Warnings: None.
Pairings: None.
Disclaimer: I don't own Zootopia. I just wrote a story.
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Evidence, Item #1: Paperwork
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"One more shot. One more shot," Nick mutters to himself as he gingerly makes the last crease in his mileage log sheet.
"That's what you said the last five times," Judy reminds him from somewhere over his shoulder.
Grinning in spite of himself, Nick shakes his head without turning around. "Can it, carrot," he says. "Can't you see I'm concentrating?" To the sound of her laughter, he draws his elbow back and takes aim before flinging the paper out of the window in one quick motion.
The pair of them watches as the folded airplane glides in the evening breeze, the fiery orange of the setting sun catching on the white of its wings. It flutters in a dangerously wide arc, much too wide to hit the trash can Nick has been targeting, until a gust of wind from a passing car sweeps it back on track. With a tiny, almost inaudible plink, its nose butts the very top inch of the can and it falls inside.
"Yes!" Nick exclaims, throwing his fists in the air as he leans back in his seat. "Did you see that?" He swivels to look at Judy, who is by now staring purposefully at her own stack of paperwork.
"See what?" she replies, and if it weren't for her mischievous smile, he might have believed she hadn't been leaning forward for a better view same as him.
"That was a genius throw," he says, scooting his chair back into place.
"That was a stroke of luck," she retorts primly, picking up her pen to return to work.
"It was talent," Nick says. "Come on, Judy, don't you want to fold some airplanes, too? We could make a game of it, unless you're not sure you can take me on?"
"What I want," Judy replies, hiding a smile, "is for my partner to stop putting paper into the trash. We have a recycling program here, remember?"
"Yeah, but the recycling bins are so far...and there are lids on them," Nick moans, turning to the window where the row of green bins sits across the street.
Judy just snorts, shaking her head in the way that indicates she's done with this line of conversation. She settles forward into her seat, lavender eyes moving with the words on the page as she taps a pen absentmindedly on the edge of the desk, and Nick knows he's lost her.
Sighing, he leans back in his chair until it's in danger of toppling over, staring morosely at his own stack of paperwork. If he'd known in advance how much paperwork a member of the ZPD had to do, he might have thought twice about joining. Well, alright, not really—but it does seem like an egregious waste of time to him, detailing every daily incident from an activity log to gas slips and from paw print documentation to equipment requisition forms. And so boring.
In his chats with the other officers, all of them assure Nick that the paperwork gets a little easier over time, though it never really goes away. Once you have a sense of what to fill out when, and which sections aren't really needed, it cuts back on the time spent.
But that doesn't really help Nick right now. As is becoming habit, he and Judy are the last mammals in the ZPD bullpen at the end of the day. The police station is still not outfitted with desks for animals of their lightweight class, so Chief Bogo had an officer ask the schoolhouse down the street to borrow a table, which now balances atop the larger heavyweight class desk near a window in the corner of the room. The added height, Nick thinks, is mostly so Chief Bogo doesn't have to bend over to talk to them, but it has the added bonus of giving them a great view out of the window.
Out of the open window, where the world smells fresh after the last of the morning's rain. The dying sunlight glints on the slick puddles covering the walkway two stories below. A trio of young raccoons splashes through, giggling and pulling their tails around to their stomachs to keep their fur dry. In the distance is the rattle of a tram just out of sight on the rail line, probably on its way to drop off its assortment of suited mammals heading home for the day. A breeze brings a whiff of spices and the smell of gafflower fritters right into Nick's face, and he inhales deeply and heaves a sigh, leaning against the window pane.
A few weeks ago, he would have been out there in the wide open air with everyone else, enjoying a moment of peace after a hard day's work—well, alright, work would be a strong word—and ready to find something thrilling to do in the heart of the city or else head home for some rest. Not that he doesn't still get to do those things, but paperwork eats a fair amount of his former free time these days.
At the sound of his sigh, Judy looks up. "It's just so nice outside," he says, turning in his seat. "And I'm starving. And we're stuck doing paperwork instead of eating whatever it is they're roasting around the corner. Can you believe it?"
His partner rests one cheek on a tiny fist, the fur around her whiskers fluffing, and stares at him. Nick works his face out of its usual lazy, self-satisfied expression and into something more earnest. It's not that he's hustling her, exactly—by now, both of them know exactly what he's doing—but he knows that her sympathy flares up in spite of herself whenever he looks particularly sincere.
"You could probably swindle a mob boss," Judy mutters under her breath, but when Nick places a paw over his heart in a dramatic you-wound-me sort of way, she smiles and rolls her eyes. "Oh, give me the rest of yours. We both know you're only going to fill them out halfway anyway."
Without hesitation, he slides his stack of papers toward her. "You, my friend, are a mammal of exemplary quality—"
"Shut up and get us some gossip," she retorts, shooing him away. "Did officers Sing and Adam ever find that badger stealing from the Snarlbucks cash register?"
"You'll know when I do," Nick says cheerfully, and he hops off the side of the table and onto the floor, rolling his shoulder blades until they crack. The room widens around him, the legs of tables and chairs creating a claustrophobic forest between him and the door, and Nick hesitates, turning back. After a moment, he clambers onto a chair, pressing his elbows onto the edge of the table. It's not like I'm leaving the worst of it to her, he reasons. We do all of the important papers together, and it's only the stupid mileage logs and squad car checks and call reports I can't stand. "You really don't mind, do you, Carrot?"
"What?" Judy asks absently, not looking up from the paper right away. "Oh, no, it's fine. You—" she blinks down at something on the page, frowning suspiciously, and then picks it up so he can see it. "Nick. Why are there doodles of blueberry muffins in the margins of this tow truck log form?"
"Oh, will you look at the time?" Nick says easily, baring his teeth in a half-grin, half-grimace. He slinks off the chair before she can protest, shoving his paws into the pockets of his regulation trousers as he weaves in and out of the tables. Just as he reaches the door, something hits the back of his head with a soft plink. He turns around, scratching his fur, to find a paper airplane lying on the floor a few feet away. He looks up in surprise.
Judy is perched primly in her chair, one eyebrow raised. "Bogo's gonna kill you one day, you know," she tells him.
"No, he won't. Not with you to watch my back," he replies easily.
She grumbles something that sounds like lucky you under her breath, but she doesn't sound unhappy. Nick smiles and turns smartly on his heel.
Lucky indeed. Lucky he found a partner who thinks his shifty shenanigans are endearing instead of obnoxious.
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What they don't teach you in the academy is the value of gossip.
Facts are valuable too, obviously. Nothing can compete with the rigidity of the truth, and the truth is what makes its way into every report and form and document an officer submits. But if you don't have all the facts yet, gossip is the next best thing—at least for someone who knows what to do with it. A decent rumor might not be trustworthy, and it might not even align with the truth in the end, but to a shrewd officer, it can point the way to answers.
No one knows this better than Nick. Con artists make a living off of hearsay: are the whispers about a demented boss based in truth, or are they a malicious attempt to have her reprimanded for "erratic behavior?" Are the rumormongers really concerned about the integrity of a bridge being built between two districts, or are they worried about the state of the neighborhood? Are rumors about a fellow student's weird habits just playful gossip, or are they signs of underlying tension and bullying?
And then, of course, it's all about who spills the gossip and how they say it. The whole thing is exceedingly complex—much more complex than the standard facts, which have to be carefully dug out of the hearsay over time—but Nick's a professional when it comes to rumors. The fox prides himself on his ability to get more out of a whisper than some mammals can get out of a full confession.
So at the end of every day, Nick goes off to do what he does best: sift through the day's gossip. The best place to do this is usually the breakroom, but it's late. Nick can already hear that the halls are empty of the usual growling laughter and whinnying that signifies the other officers' conversations. It's a disappointment, because there are few rumors as helpful as those swapped between officers, but there's no help for it.
Nick could probably catch them if he had to; Officer Fhum and some of the other welterweights are partial to plum sours at the Gallop Inn after work, or maybe at Infinite Monkey Tavern. But he'd rather wait for Judy—not that he says as much to her face, of course, but she knows he always hangs around until she's done.
Barring gossip with the other officers, the next best thing is a chat with Clawhauser at reception: the radio dispatcher is like a magnet for the latest news and gossip all in one place, meaning that Nick won't have to seek info from multiple sources. Decided, Nick changes direction and pads down the hallway toward the front entrance.
Surrounded by empty boxes of food, the cheetah is slumped over onto the desk, paws resting under his chin and eyes half-lidded in obvious boredom. It's around this time of the evening that the dispatcher's boundless energy simmers into something a little more low-key in anticipation of his clock out at seven.
"Claws!" Nick calls lazily.
The cheetah straightens at once, turning to face Nick with a beaming smile. "Officer Wilde! Thank. Goodness. It's always so weirdly quiet in here in the evening."
Nick hops onto the stool the maintenance staff placed near the desk specifically for Judy and him, which helps make sure Clawhauser doesn't break his back leaning over the lip of the table to talk to them. "Tell me about it. I guess the others are all out?"
"Yeah, they barely even stayed long enough to hear the news," Clawhauser replies morosely, beginning to pile the empty boxes together.
Nick's ears perk up. "The news?"
"Sweet fudge nuggets," Clawhauser says, turning to him with wide eyes. "You haven't heard?"
"We've been in the bullpen all evening," Nick explains, pressing his elbows onto the edge of the table.
Clawhauser leans onto the desk, ears flicking a little in the way that happens when he's sure he's got good news. "Well," he replies excitedly, inhaling before launching into a breathless exclamation, "you wouldn't know, then, because this just came out, and I mean just, but Gazelle is in talks to host this year's Rammys! Can you believe it? It's always been hosted by guys before—last couple years, it's been those bighorn groups out of West Woolton—and it's just such a huge deal, I mean, girl power for real right now, am I right?"
All of a sudden, Nick remembers why he doesn't usually get gossip from Clawhauser. "Wow, that's...really something," he replies, letting his ears fall back into place. "Do—"
"And it's all because of her last single, you know. No one's saying it, but I swear it is. I mean, that was just too good not to be an award winner. Have you heard it?"
"Uh—actually—"
"Oh, no, that's okay! Look, I have it right here. Let me just…"
Concealing a sigh as Clawhauser pulls out his phone, Nick resigns himself to listening to the song in its entirety, probably multiple times. The music video for Your Hide and My Fur, he learns, features scantily clad outfits and (as the name might suggest) way more visible fur than seems strictly necessary. Nick's good at being a phony, though, and he can feign curiosity with the best of them provided that it's in his best interest. Fortunately, after nearly a quarter of an hour, Clawhauser either notes his disinterest or finally tires of discussing the finer points of Gazelle's groundbreaking dance style, because he allows Nick to steer the subject of their conversation back to police work.
As it turns out, there's nothing of particular interest: this afternoon's warrant for the Snarlbucks thief doesn't seem to be related in any way to the mushroom smuggling case he and Judy are working, and other than the fact that Officers Francine and Fhum are in another fight (something about upholding their records for the highest number of arrests), the day has been a slow one for the ZPD.
"Oh, but you can bet they'll get over it," Clawhauser assures Nick. "They've been at this for almost three decades, and they could start a blood feud over who has better handwriting and then make up over some spiked willow-bark punch ten minutes later. Nothing like you and Judy," he adds, flicking his tail in lazy circles at his back. "Where is Judy, anyway?"
"Oh, wrapping up some paperwork," Nick says. He peers at the clock above the hallway leading to the bullpen: almost a quarter past six. Not the latest they've ever been by far.
Clawhauser hums, resting his chin on his fists. Rolls of fur spill over either side. "That little bunny's gonna burn out in a heartbeat," he states, almost absentmindedly.
There's something very solemn in his voice, something decided that makes the fur on Nick's shoulders stand up. "What do you mean by that?" he asks.
His expression must have melted into something anxious or angry, because Clawhauser hurries to add, "Oh. You know, just—nothing. Really, nothing at all." The cheetah fidgets, drumming his fingers against the desk. Nick waits for a few beats, trying to appear more patient than he feels, and Clawhauser finally sighs. "You know how rabbits are—it's in their biology or something. They're all...hardworking, and dedicated. Farmers, and whatever. They're always off toiling away on some field somewhere to help grow food for the rest of us. Which is great! Food is great."
"You're babbling, Claws," Nick says tiredly.
"Alright, alright." He rubs a paw over the back of his head. "Do you know how many rabbits have made it past even the first stage of the Academy? None. Not to say that many of them apply; I mean in the years I've been here, there've been, like...maybe sixty or seventy rabbits who applied for stations across the city. Compared with a couple thousand of the other animals from welterweight and middleweight and heavyweight classes. But even so, to not make it past the first stage? And it's not from lack of trying, it's just that they're used to constant work, I guess. And so they...overdo it. Burn out. Even with the basics like studying and materials. Dunno what it is, 'cause I've met tons of rabbits who seem laid back most of the time, but you get a rabbit in a room and tell him to get to work, and he'll throw himself at whatever you put in front of him. Even if it's too much all at once."
Nick takes a moment to let all of this sink in. Clawhauser, obviously uncomfortable, begins tidying his desk once more. "Not Judy," Nick says finally.
"Well, obviously! I mean, she made it way past the first stage. She's done! And that means she probably knows what she's doing now."
Probably, Nick agrees, though his stomach is sinking. Maybe letting her do some of his share of the paperwork isn't the best idea after all—but it's not like he's noticed any warning signs. This is Judy, after all. She'll chase a galloping antelope without a second thought and brush off any injuries with a spring in her step.
"Besides," Clawhauser adds thoughtfully after a moment, "she has you. A partner. Applicants are going it alone, you know? And you're pretty levelheaded about your work."
Which is a diplomatic way of saying that Nick takes a more lenient approach to things like due dates. "Yeah," Nick replies, rubbing his chin. "Yeah, I guess I'll just have to make sure to rub off on her."
"Hey, guys!" a voice says from over Nick's shoulder. He turns to find Judy standing in the hall leading from the bullpen, a cheerful grin splitting her face. She skips over—positively skips, like a schoolbunny—to meet them at reception, where she hops onto the stool beside Nick. "Nick, I thought you'd have gone already?"
She seems genuinely pleased that he's waited, as she always is. It's one of the things Nick likes about her, the fact that he always knows what he's getting. Being friends with other con artists used to make it hard to tell when someone was being sincere or when they were patting you on the back just in order to ask you for favors later. With Judy, there's no mistaking that she's glad of his company.
"What would I do without my favorite partner to nag me about everything?" he replies, easily falling into their usual banter. "How did the rest of the paperwork go?"
"Oh, it's all done. I scanned it all and left it on Chief Bogo's desk."
Probably with detailed diagrams and a list of footnotes to boot, Nick thinks. He coughs, glances uneasily at Clawhauser, and adds, "Maybe I really should have stayed to finish. It's probably not good to have you doing so much of it."
"Are you kidding?" Judy asks teasingly. "We want it to be legible, remember?"
"Is his handwriting that bad?" Clawhauser writes, leaning forward to get whatever juicy drama he can squeeze from their conversation. Nick shoots him a wounded glare, which he ignores.
"It's worse than you're imagining," Judy replies, patting Clawhauser's wrist. They share identical predatory grins—which, really, Judy shouldn't have been able to manage, given her dainty, conventionally prey-like face. "And besides that, did you know that your notes are about twenty-eight percent shorter than mine are, on average?"
Nick sputters in surprise. "What? You just made a number up!" He laughs.
"Nope!" she retorts pleasantly. "The word count for your scans was lower than mine, and I wanted to see how much."
"Is it my fault that I don't need detailed notes? Everything I need is up here," Nick says, tapping a finger against his head.
Judy rolls her eyes, as much for Clawhauser's benefit as for Nick's. "Right. Except last week, when we were called out for that criminal trespassing case for the Canine Friendly Society out in Rainforest District, and you conveniently forgot that your old pal—"
"Aaaand that's enough of that," Nick interrupts, pressing a paw to her face. He feels her smile beneath the pads of his paw as Clawhauser leans forward eagerly. "How 'bout we discuss the rest of the case? Maybe over dinner?"
"The Warren Cafe," Judy chirps, pulling his paw away. "You're buying."
Nick feigns a groan, but he's satisfied with how things turned out. Judy makes their excuses to Clawhauser ("Oh, fine, just leave me," he wails dramatically. "I'll just have to blast Gazelle over the loudspeakers again, since no one's here...") and they set off into the violet twilight of Zootopia.
As they walk, Judy rambling aimlessly about the new alfalfa tea she's been dying to try, Nick watches her carefully for signs of—what? Fatigue? Anxiety? Stress? If she's feeling overworked, Judy never shows it. It's only when she elbows him pointedly in the side, asking what's nipping at his tail, that he shakes the thoughts off.
"I was just thinking that you rabbits have the weirdest taste. I mean, seriously. Alfalfa? Who thought that was a good idea?"
And then it's a good-natured argument. And all is right with the world.
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