humanityinahandbag:

This is no longer a WIP. But honestly, Nicholas Wilde is a WIP himself. So it counts.

Nick Wilde is a coward, and when he says, “stranger things have happened then loving you,” he means I don’t deserve. It. This. You. Because cowards have a habit of knowing when they’re undeserving, and he’s long ago fallen into that category with the cheaters and the liars and the jaywalkers who are too good for animals like the one who stands loyally beside him.

Judy Hopps-

the one who he doesn’t deserve. who no one deserves. who deserves all

-scoffs at the idea of it, and flips her ears behind her shoulder. “Nick.” And she says his name like he doesn’t have history grand enough for textbooks. “Please.”



“It’s true.”



Judy Hopps takes his hands and kisses him, whispering into his mouth that stranger things have happened to all, but she (oh, but she) was never one of them. “I am yours,” she chimes, and her lungs sing fresh cut grass and spiked ice tea and summer breezes interrupted by a sky full of space. She’s space. She’s moons, stars, space, suns. “That’s just fact, Nicholas.”



She is brave, unlike him. She’s the sun, the clouds, the air- bravery everywhere. Some days it shines. Others (most) he comes away with burns.



“You’re damn filthy liar.”

“And you’re too wonderful to pretend that I don’t deserve you.”



She says things like this as if it won’t twist his chest up into sailors knots and keep him at bay. There’s a sea before him, and he wants to take it. Wants to drift about until he’s lost and possibly (definitely) forgotten. But Judy’s the sea. She’s the coral and the depth and the dark and the light catching waves and the sand that stays and sticks and travels: when he thinks that way, he thinks of what he’d give her. In exchange. For what he owes.



“You’re everything.”

“Liar,” she parrots him. “I’m just Judy.”

“You’re not just anything. And I’d give you everything.” A kiss between the ears is deflected by a quick snap of her wrist. “Everything.”

“Liar.”



“I’d give you the flowers.” Says Nick. “And the grass. And the trees.”

“What about the weeds?”

“You’re too strong to get choked. Let me finish.” She closes her mouth, but her eyes speak, and they call over him. He can barely hear himself through violet. “I’d give you all the colors, and all the shades, and when I ran out I’d just make new ones.”



“How lovely.” He snorts. She pinches his side. “Would you give me the moon?”

“Yes.”

“The stars?”

“Yes.”

“You romantic.” It’s his turn to pinch her side, but she wiggles out of the way just in time- cheeky minx that she is, always on time, always fifteen minutes early. “The ground, the sky, the birds-”

“Yes to the third power.”



Judy Hopps thinks for a moment. Twiddles her thumbs and taps her chin and pretends like she can’t tell that the parabola of their connected arms doesn’t vibrate like a telephone wire. “You can’t give everything, Nick.”

“I’d give you the world.”

“Can’t. Already taken.”

“I’d hustle it, then. And give it to you.”

She clucks her tongue. “She’s not in the business of losing what’s hers.” A breath. “But giving.” It’s her turn to kiss him, and he doesn’t deflect. Never will. Not when she tastes like coffee and grass and summer nights, and he wants to sink away. “It’s mine to give. I’d give you the world, Nick Wilde. And I’d spend all my time trying to find you on it.” Another kiss. “I’m not worth you.”

“I’m not worth you.”



“Then we’ll be perpetually not worth each other.” When he leans in, so does she. “Don’t think I wouldn’t give you what you’re worth, Nick,” says Judy, like it’s a secret that the galaxy needed to hear. “I’d give you the world. And I’d circle it until you knew exactly how much you mean.”

It doesn’t add up. They don’t add up.



But she’s better at math, and for once, he can’t complain. Maybe she forgot to carry a number somewhere. Forgot to add the negative. Forgot to subtract when she keeps adding

adding

adding-

Nick is in love with a rabbit who carries with her everything that he can give, and somewhere in that mix is the fragile beating of something that for too long was hidden behind faces and sepia. That’s hers too. And those powerful ears of hers can hear it. He’s sure.



“___ ___ ___.” says Nick, who is a coward with a world.



“I love you.” says Judy, who is brave with her birds and ground and sky and sand and water and fragile fox hearts. “Now take back what you gave me. There’s too much for one.”

They decide to share the world, and Nick thinks that he’s perfectly alright with that.