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The first thing Emmitt would tell her was that it burned. Like a rash from a nettle spreading beneath his skin, pollution gushing through his veins like sewage into a river.
Obviously he didn't feel it anymore, the antidote had worked 100%, Judy was sure of it. No side-effects, nothing left over - the pamphlet had listed assurances in bullet points, bullet points she had read over and over as she waited for him to wake up (secretly, she was impressed they took the time to print a pamphlet).
Still, she caught him scratching his neck sometimes, like he was trying to dislodge a phantom thorn. His wrists too, like the poison still burned under his skin.
"Did it hurt?" That was the first thing she had asked. He had immediately assured her, no it hadn't. It felt strange, disturbing, then horrifying as he felt his inhibitions slip away, but it didn't hurt. He had a migraine and a dry mouth, but nothing worse. Her husband knew the symptoms of Nighthowler poisoning more intimately than anyone else in Zootopia (or at least he had, before it reached mainstream news and science), and he and Judy had chatted back and fourth about the effects of different botanical strains for a little while until she'd been called away for police business.
It was over. After more than a week of agony, after begging the police, the media, even the fucking fire department to take her seriously! After having her withering hopes lifted by one of the worst shocks of her life...
She hadn't taken the boys to see Emmitt. Not ever. They had whined and begged, they missed their father. The house was emptier without him - she knew that better than anyone. The bed they'd bought as newly weds for their starter home did an excellent job of drawing attention to the fact that you were alone.
She left work just before lunchtime every day, and spent the rest of the day at the hospital. Some days she couldn't stand it and stayed in the cafeteria, cursing herself and her cowardice. Much more often, she'd make it all the way to the glass and just-
Stand there. All day. Watching.
He didn't even know she was there.
He still didn't.
She hovered in the space between the kitchen and the hallway, watching.
Four claw marks. One on his right shoulder, the other three on the left arm. A bite mark on his leg. All now hidden by his pyjamas. Nighthowler venom did funny things to the mind. Everything was an enemy, even your own body. Everyone was an animal, the primordial kind. Every sensation was a desperate clawing hunger - except you always flinched away from food. It was remarkable how long a body could sustain itself running on pure rage. There had been a lot of talk, scientists and doctors discussing how they would get these "savage" animals to eat. In retrospect it made sense, Judy had said. Anyone afflicted would be too busy thrashing and clawing and biting to consider their own sustenance. But it was all okay now. No side effects.
He still flinched from the light. Judy had told her it was one of the first things she noticed, how the animal she'd found in her husband's body had snarled and sprinted from the light of her torch. Every time a light switch was flicked on, he blinked. He'd never done that before. It wasn't huge, but it was something.
He didn't eat nearly as much. He avoided play-wrestling with the boys. He didn't sleep as much either.
It was remarkable how long a body could sustain itself.
"Are you going to stand there and stare at me all night, darling?"
His hearing, sharp as ever. She swallowed as she crossed the threshold from the shadows of the stairs into their kitchen, lit up by an electric lamp on the table.
Emmitt had one of their books from the top shelf in front of him, the sort the boys used to build castles with for their toy soldiers. One of the colossal ancient tomes of botany he'd purchased during college and never read... until now that was.
"I don't know," she teased, her voice raspier than she remembered it. Crying for weeks on end did that to you. "Are you going to read all night?"
"Perhaps," he murmured.
"Emmitt, it's two in the morning."
He turned to face her and... oh how her heart melted. His fur was rumpled, glasses askew, blinking at her with those big eyes the same way he did in the mornings, fumbling with one hand to turn off their alarm clock. Decades of memories flowed through her in a single glance, pushing away those most recent and replacing them with something good.
"Did I wake you?" He asked, earnest as always.
She decided to be earnest in turn. "I couldn't sleep," she confessed, coming to sit beside him. The book he was reading had been designed for animals much larger than themselves - it took up almost all of the kitchen table where their children would eat breakfast in four hours. She wondered how he'd even gotten it down from the top of the bookshelf without help.
Emmitt covered her hand with his, eyes darting back to the page. "Did you know that Nightweeper - colloquial cousin of the Midnicampum - can stay in the bloodstream for up to six weeks? Of course, its effects dissipate as soon as the body manages to flush it out. A strong immune system is all it takes. The flowers are nearly identical too."
"I didn't know that," she hummed, leaning over to smooth the ragged fur on his face and neck. The spot where the flower had first touched his skin must be somewhere beneath her paws. She was glad she did not know where.
"There are folktales about all the flowers in that family, most originating in rural spaces... one disadvantage of modern society and building a city from scratch, I suppose."
"Emmitt-"
His shoulders sagged and he groggily rubbed a paw across his face, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead and squeezing his eyes shut.
"Why did it have to be us?" He whimpered.
Because we're small. Because we're weak. Because we lose our minds a bit, financially speaking, when it's the boys' birthdays or holidays or tax season. Because Mr Big cuts your biggest paycheque and because you're the sort of genius the world doesn't know it needs until it's too late. Emmitt could have cured those fourteen other mammals in four seconds flat.
She pressed her face into the junction between his chin and shoulder and just... breathed with him for as long as she could. His arms fell around her shoulders and held her, further pushing the dark memories to the recesses of her mind.
When she emerged, he was staring at his hands again, tracing the scratch mark scar with what was left of his claws (the hospital had filed them down to stumps and nobody had complained).
"Does it hurt?" she asked.
"It's healed," he sighed.
"That's not what I asked, is it?"
He chuckled. "I suppose not." He still didn't answer. He didn't need to. She knew him as well as she knew herself.
Together they stood up, hauled the book closed and pushed it to the edge of the table, to worry about tomorrow. He turned the lantern off. As she took his hand and led him up the stairs, another memory resurfaced, a memory from long ago. Of a night far away from the city, under the stars. Swimming in the river and cooking over a fire and laughing and talking until the sun rose.
They collapsed into their bed and wrapped their bodies around each other, the way they had on the riverbank - their first date - and so many times after that. She traced the scratch marks on his shoulder and he smoothed the fur on the back of her neck, also ragged from lack of sleep.
"Goodnight dear," he murmured, in that voice she had once been sure she would never hear again.
"Goodnight," she whispered, and finally she knew it would not be the final time he heard it.