It felt like an eternity since he had left that mess of a press conference. An eternity wandering Savannah Central. How he didn't get run over was a mystery to him. Or had he gotten run over already? He certainly felt like it. He wasn't even sure if he cared whether that happened. Either way, he was still walking, stumbling along towards the one place his subconscious steered him to.

Anger had made him leave. That had long settled. It didn't vanish, though. It had simply taken a few steps back and made way for something more painful. Something that tugged and tore at his very heart. It kept him moving. He staggered around corners. Grazed some trashcans. Bumped into unsuspecting shoulders. Some were unwittingly shoved aside. Others made him tremble in his tracks. None of them stopped him. He didn't care for the protests following him. All that mattered was the van he was closing in on.

His paw had knocked at the back door before his mind knew it. No regard for any wannabe spy-codes Finnick insisted on. Who cared. He'd open up anyway. A few seconds later, the door barely missed his nose. He didn't flinch. A smack in the face might have been better than what he felt right now.

"Who is it?" the fennec fox growled. Then he answered for himself. "Nick?" Lowering his trusty bat, Finnick snickered. "You done playing cops?"

Oh, how he was done. Not honoring this cruelty with an answer, he climbed past the owner of this van.

"Hey, Nick," Finnick's voice came from behind him. "What happened?"

That was it. He crumbled onto the mattress that smelled like it should have been burned ages ago. He was close to his limit. What had happened still seemed unbelievable to him. He simply refused to believe it happened. Not again, not like this. How could he have let it happen? He flung his paws over his eyes. There was no more fight left in him. Hot tears ran through his fur. His body shook under uncontrollable sobs. He was reduced to a helpless cub. The same helpless cub who had sworn to never let anybody see him like that again. The same cub that longed for his mother's arms, yet was met with cold loneliness instead.

"Hey, kid, you okay?"

Nick was never quite sure if Finnick had the worst sense of humor he'd ever witnessed or if his friend was just as empathic as a sledge hammer. He had no idea how long he had been a jerking mess on the floor. Eventually, he ran out of tears. His eyes were burning. His nose was stuffy. He blinked, trying to aid his eyes in their struggle to get a clear vision of his surroundings. Rolling over, he wiped the tears away. Or, at least, tried to. It felt rather like he was rubbing the wet stains into the fur on his cheeks. As he looked up, he saw Finnick still by his side. Not letting go of his bat, the fennec fox squatted next to him. The look he gave him told Nick his friend fought with himself whether to say more. Finnick had called him kid. Not as a joke, not in drunken taunting. It had been ages since Nick had heard him say that word with such sincerity.

"I must look so pathetic right now."

"Yeah," Finnick grunted. "Wanna talk about it?"

Nick rolled onto his side, away from his friend. "No."

"Fine by me. I'll get a beer. You want one?"

"You know I don't drink."

"Yeah, but you sure look like starting today."

Nick heard the bat dropping to the floor. Somewhere behind him, Finnick rummaged through the sports-bag he actually called a fridge. It was still amazing how far a block of ice wrapped in a trash bag could get you.

Nick dragged himself up, now leaning against the wall. "Why did it turn out like this?"

"Beats me," Finnick said, popping open a bottle with a lighter. "I don't even know how it turned out."

"Same it always does."

"Then why are you a sobbing wreck blocking my bed?"

That was a way too good question—with an answer Nick did not want to think about. So he gave the one he didn't need to think about, "Because that cop turned out like all the others."

"You sure about that?"

Yes, he was. He had to be. Or things were beyond what he could stand.

"'Cause you sure don't look like it. I'm no psychist, but I can tell this is worse than usual."

Nick blinked. There was a usual? "I guess you mean psychic."

"Whatever. Those eggheads that tell you you're insane and what pills can help you. But if you still want my help, just let me know."

Nick hugged his own knees. "Ugh, what's there to help? I was stupid enough to let my hopes run free again and this is what I got for that. I'm just done with it."

"So that's where we're at? You're done with hope?"

"Done with trusting others." Nick rested his head on his fore-arms. "Gets you nowhere."

Finnick snorted. "Then why are you here? Am I an imaginary friend to you or what?"

"More like my only friend."

"Only one or not, you're damn right I'm your friend. So, first of all, take this." With these words, he dangled a can of blueberry juice in front of Nick's face.

A hint of a smile flickered over his face as he grabbed it. "Thanks."

"And now spill: What is this all about?"

Nick opened the can and took a prolonged sip. After he had wiped his mouth with the back of his paw, he muttered, "That I won't fit in whatever I'll do. In the end, I'm just a fox trying to be sheep."

"Isn't it wolves who got it with sheep?"

"Who cares?" Nick threw up his free paw. "Point is, trying to be something you're not just doesn't pay off."

"That's why I stopped trying that a very long time ago."

"Very inspiring."

Finnick grunted. "What, you want me to inspire you now? Okay, then how's this: If you can't be what you're not, do you even know who you are?"

Nick pulled his knees even closer to him. "Well, I'm no cop, that's for sure."

"A cop?" Finnick laughed. "Whatever gave you that idea? And that's no answer for what I've asked."

"Where did you even get that pseudo-philosophy from?"

"A cereal box." Finnick rubbed his fore-head. "Answer. Now."

Nick closed his eyes and flattened his ears. "I'm just another fox. Sly and deceptive. Watch your wallet and keep a muzzle ready."

This answer seemed to drain all sound from the van—except for Nick occasionally slurping his drink. Finnick on the other hand blankly stared at him, his paw still resting just over his right eyebrow.

"A muzzle? Nick, that is definitely not what I was going for. What has that cop done to you?"

Nick grunted. He's been asking that himself again and again ever since he had walked out of the police station. Maybe even since long before that, as much as he tried to ignore that possibility. "She gave me a stupid idea and I was even more stupid to trust her."

Finnick sighed. A sound Nick rarely heard from him. "Nick, I wish I were a psychic now. Can't really figure what you're trying to tell me here."

"Yeah, I'm sorry," Nick answered, dragging himself to his feet. "I shouldn't have bothered you with my stuff."

"Come on, that is not what I said."

"No, it's what I am saying. I... I just want to be alone now."

"Hey, you came to my place. And I honestly think that was the best you could've done right now."

Nick didn't answer. He looked at his friend, feeling fatigue spreading in his mind. Then he lowered his head. Standing Finnick's stare was too much right now. He already had his paw on the handle when Finnick spoke up again.

"Nick, are you sure you should be alone now? I can't remember I've ever seen you like that. And I sure as hell don't want to read in the news about you tomorrow."

"You don't ever read any news."

"Hey, kid, I'm serious here. I know I'm terrible at this, but god to honest, I want to help you. Don't just walk out on me like that."

"Stop calling me that. I'm 32 years old and you're not my-" Nick clenched his paw and took a deep breath. "You can't tell me what to do."

"Nick, I'm not telling you to do anything. But right now, all I see is that kid I picked up from the streets back then."

"Wasn't that far to reach down, was it?"

"Far enough for you to keep your head out of trouble, I'd say. Listen, this is not about, well, him. I'm not trying to replace that guy. But I was there for you back then, little as I knew about you. I still am if you need me, you know that, right?"

Nick stopped and closed his eyes. A second later, he turned around. Then he did what he did best—smile. "I know, Finnick. And I am grateful for that, I really am. But I just need time to figure some stuff out. For myself, you know? Don't worry, I'll call you."

Then, finally, he left. Behind him, he heard something slam into metal. Most likely a surprisingly strong fist meeting the wall of a van. Nick's stomach twisted at the thought of what he left his best friend with. But he hadn't lied to Finnick. That guy had done more for him than he could have ever asked for. This was no way to repay him, Nick knew that. Yet his mind wouldn't stop arguing with his guts. This wasn't the first time he had been left behind. Not the first time he had to accept his fate was staying by himself. Yet it was the first time it hurt this way. A pain that forced this one thought onto him. A foolish last piece of hope. But as much as he wanted to cling to it, he agreed with his head. She, like all the others, would not come back to him.

A/N:

So, this is the third short story I came up with for my series of Zootopia fanfics. It is, obviously, set before the first one, Looking for Nick. Just in case anybody was wondering.

Not much else to say here, so please leave any kind of feedback in the comments below. Constructive criticism is, as always, hghly welcome.