A/N: Written for theyfuckedkenny on tumblr.
Placebo
It's only after he finds his memories that he realizes something is missing. He remembers a heart, and it used to be strong within his chest. He remembers how it skipped a beat when he saved his sister, and he remembers how it just about stopped when the ice gave way under his feet. The memories that follow are vague, probably because he was dying, but he thinks he remembers it aching and slowing down, and then it really did stop.
He only misses it sometimes, really. After all, it isn't like he needs it to live anymore, and he can feel things just fine without it. So, when the emptiness inside his chest becomes too much to ignore and the desire to feel something alive beneath his flesh and bones becomes a little too overwhelming, he blames it on whatever humanity is left in him after all these centuries.
He never voices these thoughts, mostly because he, himself, finds them laughable. What does an immortal require a heart for, anyway? He imagines North and Bunny and Tooth's hearts have long since grown tired of beating.
And, yet, they still beat on. They always will.
Sometimes, Jack is thankful for that.
Bunny sleeps, and it's always soundly, and he takes advantage of this when the mood strikes. The rabbit barely grunts as familiar, cold hands urge him from off his side and onto his back. Jack run his fingers almost affectionately through the fur on his chest before his hand settles over Bunny's heart. He swallows hard, feeling the large organ thrumming diligently against its cage of rib and his palm, and he really can't help but marvel.
He doesn't need it, but he misses it – misses feeling life rushing hot and hungry through his veins.
He leans down, very slowly, until he's laid out across the Easter Bunny. He slides his arms around him, and lays his head down against his chest, listening to the beat of Bunny's heart, and he won't move again until he feels the rabbit stirring. Because this is all he has now – someone else's pulse to fill the void inside his chest.
