rebelcaptain; flatliners au iv
Some discussion of death, in this one, and near death experiences. Dunno if that’s triggering for anyone, but there’s a content warning, at least. Also: content warning for mentions of alcohol.
I’M PROCRASTINATING OKAY I’M SORRY.
She can’t tell if she looks different.
Jyn yanks the paper towels from the dispenser, and wipes her hands off. She’d done her makeup carefully, this morning. She thinks she might be paler than usual. Her lip is split from where she’d bitten it, during the initial shock from the defibrillator. Other than that, there’s no evidence, other than the ten miles she’d run this morning, that she’d died. One minute, forty-two seconds. One hundred two. She tosses the towels in the trash. I was dead for one hundred two seconds.
There had been a beach. Wide and dark. Choppy water, like off the coast of Aberystwyth. The tide had tugged at her ankles. Up and out through the roof of the hospital, spiraling across oceans to a beach she’d never seen, rocky and sloping down to grey water. One hundred two seconds. Where did I go? She meets her reflection in the mirror, inspects herself for evidence. There’s no reason for anyone to be able to tell.
One hundred two.
She ducks out of the restroom.
They’re all in the conference room, already. Bodhi’s saved her a seat beside him, the way he usually does. He’s fidgeting. He’d stayed at hers, last night, but he’d been out the front door before she’d finished showering after her run, back to his own flat to get fresh clothes and wash his face and panic out of her line of sight. Han and Leia are very studiously not looking at each other, on opposite sides of the room. Cassian’s in the corner, staring out the window, and Cassian’s the one to draw her eye. His hair is down. She can’t remember ever seeing him with his hair down, before. She’d thought, at orientation, nearly two and a half years ago now, that it was unprofessional for a male medical student to have such long hair; he kept it pulled out of his eyes, but she always wondered about contamination in testing, about it getting in his face during examinations or surgeries. Now she can’t picture him without the stupid little knot at the back of his head. It’s hiding his face, stringy around his cheekbones. He’s not showered, she thinks, and sinks into her seat, slowly. And he’s not looking at her.
Jyn, come on. She’d heard that much, at least. A murmur. Come on, Jyn. Come on. Then, softly, his eyes creasing at the corners: You’re okay.
She can’t remember him ever looking at her like that before.