give you my heart
Rating: PG
Word count: ~ 1,300
Warnings: Hi! My name’s Kat and this is my brain on insomnia! *ahem* Not a thing…
Summary: Ianto’s heart rests in a small, tightly locked box in the same cupboard as his tea. It is battered and worn, but strong.
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the creators, and no copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: Urgh, I just, I can't even. Here, have another weird one, courtesy of the four hours of sleep I've gotten in the past five days. Picture the hearts however you’d like, though I personally see them as Valentine-style hearts that have been battered and repaired many times.
(…Which leads me to my next topic: if you've got something you’d like to see me write, or a prompt you want to share, feel free. I'm always looking for things that spark stories, and if you're okay with the idea that it might not turn out exactly as you imagined [because I know myself, and my insanity], throw it at me. :)
give you my heart
Most people carry their hearts with them, close and safe.
Some hide their hearts away, carefully kept for the ones who will eventually earn them.
And then there are those who lock their hearts up, shut them away and put them out of mind and never bring them out into the light.
Those are the people so afraid of giving their hearts completely that they would rather never give them at all.
*.~.*.~.*
It comes as little surprise that Gwen wears her heart in plain view, bright and boldly red and very strong. It has a few small scars, tiny spots where it has been hurt and later mended, but in terms of the average heart it is all but untouched. She’s proud of it, as though it gives her an advantage over the rest of them.
Ianto dislikes that about her. It’s not an upper hand-if anything, it’s proof of her naïvety, the lack of tragedy in her life. She’s never been tempered the way the rest of them have, never faced something that tore her apart but forced her to overcome.
Perhaps it’s a form of hubris, but Ianto is of the belief that it makes her just a little bit weaker.
He would not wish grief of such magnitude on anyone, but it exists, and because of it he knows far better who he is and what he is willing to do. What he will do for love, and hate, and how deep both emotions run in him.
(One is deeper than the other. Judging by how he is at the moment curled around and over Jack's bare, sleep-warm body, it’s fairly evident which one that is.)
Ianto’s own heart rests in a small, tightly locked box in the same cupboard as his tea. It is battered and worn, but larger than perhaps is normal, and sports a long, deep, matte-black scar that nearly bisects it. It broke, when Lisa died, and Ianto had thought at the time that it would never recover. That he would remain inert forever, his heart permanently shattered and fading a little more with each day.
But the scar healed, and his heart is whole again.
(Stronger, really, if he’s being honest. Loving Jack is good for him.)
Sometimes, when Ianto is alone and feeling particularly whimsical, he takes the box down and unlocks it, and picks his heart up to cradle it in his hands. It’s surprisingly warm from the blood within it, and heavy, and he can feel its beats through his skin. The scars are little spots of texture marking the surface, some deep and dark and some lighter, easier to bear. It is without doubt a worn heart, the heart of someone who has lived very much in their short years, and Ianto loves it in all its weary beauty.
Sometimes, he wonders how it would feel to press his battered, brave heart into Jack's hands, and give him everything.
It’s a thought Ianto has been having more and more lately.
*.~.*.~.*
(He’s never seen Jack's heart.)
*.~.*.~.*
Ianto’s mother was a tired woman, but kind. Every once in a great while, if she came home from work when Ianto was still awake, she would take him into her bedroom and let him sit on her bed while she opened her book of legends and fairytales. He would lean over her arm, looking at the pictures while she read to him, and for a short time everything in the world was perfect.
Ianto’s favorite story was always the tale of King Arthur and his wise wizard, Merlin. But it always made him sad, too.
“What about when Arthur wakes up?” he asked once. “Merlin lived for so long, waiting for him, and then Arthur will just get old and die again, and Merlin won't be able to save him.”
Because his mother always knew just the right thing to say, no matter what, she smiled at him and tapped him on the nose. “Then Arthur will just have to give his heart to Merlin,” she said, “and then they can both live forever. People always live just as long as the one who holds their heart, Ianto.”
She had died a few years later, before Ianto was even in his teens, but Ianto had never, ever forgotten her words, or the way his kind, soft-spoken father had turned dark and angry when his children kept him from following her.
*.~.*.~.*
“Always just as long as the one who holds your heart,” he whispers to himself, while Jack is out picking up groceries.
This, too, is a thought he’s been having more and more often lately.
*.~.*.~.*
When he finally gathers the courage to do it, it isn’t after some near-death experience, or a terrifying case. It isn’t some grand confession that is appropriately dramatic in its presentation.
Jack is in Ianto’s apartment, making dinner. Ianto stirs the rice and switches the heat off, and then turns to the cupboard where he keeps his tea and takes out the small, plain cedar box that sits there.
Jack flips the chicken and covers it, then turns around to find Ianto a step away, placing the box gentle in his hands.
“It’s always been yours, Jack,” he says softly. This is just…a kind of proof.”
Jack blinks at him for a moment, then down at the box and its warm, strong, battered contents. For several moments, he can't understand the significance of the gesture.
Then he looks up, sees the quiet, determined intensity in Ianto’s eyes, and knows.
He has been alive for a very long time, and in that time he has loved others. There have been people before who have left their scars on his weak, trapped heart, buried deep, deep in the Hub’s lowest level. Jack doesn't doubt that he’s left his own scars, too-it’s inevitable, being human.
But never, ever before has anyone given their heart to him.
Gently, gently, he sets the box down on the counter, hearing Ianto’s sudden sharp breath-jumping, no doubt, to the wrong conclusion. Jack doesn't try to cut him off with words; instead, he reaches into the cedar box and carefully scoops the heart up to cradle it in his palms. It flutters, over so softly, and shines just a little bit brighter under his wondering gaze. He’s never seen a heart the size of this one, or one so deeply ruby red. It’s beautiful, precious-a thousand times more so because it belongs to Ianto.
Jack isn’t a fool. He knows what the gift means, what the implications are. But Ianto has given Jack his heart, and Ianto is the first person Jack has ever wanted to give his heart to in return.
There is a question in Ianto’s eyes as he stares at Jack, and Jack reads it easily.
“Yes,” he answers, because that's the one his heart demands he give. “Yes.”