I promised to write @oh-nostalgiaa something to cheer her up this weekend. (Better late than never?) Here are 1000 words of comforting, caretaking fluff - rated Teen only because Jyn has a foul mouth.
She’s almost there. You can’t die in the lobby, Jyn orders herself. At least drag your carcass upstairs to your apartment. That way, the Most Beautiful Man in the World won’t stumble over her corpse in the morning.
But she’s so drained and listless from this awful flu that the walk to the 24-hour drugstore took twice as long as it should have, and she can’t face the climb right now. She sits down on the bottom step, trying to catch her breath; she can hear it wheezing in her lungs, feel them straining to pull in enough air. Her head is spinning, her vision is a little grainy, and there’s a furnace blazing inside her chest. She unzips her jacket and flaps the edges, but then shivers uncontrollably as cold air crawls inside her shirt.
She closes her eyes and leans her head against the banister. Just a few seconds to gather her strength for the trek upstairs. Then she can fall into bed, chug half a bottle of NyQuil and wait for it to kick in.
“Excuse me, are you okay?”