your legs start running (and your head gets caught); or, nick's point of view.
/
notes: sorry for the delay in updates! my computer broke down the other day, so I had to do all my writing on my sisters ipad. this update is sloppy and the writing is definitely not my finest, but I'm trying to get myself to write more without revising so much along the way. this is my first time writing in second person, and I'm not gonna lie, it was a struggle. nevertheless, please enjoy this update, and don't be afraid to send requests!
EDIT 2/21/2017: i fixed some parts of it because some of the writing was absolutely atrocious and even though i told myself i wasn't going to revise here i am . so what are you gonna do about it
/
The officer is a joke.
It―she―happens during a hustle―a relatively easy one, you're thinking; it's just trying to buy a jumbo pop, for god's sake. Theoretically, it's a walk in the park, but you didn't intend it to be tedious and the ill-tempered elephant is more difficult than you'd have expected. It's okay, though, it's still just a walk in the park with a couple extra hurdles to trip over, and you're pretty sure you've got the situation under control until the rabbit hops in.
She's a pretty little thing, you'll admit it―strikingly violet eyes against light gray, noticeably wide hips, little bit delicate and a little bit rough at the same time. She's all quiet heroism but blazing intentions, and she's too short and too young and too naive for her own good. Her eyes are enormously cheerful and her meter maid hat looks absolutely ridiculous.
She handles the situation remarkably well―bringing up that health code violation―and you know that she's one of those: a small town hick, itching with ambition and trying to reach for goal after goal with starry eyes. It takes everything to keep yourself from making a snide comment about the her neon vest or the carrot pen clipped to her belt because she's helping you, no matter how stupid she looks, and you'd take a free hustle over delivering a cheap insult any day.
And when you carry the cherry red popsicle out of the shop with your wrist held in Finnick's calloused paw, she looking up at you with that optimistic gleam in her eyes and you're thinking that orange doesn't look too bad on her. Probably gets better with age, and you're thinking that it's a safe bet that the ugly thing's going to be on her for a long time.
She makes a comment about how "articulate" you are―you almost snort, it's that bad, the way she's looking at you―but it seems like she genuinely believes in your constructed story, so it's really not too hard to smile and wave goodbye. But it's not before you leave when you notice the plastic gleam of her fox repellent, clipped right next to the carrot pen.
You honestly don't know what you expected, but you did not expect that.
/
She follows you, and it's almost as creepy as it sounds, except that she's a bunny with fox repellent and something resembling the hero syndrome, and you're fine with playing games. Actually, you look forward to when she confronts you. Which she does.
And when she does, it's exactly how you imagined it, her tapping her foot and pointing at you in an endearingly harmless attempt at being menacing. You can't lie, you're feeling smug and even more smug when you point out your permits and practically predict her future—it really is a game, and you're pretty sure you've just won a couple bonus points when you can see her face fall.
If it's not that, it's the resentment of her thinking that she knows everything about your life, which shows itself when she declares indignantly that you've never known hard work in your life. And you have. So you deliver your line point-blank, all clean corners, because you're thinking now that games aren't fun when the other won't play, and that this bunny needs to understand that's she going to get walked over. And that you'll be the first to do it.
You catch a glimpse of repellent as you walk away.
God, do you hope to never see her again.
/
Of course, you have to consider that nothing in your life usually goes your way, especially when the rabbit scoots up to you in her clown cart the next morning, smiling a little less than cordial, flipping open a legal pad. "Hi there!" she's saying, and you're groaning internally, because this rabbit is a goddamn pest. Also, you haven't had a coffee yet, because Finnick was running late. You've already decided that he's going to pay for it later.
You reply with something humorously biting; honestly, you can't remember anything except for the stung look on the bunny's face, so mission accomplished. As a result, she cuts in front of you, has the nerve to hustle you―with her stupid carrot pen and federal tax evasion, what the hell, you doesn't even know her name―and use your catchphrase right back at you. And it's too early in the morning so before you know it, Finnick—the traitor—is laughing his ass off and stumbling away, clutching his stomach and—
You seethe.
You suppose that's exactly why you're so willing to take her to the Naturalist Club on 4th Street.
/
You learn too much about the bunny.
It's a double-edged blade, considering the circumstances. You finally figure out her name—Judy—and it sounds exactly like her. She's the annoying liberal type with the imprinted conservative mindset and not to mention unbearably impatient—two traits you find yourself exploiting because of how easily she allows you to. It's a dynamic that you find yourself entertained with; Judy, all no-nonsense and flushed all over with pure kinetic energy, and your teases and jabs that she deftly dodges.
On the other hand, she's reckless and unbearably optimistic and hasty; her thoughts are all scrambled and messy as she murmurs them under her breath while jotting down notes. She's straightforward and peppy and passionate for another. In fact, she's too passionate. Her temper is too quick, her beliefs are too strong, she is too inexperienced. Everything she is, she is too much.
In twelve hours, you've figured out her strengths, her weaknesses, exactly how to push her buttons. You've found all these flaws, but when she's talking it's like they don't even exist. Her flaws are her strengths and it's strange.
An hour later, as Big is kissing her on the cheek, it occurs to you that her heart is too good.
For some reason, for this reason, you follow her into Rainforest District.
/
The bunny is a joke that saves your life.
She doesn't just save your life once—no, she saves your life twice, which might be embarrassing if you aren't currently free falling to your death, whipping past branches and tumbling through the canopy, only to be lashed into a binding of vines, bound shoulders to feet next to the rabbit, who's pressed to your side.
Her heartbeat is fast, and her pulse is strong against your own, and you can feel the rising and falling of her chest straining against the grip of the vines. They're upside down—which is a problem, because blood's rushing to your head, and you're thinking that the thing about hanging upside down helping clear your thoughts, that's a lie, because the earthy dampness of Judy next to you makes you feel disoriented. Like you had never known who she was until this moment.
And your head continues to spin on the way up the canopy again, as the captain throws offhanded comments about her being a bunny—your fists clench involuntarily and you doesn't know why—and the hike up the mountain is tedious and silent and yet full of Judy; her presence is stronger than she knows and wraps its warmth into the suddenly still air.
Your head's still doing circles when she's being talked down by the captain. She looks vulnerable in this light, silvery and hooded in dark green shadows, standing in front of the buffalo, whose enormous arms gesture toward her. You're thinking again about how she's delicate and rough at the same time, because she looks like a beaten down doll left in the rain for too long. She looks ready to shatter into shards of glass and you're not too sure this time that the shards aren't going to cut you.
So you stand up. You talk back, something you've been good at for years and years, something finally having a purpose other than dealing with felonies or smooth talking your way into money, and you can feel the warmth of Judy curl in your veins. You're not going to lie, it feels good to do something different.
You open the cable car door for her and you don't look back.
/
The sting of the resulting situation comes quick and fast, only hours after the press conference. Inevitable, you say, a halfhearted attempt to convince yourself that it was bound to happen anyway, but the bite stings sharp and the wound aches and simmers with sores. And it really isn't so easy to convince yourself that she was using you all along when you think back, because all of your memories are full of Judy's laughter and faith and the warmth of her against you, and maybe even something like friendship.
But wounds heal and pain subsides and you're okay, you think. It's been months after all, and it's not like you're ever going to see the rabbit again.
/
Unprecedented situations are usual for Judy Hopps apparently, and she comes racing to the bridge that you've been hanging out under. You don't know how she found you, and she doesn't bother to disclose that information to you when she bounds to your side, shouting about night howlers. All of a sudden, the sting of three months ago is fresh again. Something in you turns your back to her, something makes you walks down the end of the tunnel without a word.
And Judy Hopps is naive but not stupid, and she breaks down behind you. She's straightforward as always, brutally honest, and this time, genuinely ashamed. Her voice, normally sunny, is thick with tears.
You reach in your pocket and your claw clicks against the button of the carrot pen recorder.
You let go of a breath.
You forgive her.
"I really am just a dumb bunny," she sobs.
You smile for the first time in three months.
/
She trusts you.
And this time, as she's whispering her crazy, dangerous, insane plan in your ear at the Natural History Museum, you trust her too.
/
The press isn't something that you've ever done, but during that cloudy afternoon it's easy to see that Judy acts even more of a rookie than you do. The press conference happens only hours after being taken out of the exhibit, and the two of you haven't bothered to change out of your clothes.
Judy's leaning against a crutch this time. She's clearly nervous, and she's playing with something in the pocket of her jeans; a folded slip of paper, you realize, a bit of a creamy yellow now and worn on the edges. You figure out what it is before she tells you.
"I was going to give it to you after the press conference," she confesses, taking out the application. It quivers a little as she holds it against her gingham shirt. "I kept it after the last press conference. It reminded me of you, and I wanted to return it to you one day. Ideally," here she chokes out a laugh, "a day where things were alright."
"So you still thought I was going to join the ZPD after what happened?"
"Well, sure," Judy says. Shrugs. "I wasn't kidding when I said you'd make a good cop. Or when I said that I couldn't do it without you." She hands you the application with a long breath and smiles. "I would rather stay a beat cop with you than be a detective on my own."
You take the application. It's smoother than the last time you held it, not as crisp. "Oh, you bunnies," you tease again, and a genuine smile blooms on her face as quickly as her blush does. "You all have such attachment issues. Get a grip, fluff."
"You'd be lying if you didn't say you were attached to me, seeing how fast you were willing to help me," she says back lightly.
You click your tongue and shake your head. "Don't convince yourself of delusional things," you scoff. "Are you recording this, rabbit? That's low."
She laughs.
/
You really don't see Judy face to face again until the inauguration. It takes a lot longer to become a cop than you'd originally expected, with one year of online college courses of criminal justice and half a year during that time for police academy is tough, tougher than any physical exercise you've had in a while now, but while you aren't valedictorian, you certainly aren't at the bottom of the rankings. You video chat with her a lot, with the intended purpose of how can I poke a loophole in this exercise, and it ends up mostly consisting of her spewing out motivational quotes from multiple sources and your quips about the other cadets.
The inauguration arrives on the sunniest day of the year, and blue skies wraps itself over the metal folding chairs on the lawn. The two of you had chatted for hours last night, Judy practicing her speech over and over and you pretending not to be queasy; and, as you sit in your chair, you find that your nerves have only intensified since last night. Mayor Lionheart makes an appearance with a speech full of pointless rhetoric, providing hardly insightful opinions, such as "this graduating class will achieve great things!" and "these future cops will do everything to help Zootopia." You can see Judy in her blues, her paws folded in her lap, her ears down and her eyes ultraviolet.
Finally, Lionheart stops talking, and gestures to Judy, who stands up. The crowd pauses its halfhearted applause to watch her make her way up to the podium. As you're watching her, it's like deja vu; the intensity of her eyes, the uniform a little loose around her waist, delicate and rough at the same time. Except this time she's―you blink―powerful. There's a quiet, empathetic power about her this time, and you're thinking that if this rabbit came into intervene about some ice cream, you'd take her seriously. Suddenly, your nerves evaporate in the sun.
Of course, the spell over the audience breaks when the footstool to help her reach the microphone is too short, and when she calls out "A little help?" the crowd chuckles good naturedly. That's the magic of Judy Hopps, you think. Compelling yet accessible.
Someone brings her a ladder, and she thanks them excessively, while hopping up the ladder, gripping the sides to steady herself. "I'm fine, I'm fine," she assures everyone, clearing her throat. "Not bunny friendly, I suppose."
Everyone laughs with her. She finds you in the crowd and you can see her smile widening.
"I guess that's a good place to start," she begins. She clears her throat; you know her next words already by heart. "A lot of people told me that the police academy wasn't 'bunny friendly' either. When I was a kid…"
/
"God, it's so damn hot in this car!" Judy exclaims, jabbing at the air conditioning button. "I'm freaking burning to death."
They're on a patrol in Sahara Square, looking for a reckless driver that crashed into a tailor shop who drove away from the scene. It's a slow day, and the driver still hasn't shown at the supposed location, and they've been doing circles around the same couple of blocks looking for them.
"Ooh, we've got a potty mouth," you muse sarcastically. "What, can't take the heat?"
"It got plenty hot in Bunnyburrow," Judy replies defensively, rolling down the window. She groans when a wave of heat sweeps into the car. "It just wasn't this humid. Or sandy. Why is there sand everywhere?"
"Uh, it's Sahara Square?"
"Shut up, Slick." she sighs, collapsing against the driver's seat. "Why aren't you complaining? Weren't you just saying that the heat wave Downtown was making you itchy yesterday?"
You cast an amused glance at her. "I just molted."
"In one night?"
"Suffer in silence, sweetheart."
"Ugh, I hate you."
You grin. "You know you love me."
"Why do you have to pull that everyday?" she grumbles. "Yes, I do. Give me my binoculars back."
