

A jukebox in the corner droned out an old country tune, occasionally hanging on or skipping words.

Louder than the music, though, were the random outbursts of laughter from two friends elsewhere in the building. Of all the sounds in the bar, that grated on Nick more than claws on a chalkboard.

Various other patrons - mostly bunnies, as one might expect in the Tri-Burrows - sat at the various tables scattered about the floor. One was quietly staring off into space, smoking a paw-rolled cigarette and taking a sip of his drink every 20 seconds, as if it were a programmed act.

Another scrolled through whatever it was that mammals scrolled through on their phones, taking small sips here and there of whatever drink had been given the sad fate of sitting out for too long. Yet another sat in the corner opposite the fox - taking tentative sips of their drink, grimacing as though it was the first they'd tried.

In frustrated defeat, the losing card player tossed his cards onto the table and stomped over to the jukebox, first hitting it to make it stop skipping, then dropping a new quarter in it and making his selection. The tune was one fitting the atmosphere - simple, twangy chords and sad lyrics. It fit the mood of the seedy dive perfectly; after all, there was a drunk fox moping at the bar, pounding down shots as if the sun would never rise again, as well as a number of other patrons equally as removed from the world.

The fox downed the rest of his whiskey in a single practiced motion, and immediately motioned the bartender over once again.

The ram glowered at Nick from across the bar. "Look fox, I already told you - "

"I know ...", the fox managed, holding up a finger. "But could'ja le - let me buy tha rest 'f the bottle?"

"No. I ain't gonna be held responsible if you-"

Nick pulled his wallet out, crumpled all the bills inside into a wad and placed them on the bar.

The ram glanced between the bills and the fox for a few moments before finally sliding the bottle across the counter.

"Alright... fine. But you ain't drinking it here. Hit the road."

Sure, selling more alcohol to a mammal in such a state wasn't completely legal, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that the bartender didn't particularly care - the nearest sheriff was miles away (and probably asleep), and none of the other patrons seemed to notice the exchange, let alone care.

Nick's eyes lingered on the wad of crumpled bills in the ram's grasp, his focus jumping in and out. Shaking his head, be rose and began gathering himself; then turning on his heels to leave. With the bottle in one paw and an oddly decorative jar under his arm, the fox made his way towards the exit, muttering drunkenly to himself as he slipped out the door and into the darkness.

"What'd he say?" the barkeep asked aloud.

"Somethin' 'bout the money not doin' any good."

"That's it?"

"Yeh. Said it 'couldn't save him', or somethin' like that."

"Huh. Good riddance," replied the ram. "We could do with less like him around here anyway."

Nick had been stumbling down the road for some time now, though if he were to be asked exactly how long, he couldn't begin to tell you, given his current state. He had long forgotten exactly why he'd begun to walk in this direction, but he knew that for whatever reason it was important.

The Jack Savage's Fine Bourbon Whiskey bottle he clutched in his paw was nearly depleted now; only a few savory swallows remained of the oaky, amber liquid.

The fox paused to take yet another swig; eyelids squeezing together slightly as the potent beverage burned its way over his tongue and numbed the lining of his throat. Lowering his head once again and opening his eyes, Nick finally spotted what he had forgotten that he'd been searching for - the bridge.

He stumbled his way to it, whiskey in one hand and the decorative jar snugly packed into the fold of his other arm.

The bridge itself wasn't all that large - only about fifty feet long and half that length across, but it was perhaps one of the more distinct bridges in Bunnyburrow, as it was one of the few in the area whose design was not somehow rabbit-themed.

Two dark wooden arches at the sides were each outfitted with a number of wooden struts, descending from varying heights and supporting the weather-worn wooden railings placed along each respective edge of the structure. At the top, spanning the width of the bridge, were stained oak-wood rafters that held together the arches and the bridge as a whole.

Here. It was this bridge that he had to take care of this.

Slowly, Nick made his way onto the bridge and tipped up his whiskey bottle for the last time, putting away the remainder of the liquid fire in seconds. The fox kept the bottle in the air for some time after, vainly shaking it - as if his sheer willpower could somehow coax more liquor from the empty container.

Feeling his legs wobble, Nick tossed the bottle haphazardly behind him and leaned on the railing for support. Carefully, he climbed up onto the railing, never loosening his right arm's tight hold on the jar. Once his torso was well above the top of the railing, Nick sighed - his weary eyes taking in the tranquil scene before him.

The moon reflected on the water below with spectacular clarity, a billion stars shimmering all around it as if Nick's world had not fallen apart. A single thought rose through the tumultuous whirling in the fox's head: We never got to see this many stars in the city.

Without a word, Nick took the jar from his arm and opened it, pausing for a moment as he tried to think of something to say to the contents within.

"Goodbye, lil' Buddy. It just won't be the same without you around."

With great care, Nick tilted the jar sideways and watched the ashes spill out onto the water below.

Maybe now Finnick could find peace.

Nick remained on the railing for many minutes, not quite sure what to do with himself now; still more than a little drunk. Feeling his legs momentarily weaken again, Nick decided it would probably be best if he could rest for awhile.

Nick did not - however - back off of the railing and seat himself on the solid roadbed of the bridge. Instead, he decided to make his way over the railing and attempted to sit on one of the outward-protruding cross-beams that held up the bridge's platform, so that he could recline back on the support beams attached there, lying back and dangling his feet over the side as he watched the night sky.

Sure he was tired, but with drunken reasoning to aid his rationing skills, he determined that if he was dextrous enough to shimmy up to the roof of a building in Sahara Square and melt Jumbo-Pops after being up all night that this simple task would not be a problem.

He was wrong.

Nick's left leg managed to clear the top of the railing at the same time his grip failed him, sending both him and the jar that had carried his friend's ashes over the side.

Clutching the now-empty urn for dear life as he fell, it occurred to Nick that he might get to see his friend again sooner than he had thought.

The fox had come in quietly; his only communication with anyone being a motion to the bartender and an order for the "strongest thing" they had. Joe - the bartender - had offered no response aside from a roll of the eyes and a nod, placing a glass on the bar, filling it and picking up the crumpled bill from the counter. It only took a few seconds for the drink to disappear, prompting the process to repeat a few more times until the bartender grew tired of it and brought out a bigger glass.

Hardly anyone noticed the exchange. It was a weeknight so the place wasn't exactly swamped, and those who were present were either focused on each other, a card game, their phones or their own myriad of thoughts.

One set of eyes, however, observed the exchange with intrigued bemusement. There existed some element of comedy to the whole ordeal - the metaphorical battle of will going on between the frustrated bartender and a patron whose stomach might be mistaken for a bottomless pit made for an amusing sight.

So too were the sounds of aggravation coming from the bartender comical in their own right. Something about this patron, it seemed, had him on edge. Ill-temperment radiated from the ram like heat from a roaring fire, something the fox was either oblivious to or beyond caring about.

The observer of this event was in her own way as much an anomaly as the fox she watched. The rabbit sat across the room in the corner opposite the fox. The area was darkened by an appalling lack of maintenance to light fixtures, but that was absolutely fine in her estimation. She was sure someone would recognize her if she was seen, and she hoped more than hope that if she was recognized that they wouldn't say anything to her.

The little play that had developed moments prior finally tapered off as the fox sank deeper into his glass.

"Back to drinking, I guess," the doe sighed.

In truth, she wasn't much of a drinker. She was a very goals-driven creature by nature, and the achievement of her goals historically had not been compatible with copious alcohol consumption. Tentatively, she took another sip of the Carrot Ale she held. A nice glass of straight carrot juice had a much less bitter flavor, but a peppy beverage didn't exactly fit her mood. Something she and the fox had in common, it seemed.

Her ear twitched and her eyes snapped back up as she heard dialogue between the fox and the bartender begin again - a welcome reverie from her thoughts. Unfortunately, there was no further comedy to the situation; the fox simply asked for a refill, and the bartender silently complied.

She wished that some kind of conversation would pick up between the fox and barkeep. By now, she had basically figured out everyone else in the place by now; the older bucks by the jukebox were here hiding from their wives and quietly playing cards, the doe on her phone was growing increasingly distraught as it became apparent to her that her date was not showing up, the chain-smoker was thinking something over, and the two laughing friends nearby had reached a level of inebriation that erased the line separating side-splitting hilarity from all other emotions.

This fox though, was odd. Her police training had taught her to seek out things that didn't fit, and this frantically drinking fox with a loud silk shirt was definitely not something native to Bunnyburrow. Not that it mattered now, though. Even if something was awry about the fox, her recent blunder had made it so that she couldn't really do anything anyway.

What was strange wasn't that he was here drinking, nor did he really seem suspicious in any manner, it was just that there were only about five foxes who lived in and around Bunnyburrow.

There wasn't any kind of festival going on, so he wasn't a tourist. She supposed that he might have come to visit a friend or relative; the hospital was only a short walk away, so he might have come from there, but what were the chances that this particular fox knew anyone in Bunnyburrow?

Her amethyst eyes panned over the room once more. She guessed the decor was fairly standard for a little country bar - painted plywood paneling covered the walls and the air filled with the unique aroma of cigarette smoke mixed with cheap liquor and greasy food. Imitation-wood tables were scattered about the grimy floor and the laminate of the countertop appeared to have been peeling off - bit by bit - for the past several years.

One might have thought that, being so close to the hospital, the owners of the bar would have tried to keep the place looking more presentable but apparently (as Judy had learned from an overheard conversation between the owner and her father), mammals who wanted to drink away their cares after coming off a long ER shift, losing a loved one or confront life-altering news didn't really care what the place looked like, so long as it had plenty of booze.

A pang of sympathy traced its way down Judy's spine as the thought raced through her mind. She hoped everything was alright with the fox, and that he just came in for a drink.

He had gone back to quietly sipping from his nearly-empty glass, staring solemnly at the jar he had brought with him - an action that wasn't unnoticed by the rabbit, but was not exactly something that she could use to distract herself from the self-examination and pity that had taken root in her mind as of late.

She drew another small draw from her bottle, grimacing slightly and softly smacking her lips together - still unaccustomed to the bitter flavor - when she noticed the glassy-eyed fox scanning the room again.

She watched with piqued interest as he motioned for the bartender - who had made it clear only minutes ago that the fox had been given his last drink.

"Look, fox, I already told you - "

"I know … but could'ja le - let me buy tha rest 'f the bottle, then?"

"No. I ain't gonna be held responsible if you-"

The fox reached into the back pocket of his pants and grabbed his wallet, only almost falling over once. A noble feat, Judy mused, given how much the fox must have had already. Judy then saw the fox place some bills on the counter, grabbing the ram's interest.

Hesitating only momentarily, the ram grabbed the bills, began counting them and slid the bottle to the fox.

"Alright... fine," he contended, "but you ain't drinking it here. Hit the road."

The fox gathered his jar and his whiskey. Mumbling something Judy couldn't make out under his breath, he staggered towards the exit and vanished into the night.

"What'd he say?" She heard the barkeep ask.

"Somethin' 'bout the money not couldn' do no good," replied one of the card players.

"That's it?"

"Yeh. Said it 'couldn't save him', or somethin' like that."

"Huh. Good riddance. We could do with less like him around here anyway."

Up until this point in the evening, Judy had been watching the events unfold as if they were something that was detached from reality, not dissimilar from a TV show or movie. Idle fascination, at best. But the bartender's callous dismissal shook her into the present.

Her mouth hung open for a few more seconds before her brain began telling her muscles to move. She shook her head and rose to her feet. She hesitated again, taking a look back at the bottle she'd left on the table.

Well, I did already pay for that… I suppose a little extra 'courage' won't hurt anything.

Judy grabbed the bottle, pressing the opening to her lips and tipped it vertically. Her eyes watered at the strange sensations wrought on by the booze, but she did not let up until the bottle was empty.

Placing the bottle back down, Judy steeled herself and marched up to the counter, hopping up onto a barstool to face the bartender.

"Joe, did I just witness you sell that very drunken mammal a bottle of whiskey and then send him into public?"

Surprised that anyone else had taken any notice of the conversation, the bartender turned to face the rabbit glaring holes through him.

"Yeah. What of it?"

"Are you not aware of what will happen if he were to accidentally drive into someone out there? That falls back on you personally."

"He can't hit anyone out there without a car now, can he? You think I'd be dumb enough to let him out there with more alcohol if I hadn't already known that he didn't drive here? 'Sides, there ain't no harm in it, Judy. All he's gonna do is crawl under some rock, 'er into some dumpster near here and sleep it off 'till mornin'. It ain't like his kind don't do that sort of thing all the time. One paw in the wild, the lot of 'em."

"What you did is equivalent to mammalslaughter if he gets hurt, Joe."

"Look, Jude. If something happens to that fox, it's just my word against yours that he was even here. No one else in here cares enough about that city-slicker to make any kind of fuss about it."

"No, Joe. If anything happens to him, the first mammal to hear about it will be the very same mammal who provides this lousy excuse for a bar with all its produce and booze."

Without another word, Judy hopped down and made her way towards the door. Pushing it open, the breeze ruffled her fur as her eyes scanned the blackened parking lot. Not seeing the fox anywhere, she turned again to the barkeep.

"Is a mammal's life really worth less to you than a few crumpled bills, Joe?"

Turning again, Judy made her way out of the bar and into the night.

Alone, Judy made her way down the narrow dirt road leading away from town. The moon above bathed the world around her in the same soft-white light and muted blue hues that had centuries before given the predator the advantage over that which it preyed on.

Now it was the prey who sought the predator - even if the rabbit was making a poor job of it. Either the drunken fox had been faster than she had been anticipating or her exchange with the bartender had been taken longer than she thought, because Judy could hear no sounds other than the slight breeze ruffling her ears and the crickets chirping in the fields around her. Thankfully his pawprints were undisturbed, so discerning where he'd gone wasn't that difficult.

The stars were out in full force tonight; prompting her to stop and stare for a few brief moments. Even though she had lived in Bunnyburrow for nearly all her life, Judy could not for the life of her remember a night that had been this clear.

"Probably just because of the booze," she muttered, picking up her pace again.

Her thoughts turned back to the fox she was tracking. Hopefully he was still alright… she wasn't sure how well she could take seeing another dead -

No. Don't go there right now, Judy.

The intrusive thoughts and images had become more and more frequent over the past several weeks, and were the reason she had even been at the bar to begin with.

I really am a mess, aren't I?

Judy's shoulders slumped as her thoughts drowned out the muffled sounds and dark sights around her. In her younger days, the mere insinuation that Judy would be "driven to drinking" as a result of her own decision making would have been laughable, even to those who doubted her. Sure she could be a little impulsive at times, but that had never really been a major hindrance before she…

The rabbit groaned aloud in frustration, suddenly wishing that she had simply decided to have stayed home and moped in her room tonight instead of going to the bar, seeing Joe mistreat the fox and making a foolhardy mission out of going to find him.

You don't really mean that, Jude. You know from experience what it can mean to someone to help them. Isn't that what it means to make the world a better place?

Honestly, she didn't know if she even believed that mantra anymore. Conscience aside, the sentiment had - in recent history - functioned more like a noose than a halo; bidding her to attempt doing something good, only to make everything worse. Perhaps those missteps had been the universe's way of telling her that simply brooding in her room was the best course of action for her. At least when she was alone, she wouldn't be out ruining everything she tried to fix.

In Judy's mind, there was nothing else she could have done in the bar that wouldn't have just turned the whole ordeal sour for everyone. What she ended up doing wasn't some righteous deed, but matching callous hate with idle threats. Effective in the short term maybe, but not the kind of lasting impact needed to make any sort of real change.

At least she hadn't made a scene, she supposed. If nothing else, her whole situation had made her learn to keep quiet when it counted.

Still, that nagging sensation of worry plagued her thoughts, blocking out any attempt to distance herself from the possible suffering of another. Whoever that fox was, he was in bad shape and there was no telling what could happen to him on a dusty dirt road in the middle of the night.

Luckily for them both, there were very few ways to make his situation worse, outside of sheer incompetence.

"How long have I been walking now?"

She wasn't sure where the thought had come from, but she figured it was probably for the best that she tired to stay focused on the task at hand. She had forgotten to check the time when she was leaving the bar, but it took about an hour and a half to walk from there to the Hopps burrow (maybe more if you had been drinking), and the house was just past the bridge and then two hills over.

Where is this fox going?

Rounding a corner, the bridge going over Shallow Creek creeped into view. At the foot of the bridge, the tracks stopped, which she supposed wasn't inherently alarming, since most mammals don't make prints on concrete.

At this rate he'll go right by the bur-

Judy froze in place, her ears perking up to their full height and turning side-to-side ever so slightly from as she scanned for whatever sound had just interrupted her thoughts.

Near the railing she could now see the empty whiskey bottle, making a mental note of it.

"Srnnk."

Her ears again turned at the sound. The source of the noise seemed to have been somewhere off to her right.

"Hnkgh."

Without a sound, Judy moved to the railing, climbing up the first three boards to peek over. Her eyes scanned the creek bed, catching nothing of particular interest.

"Ppbhw."

"Oh, sweet cheese and crackers."

Just below the bridge, on the edge of the creek lay a red fox; curled up into a ball and snoring lightly.