13 - a kiss pressed to each fingertip - for ye olde rebelcaptain please
The wound splices his side, winding its way from his navel, through his ribs, to the harsh jut of his collarbone. It’s deep enough that it remains on his skin even after hours in the bacta tank—faded and brown, a sharp reminder of how close she had come to losing him.
She squeezes himself into his cot in the medbay, desperate to draw him closer to her—to feel his heartbeat under her palm—but wary of the scar, of the little hiss of pain he gives at every small movement. Blood is surging in her ears, and even though he’s here beside her, now, all she can see each time she closes her eyes is the way he stumbled when he was struck, the wild horror in his eyes.
“Jyn,” Cassian murmurs. He’s tired, pale, instructed not to move, but he reaches for her hand nonetheless. “Are you alright?”
She nods. How could she say anything different? Her flesh is intact, her bones unbroken; she’s not the one who almost died today.
Gently, he lifts her hand and presses his lips to her index finger.
He moves to the next fingertip; soft lips and stubble brush her skin.
The next, the next.
She refuses to let her eyes well up, refuses to give him any more reason to worry about anything but his own recovery. She bites the inside of her cheek, tightening her grip on his fingers.