A/N:

I know. I know. Another new story. I regret nothing.

This is a collaborative work. I had the honor and pleasure of working with Blueberryandhoney on this story. I hope you, gentle reader, enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it with her.

Special thanks are due to OnceNeverTwiceAlways for editing, Cimar for beta reading and kt_valmiri for sound boarding and support. You guys are the best and I am endlessly grateful.

Now, on with the show.

Sunset at sea was beautiful, as always. The spectrum of colors reflecting on the water brought a desperately needed sense of peace, though never quite enough. The tranquility and the song of nature as it could only be experienced here was exactly what the sole mammal aboard was after. It was why he'd purchased the boat and sailed away four years ago. To escape his old life and find music that didn't remind him of anything anymore. It was his retirement. Early—but unavoidable.

The deck chair held him up, and the cooler at his elbow held everything he needed: cold beer inside and nibbles on top. He had enough for another week away from port stowed in the cabin—longer if he rationed. There was nothing to do but enjoy the sunset. As the sun dipped below the horizon and became a sliver, the color he loved and loathed painted the sky. The rich purple bloomed and the ache in his chest mirrored it. He missed her. Still.

The phone rang. He answered it. "Joey."

"Nick! Sorry for calling at a bad time. I need to know when you were going to make it back to port?"

"Which port?" The boat's occupant sighed.

"Mine, of course. This is where you make berth. The registration says so and everything," insisted the voice on the other end.

"Dunno, Joe. A week. Maybe two. Whenever I'm back out that way. Why?"

"I've got a lot of work lined up for you. If you don't get here, you'll lose the fares."

Nick shifted the phone to his other paw. "I'm not in it for the money."

"I am, Nick," Joey whined. "I need my cut of your work."

"There are other boats."

"But yours is the one they want. I don't know what you do, but all I get is rave reviews. Word of mouth is doing a ton of good for your business, and you aren't taking it! What gives?" Joey was obviously frustrated and confused at Nick's lack of financial drive.

"If you're worried about losing money, just triple my prices. That should cover it. Play up the exclusivity and rareness. That'll work."

"This isn't your old gig back in the city, Nick. It doesn't work the same way."

"Try it anyway." Nick killed the call and dropped the phone back into the cupholder it came from.

This was the time of day he lived for. Masochistic, yes, but he had nothing else. His life was wandering the ocean's byways, ferrying tourists around for a little extra cash. A far cry from his hustling days in the music industry where every moment was adrenalin-filled mania. When he made port, Nick did his banking, resupplied, and took on a few holiday-makers before setting out to sea again. He'd dump them at whatever port they wanted and be gone as soon as he got his pay. Then it was him, the sea, and the sunset until he ran out of provisions. It was a simple life.

He was sipping his beer and savoring last of the celestial light show when his phone rang—again. The one carryover from his old days was the number he'd kept when his smartphone was upgraded to satellite access. There were a few mammals ashore he cared to keep in touch with, and they all knew not to call at sunset. Joe, the manatee manager of his registered docking, got away with it—but only just.

"Speak of the devil, and he appears…" The steel drum ringtone was jarring against the quiet of the wind and water. "What, Joe?"

"You know what," wheedled the manatee.

"At least two weeks."

"Come on, Slick. Please? You could make a killing! It's honeymoon season! Every couple on this island wants a ride on the Amaranthine with its functional mute of a captain. That romantic mystique you've got going is killer for the tourists!"

Nick's voice was colder than January in the Arctic Straits. "What did you call me?"

"What? Oh…"

"Do you remember the last conversation we had where you used that name?"

"I… Oh, shit. Yes… Sorry, Nick."

"Not. Your. Name. To. Use."

The growling tone seemed to bring out the manatee's sense of self-preservation, and Joey sounded genuinely contrite when he responded, "I know. I'm sorry."

"I have provisions for eight days." He ended the call, only to hear a familiar tone jangle moments later. Joe loved bugging him. It was always about work. Usually.

"What is so important that I needed three calls at sunset?"

"There's a fare here…" came the hesitant reply.

"Joe, I don't care how many couples want a romantic ride on my boat." Now there was more than a hint of growl in Nick's voice. "I'll be back in eight days. Have an auction if that works for you, but I am not coming back any sooner." All he wanted was peace and quiet. Was that too much to ask for?

"But this fare—"

"Can wait. If they want me, they'll wait. If not, there are plenty of boats."

"Nick, this isn't—"

He ended the call. If Joey was smart, and he usually was, he'd leave it at that.

Nick settled back into his chair and lifted his beer, again. He loved this time of day, even in the face of irritating aquatic mammals bothering him about work. For just a moment, the purple was the same shade as her eyes, and it was like she was there again. He sipped and watched the sky until the last dregs in his beer can went the way of the last lights. Then the show was over, and he had things to do. Nick put away the food and secured the cooler. A few minutes later, he was asleep under the stars, dreaming of how it had all begun.

In his dreamscape, it was still six years ago. He was sitting in yet another little cabaret, nursing a moderate lowball of rotgut whiskey. A fox in a nice suit in a dive. He was bored. A little distracted, too. Nothing was exactly wrong, but certainly not right.

Nick had spent the majority of his career in music as a recruiter and talent agent. He'd found his fair share of good ones, making his mark as a clever agent and a ruthless negotiator. His many successes had gained him a reputation and a solid income. That wasn't to say he hadn't had his share of failures. Life was a mix of ups and downs in the industry—like notes on sheet music. Sound and silence.

His last crescendo, apparently, had been a while ago. His standing clients were solid, but he missed having a challenge, and new talent was always a challenge. He likened it to singing a duet. Finding a way to sing in harmony with a new personality was always fraught with worthy challenges. That desire for the new—along with his recent stagnation—was why he was sitting in a smoky hole in the wall, nursing his glass and fiddling with his pocket-watch. At least, that was what Nick would have liked to say.

Not for the first time that evening, he shot a dirty look at his business acquaintance, Finnick. The miserable little sod was at the bar, drinking his weight in beer every ten minutes and hitting on anything that caught his eye. The one consolation was that Nick would get to watch the little menace either try to pick a fight or pick up his reflection in the bar mirror by the end of the night.

When they'd arrived, he'd asked Finnick why they always ended up in these seedy little dives. The answer had not been pleasing.

"Two words, Wilde: Finder's fee. Plus, you get to put your meals and business expenses on your work account, so I get to drink for free on your dime. And you can't whine about it."

"Really, Finn? I'm not feeling the love here."

"All you gotta do is sit there, listen to this crap you call music, and pick up the tab at the end of the night."

Nick had tilted his head to gaze at the smaller vulpine. "So, it's trading my boredom for your beer. Great deal for me."

"Like you got anything else going on, Mister 'No-Vixen-Cuts-It'. Your sorry ass may be fine with spending the rest of your nights alone, but I'm not. Gotta use the pencil while there's still lead in it, you know?" Finnick had laughed at his own attempt at humor and saluted Nick with his beer mug.

"What a… vivid metaphor."

"You know I hate it when you use words I don't know."

"Since I'm paying for your drinks, that's your problem."

"Whatever." Finn had shot his companion a dirty look and taken a long pull from his beer. Swallowing, he'd turned to Nick and said, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to find a little curvier company. If you need anything, I'll be at the bar. You can ask the barman to give you a hand, 'cause I'll be busy." His piece said, the fennec fox had pounded the rest of his beer, hopped to floor, and padded off to the bar. He'd been there since.

Nick was bored.

Not a single act had impressed him. All the musicians and singers possessed talent. All were practiced. Skilled. Unimpressive. They all were told by mommy and daddy that they'd be stars one day, and they had certainly tried. If mediocrity was in vogue, every one of them would be on magazine covers.

Nick was contemplating calling it a night when the next act was announced. He didn't even look up. He wasn't there for the scenery. He was there for the sound. He wanted something magical to make the evening worth the effort of even getting dressed. So few lately had been even worth waking up for

He waved down the waitress in the too-short cocktail dress who had been giving him doe eyes all evening.

"Listen, Sweetheart, I'm feeling like something a little more fun than this fine spirit. Got any suggestions?"

She giggled all the way to her hips. "How about an absinth?"

"Chasing the green, scaled fairy?"

"It's a hell of a drink, or so I hear," she said with a pout.

"Never had it?" he asked.

She leaned in, very openly displaying herself for his enjoyment. "No one to buy it for me."

"I see. For the moment, one for me, if you please."

"And for me, Slick?"

"If you're a good girl, we'll talk after your shift." He punctuated his suggestion with a wink.

The grin she wore as she walked away and the change in her scent told him he'd have her number and the cocktail in under ten minutes. If he wanted, he could have her in twelve, on shift or not. If he wanted. He didn't. Truth told, Nick had no interest at all in her or whatever was under her too-tight wrappings. That was a Yule present some other shmuck could unwrap. However, it was wiser to let her think he was. He didn't want a saliva-based additive in his drink, for one thing.

The drink appeared eight minutes later, along with her number and the time her shift would be done scrawled on a bar napkin. As she left, he got a full sideview of hip with a pheromone chaser. Keeping his eyes from imitating the wheel had never been so challenging. There had once been a great appeal for him in the assertive nature of his species' females. It took all the guesswork out of the equation and there was nothing like having a female make straight for you to deliver an ego boost. In that moment, you knew you were smokin' hot.

Nick's somnolent trip down memory lane was interrupted by an irritating clanging sound, and his eyes popped open. It was dawn. Far too damn early for steel drums. At least Nick's nuisance had waited until morning.

"Joe, I swear to whatever gods there are out here…"

"Nick! Nick, I know. Trust me. This fare will not take no for an answer. This panther has come in every hour the office has been open. He was waiting here when I arrived this morning!"

"You're making me want to stretch my provisions," the fox growled.

"Please! This guy could give a honey badger lessons on tenacity. He's wearing a suit. In this weather. He's either insane, or heat doesn't bother him because he's from Hell itself."

"I'll see you in a month."

"NO! Nicolas Wilde, I swear, I will call your mother if I have to. Please, come back today," Joey begged. "It'll be worth it, I promise."

"Eight days, Joe. Take it or leave it."

"I'll throw in a case of beer and a voucher for the general store."

"Eight."

"Will two cases get me six?" the manatee continued to bargain.

"Bye."

"Don't—!"

Nick ended the call.

He flopped back onto the seat he routinely made his bed and picked up where the dream left off. It didn't take dreams for him to relive it. It was always right there on the tip of his mind.

That night, featherlight strokes across ivory keys tickled his ears and they flicked. A light, somber melody. Peaceful, mourning—yet cheerful. Pleasant enough. He'd heard worse and better. Played from the soul, a piano was second only to the violin for evocation, in his opinion, and followed shortly by the guitar. Blues were his bread and butter. It also paid the bills. Years of hearing cut-rate music had desensitized him. It took a little more than pretty key-work to make him care. Then, the voice joined the music and Nick's world shrank.

A smooth, vibrant soprano rolled across the room. Strident, evocative, burning with emotion. Nick didn't hear the words. He felt them. The music was a lover's caress to his weary mind. For the first time in months, a genuine smile crept onto his face.

The voice was sweet—well trained and practiced—just like all the others, but there was a quality to it that was new. The depth of feeling in every note was staggering. The singer knew pain and loss, joy and disappointment, delight and passion. In every syllable, the emotion of the singer's experiences was felt. It left Nick Wilde, hardened talent agent, breathless. His eyes stung as tears he would later deny began to form. He let his mind and heart twine with the music and (for a little while) forgot about the dirty cabaret, his truculent companion, and overly friendly waitresses.

All too soon, the music drew towards a gentle conclusion, and Nick opened his eyes. Sitting at the piano was a small grey rabbit. He blinked. Petite, pretty as rabbits went, in a lounge dress. She had her eyes closed and swayed with her creation, coaxing the melody into life with a delicate yet firm touch. Not even close to his expectations, not that he knew what he'd expected at that point.

She crooned out her last notes, and her eyes drifted open, as did Nick's mouth. Amaranthine eyes limned with tears raked over the crowd, and the fox at table seven forgot to breathe.

Many times he'd experienced the long fall into, and the tiny stumble out of, love. He'd given up on finding his soulmate long ago. Many times, he'd joked about falling tail over teakettle for an artist's music and had lied every time. He loved music, but had never found anything that truly captivated him.

Until that moment.

His phone rang, again, pulling him from his nostalgia. Nick was getting irritated. This was exactly the kind of nonsense he'd cut so many ties to get away from. If it was Joe, he'd have a few choice four-letter words for the manatee—but it wasn't Joe's ringtone. Just the generic incoming call notification. A russet paw slipped off the bench and picked up the device. Without bothering to look at the screen, he thumb-tapped the power button to decline the call and then held it. As soon as the shutdown sound effect played, the paw went slack and the electronic poptart flopped onto the waiting towel beneath it.

Nick went through the motions of unearthing breakfast before making sail and moving to his next destination. He didn't have one in mind, but he liked to keep moving.

"Part of my mystique," he mused to himself. "The gypsy of the waterways and the boat with the strange name…"

The name was no accident. He'd just never explained. Not even to the people brave enough to ask him.

Something in him had changed the moment his eyes met hers. Those huge wells of purple emotion had sucked him in, and he'd drowned in them. Nick didn't know it at the time—and he refused to say it out loud now—but it was love at first sight. One-sided and unrequited, ass-over-teakettle love. That was why he'd gone toe-to-toe with the cabaret owner over the terms of her employment, eventually bringing in his own lawyer to facilitate the termination. The little hare had been furious, but impotent. He'd known his contract was unethical and doomed under legal scrutiny. Once Nick had the papers signed nullifying her agreement with the cabaret, Nick had offered her his services as an agent.

He'd spent two years grooming her for her debut. Lessons and studio sessions, consultations and coaches—the time had flown by. At the time, he'd been too busy to admit it, but he'd been happy. It had never been stated, but she'd made it clear that love wasn't in her career plan. She was too focused on her music for anything like that. Her past was plenty enough inspiration, according to her, and—as cryptic as it was—Nick understood that was as far as she was willing to discuss it.

He hadn't give up hope, though—right up to the day she'd hit the bigtime and gotten the contract that had made her a star. The little things he had done to show how much he cared were important to him, even though he'd known she'd never catch on. Once she had signed, he'd gotten his cut and it had been worth the investment. The proceeds still came in as part of the contract he had with her. Her manager saw to that. It was plenty and then some to keep him comfortable for the rest of his life. That was not to say he was retiring. At least, that hadn't been Nick's first thought.

It had taken a while for him to realize it, but he needed to get away. After two years of working with her so closely and investing so much into her, nothing was the same. Cabarets and music halls were lifeless places. He could have reconnected with Finnick and gone hunting for another talent to cultivate, but there was no joy in it anymore. His restlessness had grown until it was a plague on his mind. About four months after she'd left, Nick had cracked like an egg in a microwave.

"What the hell do you mean you're leaving?" His mother had been furious.

"Just what I said. Take what you want from my flat, just make sure it's before Thursday. The house clearing crew comes then." The lack of emotion in his voice was in direct contrast to fragile state of his heart.

"I don't understand. Where are you going?"

Flashing his patented smirk, even knowing she couldn't see him, he told her, "I'll figure it out when I get there."

"You're too old for this kind of nonsense," the elderly vixen had groused. "And to tell your mother with a text message! Really!"

"I knew you'd call immediately."

"And that somehow makes it better?"

"You only answer once in a while when I call. This way I knew you'd hear it from me." He could vividly imagine her look of exasperation.

"Oh, very funny. Now, where are you going, you little idiot?"

"Away."

"I do not approve." She sniffed.

He could only shake his head at her passive-aggressive tactics. "I don't need you to. If you're going to be a misery about it, call me when you're feeling less whiny. I have a plane to catch."

"To where?!"

"Anywhere."

She hadn't spoken to him for all of a day before starting her campaign to get him to come home. It ultimately failed. There was nothing for him to come back to. Nick had sold or donated everything he owned and broken his lease. His mail had been sent to a forwarding agency. He'd cut ties with his old crew and friends, for the most part. Only four mammals knew where he'd gone or how to get in touch with him. The list of blocked numbers on his phone was almost absurdly long.

He'd wandered for a bit, but eventually found himself in the islands. There were boats for sale, and he'd found one that he could handle himself and make a buck with from time to time. A few weeks of lessons and some time on the water saw Nicolas Wilde leave land behind for the first time. That night, he'd watched the sunset and fallen in love all over again. His life had become a pattern. The island was never the same twice in a row and the lengths of time at sea were different every time, but the pattern never varied. The sea was where he found the little bit of her he was allowed, and that was where he tried to stay.

Over the following week, the phone rang often. If it wasn't a number he recognized, Nick blocked it. He must have gotten added to a marketing list or something again. It wasn't important. He didn't have a life on land, so anything they might have sold him wasn't an interest. He'd once gotten a call, shortly after getting his boat, about deals on a cruise liner. The salesmammal hadn't appreciated the ten-minute bout of laughter.

Nick made port after eight days, as promised. His phone had finally stopped ringing so much, and he was feeling less harassed. He made the bank and shops in good time. There was no rush, but he liked getting to the marina office earlier rather than later as picking up his fares tended to be an ordeal.

It was almost always a family or a honeymooning couple— mammals who wanted an interesting experience to tell their friends and family about when they got home. Nothing impressive. Just the way he liked it.

This time, however, he got a nasty little surprise.

"What do you mean a singleton fare?"

"I mean exactly that, Nicky boy. Singleton fare, as in one mammal."

The todd made a face and rolled his eyes. "That means they'll want to talk or something. I told you that's what I wanted to avoid."

"This character offered ten times your rate," Joey crowed gleefully, though, to his credit, he tried to keep his enthusiasm to a dull roar.

"Didn't you triple it?"

"Twice."

That got Nick's attention. "I don't care about the money."

"You don't, but I do. Ten times the twice-tripled fare, translates to ninety times my usual cut. You can take it or pay the back the dock fees I've been writing off."

"Come on, Joey. Don't you have anything else?"

"This fare asked for you specifically and has waited around the whole time. So, no. As far as you're concerned, this is the only fare on the island."

"Fine…" he growled, rubbing a paw over his face and muzzle. "Where are they?"

"I showed them to your mooring while you were out." Wasn't that ever so helpful?

"Thanks," Nick grumped. "Make sure the money is transferred before I make land."

"Less my cut, of course."

Nick left the office and grumbled his way back to his mooring, barely paying attention to his surroundings. He was so engrossed in pouting over this inconvenience that he almost missed the fact that his fare was already there. He had one paw on the gunwale when he heard the voice that haunted his memories.

"Hey, Slick. Where do I stow my bag?"

His head rose slowly towards the sound, hoping he wasn't dreaming while dreading that he wasn't.

Standing on the quayside, just beside the piling he had passed, was Judy. The same silken soprano and sucker-punch eyes wearing a sundress. The stained canvas duffel she'd always had was by her feet along with her guitar case, looking like it had made love to a tornado. The same one he'd spent so many nights ribbing her for keeping once she could afford a replacement.

Nick didn't realize anything was wrong until he'd hit the water.