She was his if he wanted her. He knew it, had always known it, had always wanted her, but would never have her. Because she was fresh and young and pretty and innocent, and he was anything but that.
For as long as he could remember she'd been standing beside him, near him, before him, always smiling, always offering her forevers and her happily-ever-afters, holding out her big, shiny, bright heart to him. And for as long as he could remember, he'd been ignoring it. Ignoring her. Ignoring her longing looks and tender touches. Because, while perhaps not the kind thing to do, it was the right one.
He didn't have a big, shiny, bright heart to offer her in return. His was small, dented, dirty. Stained with his sins and transgressions, regrets and misdeeds. Battered from its journey with him through hell and back, from losing too many people too soon. Dented where it had been carelessly dropped by callous hands. Dusty from his travels, covered with engine grease.
Not the sort of heart he'd ever offer to someone like her. Rikku deserved better than that, better than him, even if maybe she didn't know it yet. How could he hope to exchange his miserable heart for her perfect one? And how could she trust him to keep it safe, when he'd done a piss poor job of protecting his own?
So he ignored and ignored and ignored.
But still Rikku smiled and laughed and loved.
Because she knew that no matter how much Gippal might ignore her and pretend indifference, and even for all his protesting, she already had his heart.
And underneath the dents and the dings and the dust and the grease was the shine of brilliant, dazzling gold.