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They had worked on the case late into the evening, and the snacks had not provided much of a break, Hopps talking out theories between bites.
Now, Clawhauser leaned forward, drumming one hand on the breakroom table. A few crumbs on the tabletop from Clawhauser's doughnuts shifted. The smears from Hopps's warmed-over carrots and Nick's own (smaller than elephant-sized) popsicle did not.
"My parents never called me a tryer," Clawhauser said. His nose wrinkled, and Nick cross-referenced that detail with Clawhauser's tone to add to his mental store of particular feline expressions: envy.
Clawhauser continued, "I'm not, really. About most stuff, anyway. But sometimes, I push at something, and it feels too hard, and then I listen to Gazelle's best song." (Everyone in the precinct knew Clawhauser considered "Try Everything" to be that one, if they listened to him at all. Nick listened.)
Clawhauser's ears tilted. "I even breathe in when she sings 'Take a deep breath'. That helps." Hopps was fidgeting, but Nick nodded, keeping his own ears pricked towards their colleague as Clawhauser said, "Maybe you've done enough. For tonight, anyway. You can go back to trying in the morning, right?" He sounded sincere. "We'll keep trying."
Hopps shoved her chair with one big foot. "I always do."
Nick cleared his throat pointedly, and Hopps smiled at him, just a little. "We will," she corrected herself. Then with a wide-fingered wave that brought in Clawhauser, "We all will."