#hyperbaric oxygen chamber sitting | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hayleythecannibal · 11 months ago

Text

Twisted Minds: Chapter Twelve Releves

TW: Crime scenes, Gore, Crying, Death, Malpractice, Lying, Gruesome Death, Realization.

Warning this is Fem!reader. You can also find this on Wattpad and A03 under the name @HayleyMarieOfficial. Comment if you want to be added to the taglist.

Taglist: @punkin-time @miaowkitty @gabriella-aesthetic @urlocalfanficwriter

Twisted Minds Masterlist

HOSPITAL - WILL GRAHAM'S ROOM - NIGHT-

Will opens his eyes, stirring as an aroma hits him. He sits up in bed as Hannibal pops the lid on a second Tupperware container allowing the steam to escape a rich amber broth. “Smells delicious.” Will says. “Silkie chicken in a broth. A black boned bird prized in China for its medicinal value since the 7th century. With wolfberries, ginseng, ginger, red dates and star anise.” Hannibal says as he places the bowl of soup on the tray.

“You made me chicken soup.” Hannibal offers a supportive smile. Of course he did. They sit silhouetted by the window, reminiscent of the first meal they shared together in the beginnings of their relationship. “The nurses tell me you've been wandering, Will.” Hannibal says. “I was awake. And wandering with purpose and good intentions.”

“Visiting that unfortunate young woman suffering from delusions?” Hannibal asks as he screws the lid of his thermos back onto the said thermos. “She's my support group.” Will says as he takes a spoonful of soup. “And I hope you're her's. Nothing more isolating than mental illness.”

“I know Dr. Sutcliffe was a friend.”

“She didn't murder Dr. Sutcliffe. Her disease did. I can't blame her for his death any more than you can be blamed for shooting Abel Gideon.”

“The hallucinations, the loss of time, sleepwalking. Could that have all just been the fever?”

Hannibal considers saying what Will wants to hear or what he wants Will to hear, then simply replies: “It's possible.” Not confident enough of an answer for Will. “Fevers can be symptoms of dementia. Dementia can be a symptom of many things happening in your body or mind that can no longer be ignored.” Hannibal says but once again, Hannibal knows whats wrong with Will and it is most certainly not Dementia. “Does Jack know?”

“That this could be more than a fever? No. I haven't told him.”

“Shouldn't you?”

“Not until we know for certain. What we must do now is continue to support and monitor your recovery. The young woman you were visiting. How is her recovery?”

“I don't think she wants to recover. Afraid to remember what she did.”

“Can't say I blame her.”

HOSPITAL - GEORGIA MADCHEN'S ROOM - DAY -

Smoke stains the walls and the high tech HYPERBARIC CHAMBER. BRIAN ZELLER studies the charred remains of Georgia Madchen as JIMMY PRICE studies the charred remains of the chamber. JACK CRAWFORD, Y/N L/N and Will Graham stand nearby. Will is still wearing his hospital robe, holding his rolling IV stand. “Hospital speculates a short circuit could have ignited the fire.” Jack says as he turns to Will and I.

“Unit looks well maintained. No exposed wiring.”

“Don't know if she suffocated or burned to death. We'll look for soot in the lining of her airways.”

Will fights the overwhelming sadness of Georgia's life.

“Horrible way to die.” I say softly. “A kid in Italy was in one of these things. A spark of static electricity from his pajamas set it off. Two cubic yards of oxygen became two cubic yards of fire.” Jimmy says, which makes me feel sadder. “Could she have started the fire?” Will is disturbed by that thought. A thought Zeller finds evidence to support. He pulls a blackened anti-static wrist strap out of the Oxygen Chamber. “She wasn't wearing her grounding bracelet. Prevents build up of static electricity. Took it off.” Zeller says as he looks up at us from the bracelet.

“Suicide? By immolation.” Will says confused, why would anyone want to go out that way? “She was facing two murder charges.” Jack says with a tone that makes me a little angry. “She wasn't suicidal, Jack. She was sick. I was here. I spoke to her.” Will says which causes me and Jack to look at him. “Why did you speak to her?” Jack says in an almost scolding tone.

“Because I know what she felt like.”

“She tried to kill you. She's a murder suspect. Being her friend impacts the case against her.”

“The case against her doesn't really matter anymore, does it?” And with that, Will EXITS. OFF Jack watching him go...

F.B.I. ACADEMY - JACK CRAWFORD'S OFFICE - DAY -

Will Graham approaches Jack at his desk. “Checked myself out of the hospital.”

“Check yourself back in.” Jack says as he turns away from Will. “Fever broke.” Will says as he enters farther into Jack’s office. “I don't care.” Jack says as he Turns back around with a scolding look on his face. “Georgia Madchen didn't commit suicide. And whatever happened to her wasn't an accident.” Will says as he approaches Jack’s desk. “I'm going to have Z come down here and put a thermometer in you and if I see a temperature above 99…” Jack scolds.

“She was murdered, Jack.” Will says with a tilt of his head. “By who?”

“By whoever killed Dr. Sutcliffe.” Will says, and Jack just looks at Will like he just lost his damn mind. “His blood was all over Georgia Madchen. Her DNA was all over him.” Jack says Bewildered that Will thought she wasn't his killer given all of the evidence. “She knew what she was capable of. She told me there was someone else there. She couldn't see his face.”

“There was someone else there. Sutcliffe. And she couldn't see his face because she cut it in half. I know you're looking for an explanation to make this all right.” Jack says as his voice raises slightly. “There isn't one. There was something wrong with her. We'll never know what that is. Just that she was wrong. However many doctors she saw, however much help she got, she was fighting that wrong alone.”

“You can't do anything about that.”

“All her adult life this woman was misunderstood. What I can do is make sure her death isn't misunderstood. She didn't kill herself. This wasn't an accident.” OFF Jack considering Will's convictions...

B.A.U. - MORGUE - DAY -

Brian Zeller, Jimmy Price, Jack Crawford and Will Graham stand over the CHARRED REMAINS of Georgia Madchen. “Dismantled the oxygen chamber to see if we could find evidence of someone tampering with the wiring or a short circuit. Nothing.” Zeller says as he looks from his report. “Then what sparked the fire?” Jack asks, confused.

“Inconclusive.”

“Not conclusively inconclusive.” He turns their attention to a SMALL BAND OF MELTED PLASTIC. “Found this. Thought it might have been part of the bed or monitoring equipment, but mass spectrometer said it was celluloid plastic. They don't use plastic in these things.” Jimmy explains to everyone.

“It generates static electricity.” Jack takes the band of plastic, studying it. “It was by her head. Her hair was melted into it. Preserved almost like it was in amber.” As Will takes in the sad dead girl...“Could it have been a plastic comb?”

“Static charge from a plastic comb in a highly oxygenated environment would have a powerful accelerant.” Jimmy supports the theory. “Everything combustible in there would combust.” Will looks at the melted plastic in Jack's hand. “You're holding the murder weapon.”

“Or what she used to kill herself.” A MORGUE DRAWER It OPENS REVEALING the body of Dr. Sutcliffe on a separate drawer than Georgia Madchen's CHARRED REMAINS. Jack, Will, Zeller and Price are gathered around the slack-jawed dead. “Whoever killed Sutcliffe wanted to kill him how Georgia Madchen killed her victim. But not exactly how.” Will says as he points to the nearly decapitated corpse.

“Georgia Madchen carved up her victim's face. Sutcliffe was nearly decapitated at the jaw.” Zeller says as he points to the bodies. “She went further the second time. Serial killers often do.” Jack says but Will's mind whirls around the details and facts, then: “She was copied. Like whoever killed Marissa Schuur and Cassie Boyle wanted to copy how Garret Jacob Hobbs killed his victims.”

“But not exactly how.” Will responds with a look, “Wait, wait. Hold on. Now you're telling me Dr. Sutcliffe was killed by Garret Jacob Hobbs' Copy Cat?”

“And so was Georgia Madchen. Because he thinks she saw his face.” Will says putting pieces together.

“You said Nicholas Boyle was the Copy Cat. His blood was on one of the victims. Nicholas Boyle's dead.” Jack says looking at Will concerned.

“Then he wasn't the copy cat.” OFF Jack Crawford studying Will...

HANNIBAL’S OFFICE - DAY -

Jack faces Hannibal, who sits behind his desk. “Will's connecting murders that previously had no connection.” Jack says concernedly. “Beyond his involvement in the investigations.” Hannibal questions with a very slight head tilt. “That's right.”

“You're wondering if the lines are blurring or if he's onto something.” Hannibal asks but what he’s thinking is if Will is putting it together, What does Y/N Know. Y/N has always known more than she lets on. But what exactly does she know? “I'm wondering about all sorts of things.” Jack says as he takes a sip of his drink.

“May I ask, do you believe Georgia Madchen was murdered?” Hannibal asks Jack with no emotion in his tone. “There's evidence to suggest her death was intentional but it could have easily been by her own hand.” Jack says but even he is questioning himself.

“This woman was bested by madness. Perhaps what Will can't accept is that she took her own life so she wouldn't kill again.” Hannibal suggests, on the outside he is put together and elegant, non-breakable. But on the inside he is slowly going mad, but we all know that he won't get caught until he lets himself get caught.

“Why is that so hard to accept?” Jack asks Hannibal as he is scared for a person he sees as a friend. “If she could survive her delusions, then maybe he could survive his. He was hallucinating when he shot Abel Gideon. In his mind, he was killing Garret Jacob Hobbs. Again.” Hannibal explains.

“What's Will's relationship with Abigail Hobbs these days?”

“You think Will's protecting her.”

“Has been since he killed her father. Just don't know from what.” Jack says as he runs his hands over his face. “I can't imagine he would hide anything criminal from you. I've only ever known Will Graham as a man striving to be his best self.” Hannibal says with a small smile.

“You haven't known him very long. But we both know him well enough to know he hasn't been himself.”

“Will needs our support, whether or not mental illness is involved.”

“Is it mental illness or does his mind just work so differently we don't know what else to call it?” Jack asks and stands, letting the question float in the air. “There are days when even Will doesn't understand his thinking.” Jack Crawford studies Hannibal. There is something the psychiatrist is hiding. He can sense it.

HANNIBAL LECTER'S OFFICE - DAY

Hannibal and Will, mid-session. “I'm much better now. I feel clearer. It had to be the fever.” Will says as he looks at Hannibal with a tilted head. “You checked yourself out of the hospital against the recommendation of your attending physician.” Hannibal says as he observes Will, in every aspect of the masterpiece he is.

“He gave me antibiotics.” Will says observing Hannibal just as much as Hannibal is observing him. “This is not the behavior of someone who is thinking clearly.” Hannibal inquires warialy.

“I'm finally thinking clearly about the Copy Cat.” Will says as he finally brings his eyes to Hannibal’s, their eyes danced around each other but finally meeting each other in the flames of the fire.

“The murders you're attributing to the Copy Cat have suspects, whose DNA was found on the victims.” says Hannibal as he breaks the intense and strenuous eye contact. “So what?” Hannibal stares, then proceeds calmly: “You're choosing to ignore that?

“Both of those suspects are dead. I'm choosing to factor that into my psychological profile of a killer. Georgia Madchen followed me to Sutcliffe's office. She witnessed his murder, she saw the CopyCat.” Will says as he stands up and starts to pace. “Why not kill her then and there?” Asks Hannibal as he leans forward.

“He must not have had time. She was an unreliable witness. And that bought him the time.” Will says as he looks out the window with his back to Hannibal. “So he framed her for the murder?” Hannibal asks and Will looks at him from over his shoulder. “He wasn't planning on framing her. He was planning on framing me.” Will says with a Realizing tone “You believe this is personal.”

“If it wasn't before, it is now. It could be someone at the Bureau, someone in the police force, someone who knows the crimes, and has access to the investigations.”

“Someone like you. Or Y/N?” Will considers that briefly, then dismisses the notion. “Y/N would never- No one is touching Y/N. There will be evidence. I found a pattern. And now I'm going to reconstruct his thinking.” Will says in an almost chaotic and rash tone. Starting to lose it once Y/N was menti

oned. Last time he saw her was this morning when he left her in bed for work. “How do you intend to do that?” Hannibal asks with furrowed brows.

“Take Abigail back to Minnesota. Start where the Copy Cat started. With Garret Jacob Hobbs.” Will says confidently, “Will, this is venturing into the paranoid. I can't allow you to pull Abigail into your delusion.”

“This isn't a delusion. I'm not hallucinating. I haven't lost time. I am awake and this is real.” Hannibal eyes Will's determination with curious concern.

HANNIBAL LECTER'S OFFICE - NIGHT

Jack Crawford confronts Hannibal Lecter. “What the hell is going on between Will Graham and Abigail Hobbs?” Jack demands. “Will has been victim to many unusual and irrational thoughts.” Hannibal says calmly. “Has he acted on those thoughts?” Jack asks in a demanding manner he is angry. “Not that I'm aware of or he's aware of, for that matter. But he has experienced periods of lost time.”

“I've seen him confused at crime scenes. He was disoriented.” Jack says in an angry knowing tone. “He may've been confused because he was waking up. Might not have known where he was or how he got there.” Hannibal Explains gently and calmly, and his eyes subtly go to his scalpel just in case. “Waking up?”

“From a dissociated personality state. He would appear perfectly normal and not remember a thing. But a fractured part of him would.” Hannibal explains as he quickly stands up defensively, he towers over jack which balances out the power dynamic and position. Giving Hannibal the Right amount of Intimidation that he desired “You knew about this.” Jack accuses. “He's only recently started to discuss these episodes.” Hannibal admits. “Unless recently was right before I walked into this room, you failed to mention any of this to me.”

“Because I was trying to determine if it was trauma and stress from the work he does for you... or mental illness. Thought it wise to be sure before making any kind of claim about Will Graham's sanity.” Hannibal growls back though really all he wanted to do was see what would happen if Will Graham fell off the edge. Would Y/N follow suit? “He took Abigail Hobbs. Any idea where they could be going?” “No.”

“We have evidence she was involved in her father's crimes. We just don't know how involved.” Hannibal appears appropriately gobsmacked by this revelation. “Could Will know what she did? Is that why he's been protecting her?” Hannibal looks like a man who wants to have a heart-to-heart. “There's something you should hear.” ON A RECORDING DEVICE

Hannibal presses play and watches Jack Crawford listen.

“How did you feel seeing Marissa Schuur impaled in the antler room?”

“Guilty.”

“Because you couldn't save her?”

“Because I felt like I killed her.”

Hannibal presses stop, studying Jack's reaction. “Where was Will the night Marissa Schuur was murdered?” Jack asks slowly, not wanting to believe his realization. “He was supposed to be in his hotel room. I knocked on his door. He didn't answer. He told Dr. Y/N L/N he decided to go to bed early.” Hannibal says softly. “We know Will was in Sutcliffe's office when he was killed. And Will was the last person to visit Georgia Madchen before she died.”

“Is Will Graham a suspect?” Hannibal Asked concerned for Will. “This dissociated personality state you say he goes into... whose personality is it?” Jack asks “Will said he got so close to Garret Jacob Hobbs and what he had done, he felt like he was becoming him.”

“Now Will has Hobbs' daughter.”

“Who Hobbs was intending to kill.” OFF that revelation...

HOBBS HOUSE - KITCHEN -

Abigail walks in and STARTLES to FIND HANNIBAL LECTER standing against the counter. Waiting for her. She immediately runs into his arms for a huge hug. “What are you doing here? Is Y/N here too?” Abigail asks hopeful, she had found a new maternal figure in Y/N.

“I was worried about you. No Y/N did not come, Just Me. Will told me he was taking you to Minnesota. I strongly advised against it.” He gently releases the hug, looking Abigail in the eyes: “Where is Will, Abigail?” Hannibal asks gently. “I left him at the cabin. I didn't feel safe with him. So I left him. He knows everything.” Abigail says Frightened. “So does Jack Crawford.” Abigail's mind spins, her options narrowing. “If I run, they'll catch me, won't they. You and Y/N can't protect me anymore.”

“They'll arrest you when they find you. They'll arrest Will, too.” Hannibal says with slight remorse, something he doesn't feel often if at all. “Did he kill Marissa?”

“They will believe he did. They will believe he killed others, too.” Abigail stares at Hannibal, awareness dawning. “Will always said whoever called the house that morning was the serial killer. Why did you really call?” Abigail asks softly as she gently steps back. “I wanted to warn your father that Will Graham and Y/N were coming for him.”

“Why?”

“I was curious what would happen. I was curious what would happen when I killed Marissa. I was curious what you would do.” Hannibal admits this time though a smile shows through. A wave of near-nausea washes over her, she pushes it down. “You wanted me to kill Nick Boyle.”

“I was hoping. I wanted to see how much like your father you were.” Hannibal says with a cocked eyebrow. “Ohmygod.” Abigail exclaims softly as she takes herself out of his hold. “Nicholas Boyle is more important for you gutting him. He changed you. That's more important than the life he clamored after.” Hannibal explains.

“How many people have you killed?” Abigail asks frightened for her life, and rightfully so. “Many more than your father.” Quiet tears stream as she realizes what she only dare ask:“Are you going to kill me?”

He gently strokes her cheek, then: “I'm so sorry, Abigail. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you in this life.”

#hannibal nbc #hannigram #fem!reader #hannibal x reader #hannigram x reader #will graham x reader #twistedminds

30 notes · View notes

eirikrjs · 2 years ago

Text

It's been a while since I've updated, but everything is going about as well as it could be, meaning it's slow but that's to be expected with stroke. I've gradually regained more range of motion in my arm and can walk in the house without a leg brace or cane/walker. One thing new I've been doing for the past month is hyperbaric therapy, where I sit in a chamber for at least an hour and soak up pure oxygen. The chamber:

#the stroke #hyperbaric

26 notes · View notes

moonglittering · 2 years ago

Note

Vi, how do you feel about Nicolas Cage

❝I think he’s sexy, but in a way that like… Walk with me, here. Okay, so, like. Imagine you go on a Tinder date, right? To a local restaurant, it’s probably like tapas or something. You look good. You’re wearing your favorite Nine West pumps. He sits across from you, candlelight flickering and Coldplay playing in the background. The Coldplay makes you wish you were dead, but it’s okay. He starts talking to you about how he collects teeth for his tea bags and once made a cake using toothpaste, cement, egg shells, motor oil, and putty. He details how he ate this cake. Gave the rest to his friends, who seemed to have mysteriously passed shortly after due to unforeseen circumstances. Your expression shifts a little, this conversation’s weird. Then, he starts talking about how one time he took a bunch of drugs in Nevada and had a hallucination at the Bellagio where he saw a pot roast singing showtunes at the buffet. Made him cry, like a vision of a deity. Holy. In passing, he mentions that his mother is a tree in the woods somewhere in Montana. He asks if Montana is even real, but you can’t answer.❞

Deep breath… Now, to continue. ❝He then says that he’s an arthouse director and that everything is an experiment to him. His last wife divorced him because he spent their savings on a fucking marble statue that’s literally just him but he’s cosplaying as Phil Collins. This conversation is weird. He hasn’t touched his tapas. Like, you ask why he hasn’t touched his food. He says that he doesn’t eat at night, he absorbs nutrients through the oxygen he breathes. He asks if you’d like having beef parmesan roll-ups eaten off your naked body in the middle of a public park during a mild spring morning, instead. You look at your watch. Oh, it’s only been thirty minutes since this date started. You eat your food and agree to sit in the parking lot. That doesn’t last long, because he tells you that he needs to go to his hyperbaric chamber and take a nap. You’re left mystified. Therapy is super interesting for you, that following Thursday. The next time you see him is near the frozen buffalo chicken pocket snacks at Trader Joe’s, he says nothing to you. You want him so bad and you don’t know why. You shouldn’t. The only thing you buy is some bananas and dish soap. In a daze. Anyway, he’s sexy like that.❞

#🌙 MAIN! IT'S YOUR LOCAL PRETTY BOY MOON DEITY.#anonymous #/ u ever just meet someone outta their fuckin mind and realize its Virote.

14 notes · View notes

oxygen8america · 2 months ago

Text

In recent years, Hyperbaric Oxygen Therapy (HBOT) has gained significant attention for its potential health benefits, ranging from enhanced athletic performance to accelerated recovery from injuries. As interest in HBOT grows, so does the availability of different types of hyperbaric chambers. The two most common types are: The conventional ones or lying hyperbaric chambers. Advanced sitting hyperbaric chambers. But what are the differences between these two types? And, which one is right for you? In this blog, we’ll explore the differences, benefits, and considerations for choosing between lying and sitting hyperbaric chambers.

#SittingHyperbaricChamber #HyperbaricOxygenTherapy #LyingHyperbaricChambers #HBOTChamber #HyperbaricTherapy

1 note · View note

elixirwellness · 3 months ago

Text

Unraveling Truths of HBOT Treatment in Mumbai

Hyperbaric Oxygen Therapy or HBOT Treatment in Mumbai has become extremely popular lately because of its enormous benefits including treatment of many different illnesses. But with its popularity, some myths have also spread which leads to disbelief in the treatment. In this blog, we will explain some of these myths and share true facts about HBOT.

Myth 1: HBOT Treatment is Only for Deep-Sea Divers Fact: HBOT Treatment was first created to help divers who had problems after being deep underwater. However, it’s now used to treat many other health issues because of its vast benefits. For example, HBOT can help heal wounds that don’t heal easily including diabetic wounds, treat injuries from radiation and oncology treatment, and help people who have breathed in dangerous amounts of carbon monoxide. It can also help those who want to recover post surgery, have hearing loss, are going through erectile dysfunction treatment, want to recover post workout or an athletic performance, or even just want to feel better and look brighter. The therapy works by giving your body pure oxygen in a pressurised chamber, which helps all parts of your body heal faster. While divers still use HBOT, most other people can also benefit from this therapy.

Myth 2: Hyperbaric Oxygen Therapy is Painful Fact: Some people think that HBOT hurts, but this isn’t true at all. During HBOT, you lie or sit in a comfortable chamber and breathe pure oxygen from a mask. The air pressure inside the chamber is higher than normal, but it doesn’t cause pain. The most discomfort you might feel is a popping sensation in your ears, similar to what you experience when an airplane takes off or lands. This happens because of the change in pressure. Many people find HBOT to be a relaxing experience, and some even fall asleep during the session. iPads can be taken in for entertainment if needed. Overall, it’s a very comfortable treatment.

Myth 3: HBOT Treatment is a Quick Fix for All Health Problems Fact: HBOT can be very effective for certain health problems, but it’s not an overnight magic cure. It often takes more than one session to see results, especially for long-term or serious conditions. For example, if someone has a wound that won’t heal, they might need multiple HBOT sessions before the wound gets better. Having realistic expectations and understanding that HBOT is usually part of a bigger treatment plan is important. Doctors often use it and other treatments to help patients recover better and faster.

Myth 4: Hyperbaric Oxygen Therapy is Unsafe and Unregulated Fact: HBOT is a safe US FDA approved and well recognised and monitored treatment. It’s used in many hospitals and clinics around the world. The chambers used for HBOT are carefully designed and regularly checked to make sure they are working properly. During each session, trained medical professionals are always present to monitor the patient’s condition and ensure everything is going smoothly. Although there can be minor side effects, like discomfort in the ears, these are usually very mild and temporary. The risks of HBOT are very low, especially when compared to the benefits it can provide.

Myth 5: HBOT Treatment Has Negative Side Effects Fact: Like any medical treatment, HBOT Treatment does have some risks, but serious side effects are very rare. The most common side effect is ear discomfort, similar to what you might feel when flying in an airplane or diving underwater. This happens because of the changes in pressure inside the chamber. In general, most people tolerate HBOT very well and feel much better after their therapy sessions. It’s always important to talk to your doctor about any concerns you have to fully understand the risks and benefits of the treatment.

Myth 6: Anyone Can Administer Hyperbaric Oxygen Therapy Fact: HBOT should only be done by trained and certified medical professionals. The therapy uses special equipment and requires careful monitoring of the patient’s condition throughout the session. If HBOT is done incorrectly, it can lead to serious problems, like oxygen toxicity, where the body gets too much oxygen. This is why it’s important to have HBOT in a medical facility where experts are in charge. It’s not something you can do at home or with untrained people. Always make sure you are getting HBOT from a reputable place with professionals who know how to do it safely.

Conclusion Hyperbaric Oxygen Therapy is a powerful medical treatment that can help with many health issues, but there are still some myths and misunderstandings about it. By learning the true facts, patients can make better decisions about their health and take full advantage of the benefits that HBOT offers. Always consult with a doctor to see if HBOT is the right choice for your condition. At Elixir Wellness, we have experienced doctors who would help you to understand your needs and guide you to the right course of treatment including HBOT.

Visit our Instagram profile to know more about HBOT Treatment – Click Here

Visit our YouTube to know more about HBOT Treatment – Click Here

#hyperbaric oxygen therapy #HBOT Treatment

1 note · View note

jeramewrites2 · 5 months ago

Text

Coming to terms with my bad taste.

I like it dumb.

What is it? Honestly it's everything. I don't have good taste. Or what other people say is good taste. I work in a hyperbaric oxygen clinic and there are TVs attached to each chamber. So for the ones that I am not actively treating a patient in I will throw on some of the worst movies I can find. I am talking Crabs (2021). I tend to stand and watch at least the first few mins of the movie while I get the beds ready. I know that is very different than actually sitting down and watching these movies with popcorn and no phone.

HOWEVER. I do find myself wanting to watch these movies. Something that I know other people are doing. There are subreddits dedicated to watching bad movies. I tend to swing by at least once or twice a week. I don't bath in bad movies but I seem to enjoy the bad ones more than the good ones. When I read the best books of a genre I am usually disappointed also when I listen to "Great" music I am not moved.

Then I will have my music on random and really enjoy a band that sounds an awful lot like The National. And I hate The National.... but... DO I? I am so confused. I like what I like and I am going to explore this much more.

I know that this will be a path that I walk alone. I have been enjoying bad movies and music my entire life by myself and this will be nothing different.

In that vein I watched the re-imagnining of Black Christmas. I am not a neck beard who believes that the original version of a movie is sacrosanct. I think that there can be remakes and changes that can make movies much better. I think the remake of IT (2017) proved that. I think that was a great rerun at ideas. That being said.

There are a lot of problems with Black Christmas 2019. The following will have spoilers so stop reading if you are still thinking you are going to watch it. The original movie was a slasher. There was nothing strange or special about it. It is fun to watch Margo Kidder in a movie that is not Superman but it was just a slasher at Christmas. It had a Italian Giallo aspect to it. in fact the killer is never seen on screen. The kills are first person if I remember. I have not seen it in a few years so my memory is hazy. The women in the film are sorority sisters and enjoy running around in their underwear and talking about sex while smoking pot. As all women did in the 70s before women's lib ruined everything. (THAT WAS ALL SARCASM.)

The tactic of BC 2019 is to set the women as fighters and survivors. There are two final girls and I do buy their friendships. There are trials that I enjoy watching them navigate. Within the first 15 mins we are introduced to Riley. She is a SA survivor. She was not believed when she was assaulted and by one of the many white privileged dick bags that populate this movie. All of them are pallet swaps by design and writing.

The usual way that this is done is that I summarize everything that happens in this movie and write my thoughts on it. I am not going to do that. If you want to watch the movie and then come read this then fine. If not then just read on.

There is a point in this movie were the murderous frat boys are said to be under the influence of a supernatural force. The spirit of the founder of the college is leaking out of a statue in the form of black goo. This goo when put on the forehead of pledges makes them stop thinking for themselves and just follow orders. I get what the writer/director was going for here but it feels like a half step. It feels like a producer said we need something to give us some cover for a critique. We don't wanna say that FRATs are inherently evil... SO um GHOST????

I would have preferred them just being evil. I hate to be that guy but I will be. The original had no supernatural influences, and it seems tacked on here. Just like the final battle scene. The frat vs the sororities battle scene offered no catharsis to me because I don't know these characters. All of the characters I was introduced and cared about are dead... Who are all of these women? It doesn't seem to matter. In this universe there is only one traitor woman and she is killed by the evil frat guys.

I did enjoy this movie for the most part. I think the supernatural influence makes all of the actions of the frat fall flat even though I understand the point that is being made. I would say it is defiantly worth a watch if you are interested in social commentary horror. At the end of the day I feel like this style of commentary was done better later with the re-make of Slumber Party Massacre.

As always thanks for reading.

#my writing #horror movies #journaling

0 notes

nexgenhyperbaric · 2 years ago

Text

What Is Hyperbaric Oxygen Therapy and How Can It Help Athletes Perform Better

Hyperbaric oxygen therapy (HBOT) is a medical treatment that helps athletes recover faster and reduce their risk of injury. In this article, you will learn about hyperbaric oxygen therapy, its uses in sports and whether it’s safe for athletes to use. Hyperbaric oxygen therapy is often referred to as HBOT. It’s used mainly to treat breathing problems such as decompression sickness (the more colloquially known as the bends). This article will help you understand why hyperbaric oxygen therapy is used by athletes and what it can do for you.

What is Hyperbaric Oxygen Therapy?

Hyperbaric Oxygen Therapy is a medical procedure that uses 100% pure oxygen in a pressurized chamber to get more oxygen into the body. It’s often used by divers and astronauts, but it can also help people suffering from breathing problems. Hyperbaric oxygen therapy takes place in a

hyperbaric chamber at a pressure that’s greater than the normal pressure in the air we breathe. This increased pressure allows the body to breathe through tissue that would typically be too small to accommodate air.

Hyperbaric oxygen therapy can help people with a variety of conditions. It’s particularly useful for treating the effects of altitude on the body. The increased pressure in the chamber allows the body to breathe normally at high altitude.

Why Athletes Use Hyperbaric Oxygen Therapy

There are many reasons why athletes use hyperbaric oxygen therapy, but the most common one is to speed up the healing process. When you have an injury, your body needs oxygen to heal the tissue. By breathing in pure oxygen, you can increase the amount of oxygen in your blood, which can help the healing process.

Hyperbaric oxygen therapy can also help reduce inflammation, which can be helpful if you have an injury that is causing swelling. By reducing the inflammation, you can reduce the pain and help the injury heal more quickly.

Hyperbaric oxygen therapy can also help improve your stamina and endurance. If you are an athlete who trains hard, your body can become oxygen deprived, which can lead to fatigue and reduced performance. By breathing in pure oxygen, you can help your body recover from the oxygen deprivation and improve your stamina and endurance.

How Hyperbaric Oxygen Therapy Works?

Hyperbaric oxygen therapy works by exposing the body to pure oxygen at high pressure. This increases the amount of oxygen in the bloodstream, which improves healing time and accelerates recovery from injury.

The first step in hyperbaric oxygen therapy is for the patient to enter an enclosed chamber that is filled with pure, pressurized oxygen. The chamber has a person-sized opening where they will sit or lie down on their back during treatments. The patient will wear earplugs or headphones and eye protection while they are inside the chamber so they don’t have any distractions while receiving treatment.

Safety Measures while Using HBOT

While HBOT is generally safe, there are a few risks and side effects that you should be aware of. First, if you have a cold or sinus infection, the increased pressure can cause pain and discomfort. Second, if you have claustrophobia, you may find it difficult to stay in the chamber for the duration of the treatment. Finally, some people experience minor side effects such as dizziness, ear pain, and nausea.

If you are interested in HBOT, be sure to discuss all of the potential risks and side effects with your doctor to make sure it is the right treatment for you.

Additional Read: Hyperbaric Treatment Clinic: 9 Essential Factors to Consider When Selecting HBOT Clinic

Conclusion

At NexGen Hyperbaric, we understand how important it is to support your body’s natural healing processes. We provide a comfortable, safe, and relaxing environment to help you heal faster… the way nature intended. In addition to working with top-level athletes, we also provide services to many other people including: Cerebral Palsy, Autism, Alzheimer’s Disease, Stroke Recovery, Brain Injury Recovery, Lyme Disease and many more. Contact us at 888-567-4302 to learn more about how we can help you.

NexGen Hyperbaric, LLC

Hyperbaric Room, 2205 Cordillera Way, Edwards, CO 81632, United States

+1 888-567-4302

https://goo.gl/maps/SU8QcwUZ29gnMftW8

#hbot for athletes #hyperbaricoxygentherapy #recover sports medicine #hyperbaric chamber for sports injuries #hyperbaric chamber sports recovery #hyperbaric chambers for athletes #hyperbaric oxygen therapy for sports injuries

1 note · View note

izzythehutt · 2 years ago

Text

'Kenobi' if I had written it would apparently be Vader rage collapsing from hunger and Ben nursing him back to health in his hut on Tatooine

I was looking through old files on my computer and I found this doc called Desert HC (yes that stands for hurt/comfort) from 2015 that I'm 90% sure I wrote to amuse @darth--nickels while on the clock at my day job I hated

Cut for being self-indulgent unedited trash from 7 years ago, behold, my version of KENOBI, you're welcome Disney writers, feel free to poach from this for S2

Rage—that was all he felt, all he was. Rage personified. He knew only destruction, the desire to hurt, to kill—to maim, as he had been maimed.

Obi-Wan Kenobi stepped back, face lined, expression grim. He held his lightsaber aloft— Vader lunged, his anger propelling him forward—except...something was wrong.

Mid-leap all his strength left him—the Force deserted him, his head swam, he clutched at his chest. He was—this was the end. It had to be. At long last he was going to...right on the cusp of vengeance he would...

He gripped his head, and as it swam, in and out of consciousness, the last thing he saw was Obi-Wan's face—mouthing something he heard, faintly, and only dimly recognized. A word...an appellation from another life.

"Anakin!"

Then the world went black.

***

The first thing he was aware of when he awoke was the foreign pressure beneath his back and legs—hard, but with some give. The exposed place on his arm where flesh met prosthetic (had someone dared to remove pieces of his armor?) touched something...soft. Not the synthleather that was the only non-metal material he ever felt, but a rough, woven cloth.

He was lying on a bed, he realized. Stripped of half his armor, laid bare, exposed...and something else was missing. Some...some vital piece.

Realization of the absence of weight on his head dawned, and Vader's eyes flew open wildly. Immediately they fell upon it—his helmet. The mask he always wore, that sustained his life and sowed fear in the hearts of all in the galaxy who laid eyes upon it—

Sitting on a table next to this bed.

On instinct, he tried to raise his hands to his bare face—to cover it? To feel the scars, prove to himself he was alive, that this had happened? His arms were like lead, both sluggish and heavily restrained. Panicked, he began to struggle, thrashing about—hecouldn't allow himself to draw breath, he must be close to suffocating without the protection of the hyperbaric chamber—

"You're going to faint again if you don't breathe, you know."

At the sound of the voice, Vader let out a shocked gasp—when his artificial lungs necessitated he draw in a shuddering breath he was amazed to find—he could. Buoyed by this realization, he sucked in another breath, and another. Without the regulator on his mask, however, Vader felt his heart rate spike—and the panic returned.

"Slowly now—easy," the voice spoke again, firmly. "Breathe slowly."

His head was still a foggy mess, only dimly aware of even what planet he was on—but he obeyed. Something in the soft, Coruscanti-accented voice demanded it. Gradually, his breathing returned to normal. His muscles relaxed again.

The world swam into view—and that was when he saw the source of his salvation, the clear plastasteel oxygen mask that covered the lower part of his face. That was how he was able to breath. It was a crude apparatus, hooked from to an oxygen tank he could now see on the bedside table next to his helmet, only a foot or two away from where he lay prone.

He was alive—and he’d been saved.

“Master...?" Vader murmured, trying hard to focus his eyes. It had been so long sense he’d had to focus them on anything outside his meditation chamber. And who else could it be who would know where he was, understand that he’d been in danger?

There was a long pause. "...Once upon a time, yes."

Obi-Wan.

Now he remembered where he was. He recognized the sandstone building material, the utilitarian metal crates, even the geometric patterns on the threadbare carpet on the floor. Tatooine.

Obi-Wan had been hiding on Tatooine.

The anger he had felt when he had discovered this, white-hot at the touch, returned to him.

"If you don't control your emotions, Anakin, you're going to short out that suit again," the voice said—no, scolded. "I only got it functioning again a short time ago. I don't want to put you under again, but if you can't keep yourself from destroying everything in sight, I'm not going to have much of a choice."

It could just as easily have been a slap in the face. Indignant disbelief tempered his rage and left him sputtering like a fish.

The Jedi Master, hair now more gray than auburn, kneeled at the side of the bed and pulled something from the folds of his robes. The sharp prick on the flesh of his right arm made Vader hiss with surprise.

"What...is that?" His throat was as dry as the baking sand he knew lay all around them.

"An antibiotic," Obi-Wan answered, softly, as he pushed in the syringe. "Do you remember what happened?"

"I...remember." Kenobi stood up again. "I came to Tatooine to...kill you."

"Yes." The Jedi's mouth twisted into a wry half-smile. "You didn't get very far."

"Why did you remove my helmet?" Vader barked, ignoring the quip. He had never been without it outside his hyperbaric chamber for this long, and those benevolent, hateful eyes resting on him now made him feel...vulnerable.

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow.

"I had to. You were dangerously dehydrated; if I didn't get some water into your system you would have...” the Jedi trailed off.

Vader snorted in disbelief. "You saved my life?"

"Does that surprise you?" Obi-Wan's smile turned sad. "Did you think I would leave you out there to die?"

"Of course." You did once before. The Jedi master paled.

"I suppose I deserve that." He watched as Vader attempted to move his legs, arms (again) then his head. He was restrained—but not with Force-blocking cuffs. Obi-Wan didn’t need them, he knew. He was weak—practically powerless.

He hated it.

“What is wrong with...what has happened?”

“You were so angry you had a fit,” Obi-Wan said, gentleness turning into sarcasm. Vader made a noise in the back of his throat like an angry Lothcat. “Something in the mechanics of your suit failed—I believe the respirator is broken, though not beyond repair. After you collapsed I—got you back to my home.” He didn’t try to explain to Vader how he’d managed to carry the gigantic Sith—for which he was grateful. “You also did irreparable damage to the...food dispensary function. I’m afraid it needs to be completely replaced.”

Vader furrowed his brow, still too tired to focus on anything about his predicament but the bare facts.

“That makes no—that is unacceptable. I cannot—do not eat or drink as you do.” Something Kenobi had said earlier touched a nerve. “If you didn't replenish the nutrient packs, how did you administer the water?"

Obi-Wan’s small smile returned. He held up a metal canister with a rubber neck— suspiciously like the kind he had seen used on infants in the Jedi Temple.

"I had a baby eopie wander by my place last year. A krayt dragon had gotten the mother...I cared for her child for a season. This was what I nursed her with." Realization dawned on Vader's face—which gave way to stark horror.

"You...you dare—"

“Isn’t it amazing the degradations one’s body will submit itself to when it's desperate?”

Obi-Wan shook the bottle, smiling. “Still thirsty? There’s some left.”

“No, I am not still thirsty,” Vader hissed, incensed—though his throat was dry and papery. “I will not—I would never—“

“Oh, I assure, you did.” Obi-Wan set it down next to the oxygen tank gently. “You were craving it. Your body hadn’t had anything to eat or drink for days before you even arrived on Tatooine. Frankly, I’m astounded you lasted as long as you did in the desert, searching for me.”

The chastising tone he heard in the old man’s voice must’ve been a product of sunstroke, Vader thought. Though...he considered. The Sith had been due for his weekly maintenance check right before he found out where Obi-Wan had been hiding for all these years. After learning that...he had not slept, he had had no time for maintenance... his anger called him here, to this moment.

He tried and failed to lift his head again.

His anger was failing him in this moment, actually.

“Give me back my helmet, Obi-Wan,” he ordered, autocratically. Obi-Wan crossed his arms and considered him.

“I can’t do that, Anakin,” the Jedi Master replied, coolly.

“Do not call me by that—“ he sputtered. “Why not?”

“Well, firstly,” Obi-Wan sat on the foot of the bed, appallingly close to his former apprentice’s feet. Vader let out a weak growl he ignored. “I must confess to self-interest. I think you far less likely to attempt to kill me without it on.” In spite of his anger, the Sith could see the logic in his former master’s strategy. He made a soft tech sound through his teeth but did not reply. “And secondly...”

Kenobi pulled a bowl of some steaming liquid up from a tray on the floor. “You need to eat something.”

"Speak plainly, old man. What is that?" Vader eyed the bowl of broth Obi-Wan was stirring with the utmost suspicion. Once more he tried to move his head—the effort made his head spin. "And what have you done to me?"

"I haven't done anything to you." As if by second nature, the Jedi smoothed the covers on the blanket he—he had put a blanket around Vader's legs—he—how dare he. “That pounding in your head is your own doing—what can you expect, when you’ve half- starved yourself?” He held the bowl of soup up. “And I couldn't feed you in your sleep, much as I would have preferred it."

As Obi-Wan tapped the wooden spoon against the bowl, the exact implications of what his former master was saying clicked in Vader's brain.

"I'm not taking any food of yours," he spat—the intended viciousness muffled by the breathing mask. “Much less from you directly.”

“I don’t recall giving you a choice.” Obi-Wan replied, grimly. "How else do you expect to recover? There is no one else for miles—not even the Jawa caravan is due for another month." The ghost of a smile hovered on his lips.

"The...the Empire will come for me, Obi-Wan," Vader slurred, all tepid defiance. His attempts to draw on his anger to give himself focus were only making the Sith Lord dizzier. "It is only a matter of time—"

"Is it?" Kenobi asked, his voiced laced with that delicate condescension he remembered so well. Vader clenched his jaw. "The speeder you rode in on isn't Imperial issue—it looks like something you commandeered in Mos Eisley. There's no Star Destroyer encircling the planet—no reports, from what I can tell, of any Imperial interest in Tatooine at all." Vader silently glowered. "I'm not convinced anyone in the Empire even knows you're here."

"You cannot know that for certain—"

"But I know you," he cut him off, archly. "You tearing half-way across the galaxy without telling anyone where you were going strikes me as very likely." He stroked his beard. "How off the mark am I?"

“You—you aren’t—" Vader felt his pale face flush with embarrassment. “You know nothing."

Obi-Wan shook his head in disbelief.

"So reckless and impulsive," Obi-Wan scooted up the bed, so he was level with the irascible Sith. "I always told you it would cost you one day—in this case, Lord Vader..." He reached his hand over, and, to Vader's amazement, actually cradled his former apprentice's head in one hand, lifting it up for him. "It's left you in my power."

"What...what do you think you're doing?" he exclaimed. The warmth of Kenobi's callused hand seemed to burn him.

"I'm giving you lunch," Obi-Wan explained, slowly, as though to a child—or a mental deficient. When the Jedi reached for the oxygen mask, as if to unhook it, Vader's anger gave way to fear.

"You cannot take that off!" he exclaimed, with a note of hysteria. “I—I won't be able to —"

"It's only for a moment," Obi-Wan told him, gently. "I'll give you a spoonful, then I'll put the mask back on. It will be—"

"Utter humiliation," Vader growled, glaring at the spoon as though the depths of his loathing alone could set the thing on fire. "I refuse."

"Anakin," The patience in Obi-Wan's voice gave way. He pointed the spoon directly in front of Vader's face, more like a weapon than an eating utensil. "You are acting like a child. Open your mouth."

"No!" The vein popping out in Kenobi's forehead gave him a kind of petulant pleasure, so he clamped his mouth shut. The aggravated sigh of frustration Obi-Wan let out also pleased him immensely. ‘

The Jedi’s eyes narrowed sternly.

"Fine, Anakin. If it's games you want to play—"

Before he understood what was happening, Obi-Wan had snatched the mask off of him. The Jedi Master held it in the air, more than an arm's length from Vader, with a look of triumphant patience plastered all over his smug face.

Vader's eyes widened in horror—but he curled both his lips under, stubbornly, and glared at Kenobi. Obi-Wan returned the look, something steely behind his eyes. The Sith's gaze flicked between the utensil full of food hovering inches in front of his mouth, to the oxygen mask, so far out of reach. Obi-Wan was...he really wasn't going to bring it back to his face—

His lungs screamed for air, and when he could bear it no more, Vader reflexively wrenched his mouth open. Just as quickly Obi-Wan had shoved the hot soup in and resecured his breathing apparatus. Before he could think to spit it out—his head was swimming from lack of air—he had swallowed the tangy broth and was gasping for breath.

"I trust we won't have to repeat that little exercise in obstinance?"

"You...you..." Vader wheezed in and out a few times, before getting himself under control again. "You almost killed me!"

"You're the starving man who won't take food that's freely offered." Obi-Wan's clear blue eyes flickered with concern as he watched Vader sputter and attempt to normalize his airways again. "And, really—first you're suspicious of me saving you, now you accuse me of attempted murder?" He quirked his eyebrow again. "It seems I can't win."

"I'm going to make you pay for this, Obi-Wan," he croaked, weakly. "You'll...see."

“I’m sure...but before that, you'll need your strength." Gently, he lifted Vader's head once more. “So, shall we try this again?"

The two stared at each other for a long time—Obi-Wan's expression dared Vader to disagree. At long last the Sith—blue eyes still flashing with displeasure—opened his mouth a fraction of an inch.

"Very good." The Jedi gave the back of his neck a comforting squeeze. At the touch Vader jumped—something uncomfortable in the pit of his stomach squirmed. "Now, another bite—and then a breath."

The spoon hovered by Vader's face again—pulling a face, he accepted the bite of tangy, vegetable soup, followed by 5 seconds of the breath mask. Bite, mask, bite, mask. Methodically, Obi-Wan made his way through the arduous process of feeding his former padawan a bowl of restorative broth.

At least, Vader thought, he has the sense to remain silent.

"How does it taste?" Obi-Wan asked, softly.

Or not.

Vader let out an indistinct grunt.

"It's fine." The older Jedi frowned.

"Just 'fine'?"

"Yes, 'just fine,'" Vader groused, snappishly. "What do you want from me, Obi-Wan, an elegy dedicated to your cooking?"

"Only if it's not an original work.” Obi-Wan clucked his tongue and frowned. “A little gratefulness wouldn’t do amiss. There’s certainly no one else in the galaxy who’d be willing to hand feed you a home-cooked meal. It’s akin to sticking one’s head in a Sarlaac Pit.”

“You—stop—“ Now Kenobi was covering his mouth—he was laughing at him. "There is nothing funny about this—or you, Obi-Wan!”

"Maybe once you get some food in you, you'll appreciate the humor of our situation." He shoveled more soup in Vader's mouth before the inevitable reply. "Or after you get some more rest—”

"Don't speak to me like I'm a child!" he snapped, waspishly. "I'm a Sith Lo-” Obi-Wan shoved the next spoonful in his mouth with more force than was strictly necessary.

“Forgive me, Anakin—” His face softened, almost imperceptibly. ��But you’re acting far more like the stubborn little boy who I first knew than any Sith.”

“I told you not to call me—” His complaint was drowned out by a gargle—Vader had managed to dribble broth all over his chin. Faster than he could protest, Kenobi had a cloth out and was mopping it up. “—that.”

“There.” Ignoring him, he set the now-empty bowl down next to Vader’s mask. “Better?”

“...I...suppose so,” he admitted, grouchily. It was disconcerting to see how relieved the man he’d come to kill looked. “What are you planning on doing with me, Obi-Wan?”

Obi-Wan’s face was bent over the oxygen tank, fiddling with it, so Vader couldn’t see the pang in his eyes at the question. All he heard was the forced unconcern in his old master’s voice.

“I haven’t decided yet—I don’t think I can just set you free like the eopie calf. For one thing, you need more attention than she did.”

“That is not an answer, old man.” Vader fidgeted nervously as Obi-Wan set his uncovered head gently back on the pillow. “I suppose you’ll...turn me over to the rebels as soon as you can get word to them.”

“You’re more skittish than she was, too.” Obi-Wan straightened up and got off the bed, a no-nonsense mask firmly back in place. “Get some rest. I’ll be right here when you wake up, I’m sure.”

“I don’t want to get some—” Immediately Vader felt something change in the air being filtered in the tank—now a light dose of sleep gas was mixed in. Normally his metabolism would be well-equipped to fight it, but in his current condition...

“You’re...” His eyelids flickered shut. “You’re...”

“Doing this for your own good,” Obi-Wan murmured, so softly Vader thought he must’ve imagined it. “Sleep well, Anakin...”

I will get you for this, Obi-Wan, was his last conscious thought—just as the rough blanket was being draped over his exposed torso. You will suffer.

#star wars #obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #darth vader #kenobi #i also found a 50 page obi wan forces vader to take truth serum fic and they talk out their shit but that's too trashy for even me to post

36 notes · View notes

nygmcbblepot · 2 years ago

Text

Chapter 6-

A/N: Sorry for not updating for a while! i couldn't find a gif that matched so I just decided that the photo i chose matched better!

You made your promise to Frederick and left the hospital. You had been planning on visiting him the next day sometime since you took off. When you got back to your apartment, you sat on the couch to watch TV before going to bed; Within a few minutes, you were passed out.

…

When you woke up, you did your morning routine of showering, getting dressed, skin care, and optional makeup. Today, you decided to wear yoga pants and your F/C halter top since it had just started getting hot out. Once you had finally matched your outfit, you made your way to the hospital. You were hoping that there were no overnight complications but you knew somebody would call you if there would’ve been any. On the way to the hospital, you stopped to get lunch for you .You knew you couldn’t bring him outside food but knew he’s able to be fed. You stopped at a fast food restaurant .When you got to the hospital, you had arrived just at visiting hour. You shoved the food into a tote bag that had things such as your wallet, feminine products, water bottles, perfume, hairbrush, and touch up makeup. You could smell the food from outside of the bag.You walked into the hospital, checked in, and walked to Frederick room with the doctor. Today, he was in a hyperbaric oxygen chamber. The doctor was coming to talk with the both of you about treatment and other medical stuff you needed to know.

“Frederick has already been getting skin grafts. We had started on his feet. The recovery process with burns to this degree, with your past injuries, and it being full body burns, the recovery process without complications will be either a little more or less than 8 or so months. But with complications, I’m estimating a year or close to it. Over that time period, his treatments will consist of surgeries, skin grafts, medications, and fluids to maintain blood pressure and prevent him from going into shock. Dr. Chilton, in the past ten years, have you gotten the tetanus shot?” The doctor stood against the wall with a clip board, writing things down.

“I have been up to date with all of my shots.”

“Good. The only reason i’m asking is to prevent tetanus bacteria from infecting the burn wounds.”

“I’m a doctor. I know.”

It’s like nothing happened. He still has the same douche-baggy personality that you fell in love with.

The room was silent until the doctor finally spoke up and asked, “Do either of you have any questions?” You shook your head and Frederick told the doctor no. She (the doctor) left the room, leaving you two in complete silence. You couldn’t think about one thing to say to him until you remembered about the food you had snuck in.

“I got food. I'm sorry but i'm just really hungry.” You set it down on a table. Just as you pulled a chair close to him, the door opened and a dark haired female entered the room. You had just saw her out of the corner of your eye, but didn’t get a good look to identify her. Burt when you heard her familiar voice, you were able to identify her as Alana Bloom. “I’m gonna step out of the room and let you two chat.” You grabbed your purse that had your food in it as well, and headed off to sit outside on a bench to eat.

“Dr. Bloom, you finally broke down and came to visit. Your face did not change at all when you first looked at me. The shock in seeing me is usually…delayed.”

“I wanted to see you, Frederick. I wanted to remind myself of what Hannibal Is capable of.”

“What Hannibal is capable of, what Will Graham is capable of, what you are capable of. You were the roper. Too bad there was not enough rope for you to hang yourself with. Just enough to hang me. Who does Will Graham have you roping now?”

“Hannibal.”

Frederick let out a small but noticeable laugh and said, “I would burn the man alive. Though, I would rather have his skin. I’ve been getting grafts. How I would love to count Hannibal among my donors.”

“You were never comfortable in your own skin, Frederick. You wouldn’t be comfortable in Hannibal’s.”

…

After you finished eating, you came back into Frederick’s hospital room; Alana was still there and had flowers in her hand. You managed to sneak into the room as they were still talking.

“You were never comfortable in your own skin, Frederick. You wouldn’t be comfortable in Hannibal’s,” Alana said. She set the flowers done on a table and then noticed you.

“You bitch. You did this to him! You set him up! You knew that if you got involved, you would be in his current position! How the hell do you not feel any sorrow, or empathy, or just feel bad. You aren’t as fucking innocent as you convince yourself and other people that you are.” You slowly started to walk towards her, “I’d advise that you’d get the fuck out and not come back.” At this point, you were in her face.

“Goodbye Frederick. Y/N, I’ll see you at work tomorrow.” Alana backed away and left the hospital.

You were just standing there, staring at the door. You didn’t even know what do say or do until a doctor walked in with a few papers that needed a signature.

“I just need Fredericks permission and for you to sign for his next surgery.” The doctor handed you the chart and read it over before signing off on it and getting Fredericks permission since he wasn’t able to move without pain or tearing a graft. “We can schedule it for 3:00 tomorrow afternoon if it’s good for the both of you?.”

You look at Frederick and nod you head.

“That would be great, thank you.” You give the doctor a light smile before they walk out.

“You should get home. You have work tomorrow,” Frederick say, glaring up at the clock on the wall.

“I’ll be back tomorrow before your surgery. Love you.”

He gave no response so you just left and went back to your apartment.

…

The next day when you got up, you felt extremely ill. The same feeling you felt when Frederick was missing. But it wasn’t an excuse to call off of work and you wanted to save your sick, personal, and vacation days for is something were to happen or if you just wanted to go on a mini trip when Frederick felt better. So you took a few Advil’s and got ready for work.

…

It had been your first day back since Fredericks incident. Before entering your place of work (The Hospital) you just stood outside, staring at the large building from the inside of your car. You loved your job there but you didn’t know if after everything that happened with him you could go back to fully working there. The employees there (especially the women) were nasty. All they did was talk constant shit on everybody. What if they found out about your relationship? From the exact moment you entered the building, you knew that everybody knew. You weren’t embarrassed to be with him but you felt you stomach start turning and you ran to the restroom. You sat in the stall of the restroom, holding back your hair as your threw up. All of the stress made you extremely sick. You cleaned yourself up and went back to work.

You had to meet Alana in Hannibal’s too to discuss something that she didn’t fill you in on in a few minutes so you had to rush. As much as you didn’t wanna see either of them, you were extremely interested in what both of them had to say.

…

“There’s a deal for you, Hannibal,” Alana says standing by the divider separating her from Hannibal. “Or there could be..”

Hannibal stood with his back towards Alana, “A deal? With whom?”

“The FBI.”

Hannibal slowly turned towards Alana, “Jack couldn’t ask me himself?”

“Jack doesn’t know you as well as I do. He thought if he asked you for help, you would just torment him.”

“How wise of Jack.” Hannibal puts both of his hands behind his back.

“The red dragon faked his death.”

“Good for him,” Hannibal says.

“Jack wants to fake your escape. I release you into police custody and Jack uses you as bait.”

“Was it Will’s idea?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, because that worked so well for Frederick Chilton. Do please tell Frederick if you see him, I wish a speedy convalescents and hope he won’t be very ugly.”

“I’ve been on the phone for hours and this is what you get.”

You walk in the room, seeing the both of them arguing.

“Good morning, doctor,” Hannibal says to you.

“Good morning. Alana, you wanted to speak with me?”

“Give me my books and i’ll make you the deal,” Hannibal says knowing you have no idea what the hell he’s talking about.

“If you cooperate on the capture of Francis Dolarhyde you get your book, your drawings, your toilet, and all your privileges will be restored.” Alana turned towards you.

“What is he talking about? What are you talking about? It would be nice for one of you to at least fit me in on what’s-“

You were interrupted by Hannibal,” You died in my kitchen Alana. Every moment since then is borrowed. Your wife, your child, they belong to me. We made a bargain for Will’s life and then I sin you gold.”

You just stood there waiting for one of them to explain what was happening when Alana left the room.Leaving just you and Hannibal. You weren’t Hannibal’s doctor so you never really got to see him often (especially alone) so it was awkward and uncomfortable. You wanted to take your balled u[p anger out on him but you knew you couldn’t. Especially with Dolarhyde still out there and Hannibal having relations with him. He could have you end up like Frederick.

“The FBI wants to me help with the capturing of Francis Dolarhyde. Alana, Jack, and Will would help fake my escape.” Hannibal must’ve known you were a bit uneasy with that so he said, “I’d be in police custody. Like i’ve said before, my escape would be fake. But I could fully escape if I wanted to.” You started walking towards the door to go ask Alana about the “deal” when Hannibal started talking yet again,”I would be cautious if I were you. Francis hunts families.”

What the hell is he talking about?

“I don’t know what you’re saying but I’m assuming it’s some sort of threat.” You turned back to see Hannibal Basically touching the barrier.

“You may not fit the family profile Francis was hunting for but he’s still able to hunt couples, Y/N.”

You felt your phone vibrate in your pocket from an unknown number with no caller ID so you ignored it and left to find Alana.

…

“Hannibal has tentatively agreed to the deal I’ve proposed,” Alana says to Jack Crawford.

“What will it take to make him less tentative?”

“He wants Will to ask him,” Alana says turning to Will.

“I’ll say pretty please,” Will says taking a drink of alcohol.

“People are going to stampede when they find out Lecter is out,” Jack says also drinking.

“Let them stampede… Authenticity.” Will sighs. “Let them believe I helped Hannibal escape.”

“Authenticity?” Jack glares up at Will.

“Somebody has to be close when the Dragon comes.”

“And then?” Alana looks down at Jack hoping for a set plan.

“We kill Dolarhyde. And then we kill Hannibal.”

#frederick chilton #raul esparza #frederick chilton x reader #hannibal x reader #chilton x reader #hannibal nbc #hannibal #hannibal x y/n

15 notes · View notes

petepaintswarhammer · 3 years ago

Text

I want to tell you all about our Penelope Booth. I’m sure all parents will describe their children in a similar, special way, but here I go…

She really was our perfect princess P, always happy and cheeky, her sass shone out and she melted the hearts of everyone she met. She was born in Bolton hospital on New Year’s Eve 2019 - born to stand out in the crowd 💫

This year, on Monday 19th July, our world turned upside down. During the summer “heatwave” we had a paddling pool in our garden which we’d been enjoying over the weekend. It was still hot on the Monday and our patio doors were open as we’d been out in the garden, although not in the pool.

We were all inside and together in one room of the house when George, Penelope's older brother, left the room to watch TV and Penelope followed him shortly after - we thought she had just joined him. After a couple of minutes we got up and followed them. The paddling pool was directly in my eye line as I entered the back room and I could see something floating in the water. I got closer and realised it was Penelope 💔 It was the most horrendous realisation of my life.

I started CPR straight away while Grant called the ambulance. I urge everyone to do a CPR course as I’ve been told Penelope wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t been started so quickly. We were transferred to Manchester Children’s Hospital who have been truly amazing and we have been here ever since.

We have been lucky enough to stay at the hospital in “Ronald McDonald’s house”, as close as we could be over the last two months. It is an independent charity funded by the public, providing families with a 'home away from home' during the most difficult times.

Penelope was intubated and placed in a coma in the intensive care unit and, after just one week, she was well enough to be transferred to the neurological ward where she’s being treated for an acquired brain injury - an MRI scan confirmed severe brain damage 💔

Although we have seen progress, I think outsiders would struggle to spot much. She’s unable to sit, speak, eat and the doctors can’t tell me that she ever will in the future.

We’ve been able to bring Penelope home for the past two weekends. I can’t tell you how lovely this has been - to be back as a family with George, in our own comforts - but it’s scary to think we are getting ready to leave the hospital that has been our safety bubble.

We’ve been in hospital for 9 weeks now and I’ve spent every day desperately searching for the best ways to help Penelope. The NHS is fantastic and we’ve been blown away by the treatment we have received, but there’s only so far they are able to stretch. This is totally understandable but as parents we need to try whatever we can.

Grant and I are expecting a baby in 5 weeks time which could be seen as terrible timing, but there is a clinical trial in America which uses stem cells found in the umbilical cord to help regenerate damaged cells - in my mind it feels like this is meant to be, but it's expensive, at least £10,000, plus the costs of getting the cells and storing them, and also getting there with Penelope. There is a waiting list but the doctors agree that Penelope meets the criteria. We’ve been told the waiting list could be up to 2 years but, as long as we have the cells stored, we are in a better position in the future. Time really is of the essence for our family.

There is hyperbaric oxygen therapy which we want to commence and ideally buy our own chamber which is around £15,000; and she would also benefit massively from daily therapy and support to try and get her basic skills to return. We're also looking at equipment for home and outside which will make life easier for us all.

There are so many therapies and rehabilitation centres to look at, and no-one has a clear answer about what works and what doesn’t. We do know that the brain is able to rewire new pathways, which is what we’re clinging onto. Also, with Penelope being so young, her brain is still developing, so we’re praying this will work to our advantage.

We feel so lucky and are so thankful that Penelope is still here and it really does make you appreciate the little things. Never in a million years did we imagine that we’d be in this position. It’s been truly heartbreaking and just shows you how fragile life is.

We want to thank everyone who is supporting us through this. It’s provided us with so much comfort just knowing that we’re in people’s thoughts and they’re gunning for P to get better. P has been such a fighter throughout all this. She didn’t need to get this far but she has done and I truly believe it’s down to her strong will. She will keep going.

There are so many stories about children in Penelope's position going on to do amazingly, we’re just desperate for P to be one of them. We’ve been told that Penelope will never be the same and we’ve accepted that. We just want her to be happy and to be to live life to the best of her ability.

Throughout this journey, people have suggested a crowdfunding page and, to be honest, it made us feel uncomfortable . However, as Penelope's parents, we need to do whatever we can for our princess and I’m sure everyone will understand that we want to give her the absolute best chance at life.

What we collect will go towards therapy and equipment, whether it be the standard ones or the more difficult to access options, but whatever it is, there is no doubt it'll be used to Penelope's advantage.

I totally understand it has been a difficult 2 years for most, but anything you can to do help our little girl will be so appreciated, whether that's sharing this post, donating what you can, doing fundraisers, or putting us in touch with anyone could think may be able to help.

Here is our donation link:

https://www.justgiving.com/campaign/thebestchanceforprincessp

The money goes to Just4Children who will pay for anything Penelope needs with the amount raised - this way you can be certain all the money is going to support P.

Thanks for reading this, and please keep our Princess P in your thoughts and prayers.

Katie, Grant & George X

6 notes · View notes

prurientpuddlejumper · 4 years ago

Text

A Lipless Face That I Want to Marry, Ch. 5

<- Chapter 4 | Chapter 6 ->

Summary: You get a call. Dr. Chilton’s recovery has taken a turn for the worse, and he might not survive.

CW: hospitals, medical procedures, angst

1,583 words

Fifteen days. Seven surgeries. Seventeen blood transfusions.

You rushed to his hospital room straight after work, not even stopping at home to change or get something to eat. After the call you’d gotten, you were too nauseous to eat, anyway.

Glowing orange heat lamps hung over his bed, like the ones they use for hatchling chicks at the farm when they’re too young to regulate their own temperature. He had all but vanished under a thick pile of blankets.

You remembered how much of a baby he could be in the winter when his feet were cold. How he’d make you shriek by tucking his icy extremities under your warm pajamas, and how you’d squirm and swear at him and laugh until you finally settled back against his chest. His hands were always freezing, but his body was like a steam engine pumping out heat. Under the blankets with him, trapping each other’s glowing warmth between your entwined bodies, the coldest nights were always so cozy.

There was nothing cozy about this.

Frederick’s temperature kept dropping despite the doctors’ efforts to stabilize it, and it had dipped dangerously low. He was barely moving. It tore up your heart to see him so helpless. If his temperature didn’t come up soon, he could die.

You knew that. The rational part of your brain knew that he wasn’t out of danger yet, that this wasn’t a surprise. He told you he needed to write that article right away because he might not have much time left. But you didn’t think it would really happen—that he could fade so fast.

“Hey, Frederick… I’m here,” you said softly, sitting beside him. There was no indication he was aware of you being in the room. The only signs of consciousness were feeble, rasping, wet moans.

He coughed weakly under the pile of white sheets.

They had already increased his antibiotics regimen at the first warning signs, but his cough was developing into a respiratory infection, and getting worse. All the smoke and water he’d inhaled and the tubes forced down his throat were taking their toll on top of everything else collectively beating his immune system into submission. He was so sick.

You wanted to crawl under the covers, wrap yourself around him, and keep him warm. He could slip his icy fingertips under your shirt, and you wouldn’t complain.

All you could do was sit beside him, talking to him about your day, and hope that, if he could hear you, your voice was comforting. That he even wanted your company. You listened to the monitors, reassured by their continued steady beeps, terrified they might suddenly stutter and fall, and tried not to cry.

You hated being so helpless.

***

Sixteen days.

For the second time, you walked into the hospital doors in the morning to find he was gone. Over night, his condition went critical. The infection had turned into full-blown pneumonia. He was still alive, thank god, but he was intubated again, and put on a ventilator with paralytic drugs keeping him unconscious.

He was, effectively, in a coma.

Every time you thought he was getting better, he slipped away again. Two days ago he was fine. He was dictating notes and being the cranky asshole you loved. Now a doctor had to thread endoscopic instruments down into his lungs to clear the secretions, because he couldn’t even cough.

A nurse gently patted your shoulder to get your attention. You weren’t sure how long they’d been standing there.

“I’m sorry to have to ask this, but do you know if your fiance has any family, anyone who might like a chance to say goodbye?” Your face drained of color and the nurse quickly worked to reassure you, “He may still recover. Nobody here is giving up, but…”

But his chances weren’t good.

“I don’t know. I… I can try to call his mother, but...” For someone you were about to marry, you didn’t know much about Frederick’s family. All you knew was that he had a sister who died a long time ago, his parents were egregiously wealthy, and they almost never spoke. His mother sent a card, which had earned nothing but hostile silence from Frederick. That was all.

He had always been lonely, your Dr. Chilton. Before you, anyway. He was charming, but an expert at keeping people at arm’s length. Desperate for connection, but always looking for it in the wrong places. You still weren’t sure how you’d manage to slip past his defenses. But his family wasn’t coming.

You were the only one by his bedside, waiting to see if he woke up. Alone in your terror that you might never hear his voice again.

***

Twenty-five days. Eight surgeries. Eighteen blood transfusions.

Chilton was out for over a week. Days crept by as you tortured yourself reading statistics like “pneumonia acquired in the hospital can be fatal as often as 33 percent of the time,” and “pneumonia increases mortality rate in burn patients by 25 percent.”

You were a mess at work, sobbing in the bathroom until they told you to go home. But you couldn’t stand being in that giant, empty house without him.

You had dinner with your old boss, Jack Crawford, to take your mind off things. The last time you saw him you screamed your throat raw, but he had always been a friend and mentor, and right now he was the one person who understood what you were going through.

He talked about Bella, and how hard it is to watch a loved one fading away. About the darkness he failed to see in Will Graham—skirting just shy of accepting responsibility for Frederick’s fate. You distinctly did not take back calling him negligent and incompetent. Still, despite everything, you knew Frederick held him in high regard. It was what got him in so much trouble. You encouraged Crawford to visit when Frederick was feeling better. If he got better.

Then dinner was over as quickly as it began, and you were alone again.

Every day that a ventilator kept him breathing, you wondered if that was the day you were going to get the phone call. You couldn’t bear it. You lived in the hospital waiting room, making meals out of vending machine Pop Tarts and the latest scraps of information the nurses could give you.

Surgery was risky on a patient already in critical condition, but the doctors decided to perform a bronchoscopy to drain a lung abscess. After that, his pneumonia began to improve. A few more days, and he was off ventilation, and in the hyperbaric chamber.

The moment you heard he was awake, you sprang up from your chair the waiting area (swayed with dizziness for a moment) and shambled to the oxygen therapy room.

***

“You look terrible,” he joked. His voice was quiet and hoarse, but you laughed a little too hard, sniffing and rubbing your eyes as your body shook. It was good to see a week unconscious had restored his cheery mood.

Ducking and weaving your head, you tried to get a good look at your reflection in the curved glass. When you caught a glimpse, the depth of dark circles made you recoil back from yourself.

“I couldn’t go home until I knew you were OK,” you explained. “I guess I could use a shower. And some sleep.”

Frederick observed you sympathetically. He was still bandaged head to toe, and what bits of skin did show were as red and inflamed as ever. He hummed in agreement. “All this beauty rest has done wonders for me.”

You laughed again, and it brought a smile to his cheeks and a sparkle of humor to his one good eye. At least he still entertained you.

“It is flattering that you would destroy yourself on my behalf, but you really ought to go home and take care of yourself.” He rolled his eyes upward cheekily, “I cannot have my adoring public discover I am marrying such a slob.”

Your heart missed a beat at the mention of marriage.

Leaning close until your forehead bumped the clear barrier, you pressed your palm to the glass. He lifted his hand off the bed, reaching toward yours, but could only make it a few trembling inches before he winced, and his arm fell back down, limp. He swore. Then he gave a self-deprecating chuckle to hide the frustrated wetness building in his eyes.

“Really,” he said without malice. “You should go home.”

“I can’t. You just woke up.”

“How long has it been since you slept?”

A few self-conscious mumbles were all you managed in response. He huffed knowingly.

“I promise not to die. You need rest.”

Your head did feel heavy, and it was difficult to keep your eyelids from drooping. “But it’s so empty. The house is so empty without you,” you sobbed.

“I know,” he said quietly, after a pause. He hated to see you like this, hated that you were suffering because of him.

“Just a few more minutes? I want to stay with you for a little while.”

“That would be nice.” His voice welled with such sincerity your heart broke. “Thank you.”

Soon, you thought. Soon you’d be taking him home with you, and your lives could be normal again.

#Frederick Chilton x reader #Frederick Chilton #Raúl Esparza #Hannibal #angst #injury recovery #my writing

62 notes · View notes

spell-cleaver · 4 years ago

Text

The Heir // The Luke Palpatine AU, Part 90 (!)

Prompt from @heartsofstars

As they sat together watching the sunset, Vader couldn't help but think that this was the last night he would ever spend with Luke. He knew it was not true...and yet...he looked at his son, who was leaning on his shoulder.

"Luke," he said. "This is our last night together. Is there any last thing I can do for you? Anything I can tell or show you?"

To his surprise, Luke sat up. "Actually, there is," he said hesitantly. "And you don't have to do it, if you don't want to. I would understand if you don't. But..." He looked imploringly up at Vader. "Can you show me what you look like under the mask?"

Previous parts on the masterpost here!

"Luke," he said. "This is our last night together. Is there any last thing I can do for you? Anything I can tell or show you?"

Vader froze.

Luke… Luke wanted to…

“You do not want to see me without this mask, little angel,” he intoned. “It is not a pleasant sight.”

“But it’s you,” was all Luke said.

“I do not want to frighten you.”

“And your armour doesn’t?” Luke bowed his head. “I understand if you don’t want to. I don’t want to pressure you into it.”

“No, I—” He did want to.

He… For the first time, he realised that he had faith in his son’s love for him. He… After everything, if his son were to despise and scorn and hate him… it would not be for his scarred visage.

“Yes,” he said finally, so quietly and carefully that his vocoder barely picked up on it. But Luke picked up on it. “I would like you to see me.”

Luke smiled.

Vader led him back to his quarters—to that strange, egg-like chamber that always sat in the corner of them—and Luke tried to calm the trembling in his hands. He… he was nervous, he realised. Why?

This was his father.

But the egg did seem intimidating as it cracked open, spilling harsh white light out of it and revealing a large black chair in the centre. Vader handed Luke an oxygen mask without a word, then they stepped in, and it closed again with a low, ominous, hiss…

Luke’s palms were sweating. He glanced around, frowning, as he affixed the mask to his face—he almost squealed in shock when he saw the contraption that descended from above. Vader pushed him lightly out of the way with the Force, towards the outer edges, and Luke could only watch half in morbid curiosity, half in horror, as it… latched onto Vader’s mask, there were unsettling clicking sounds and more hissing, and then…

Then it lifted away.

And Luke stared.

He’d… known that Vader had to be very, very injured. He’d known that he was in a life support suit for a reason, his health severely diminished, unable to breathe alone. Palpatine had surely designed Vader’s suit to be terrifying, certainly, and intimidating and nightmarish and dark, but… Vader wore it for a reason.

Luke stared at the face underneath it.

It was… pasty. He was bald as the egg his chamber resembled, with pink, pocked scars indenting his skull all the way up, like the skin had bubbled and boiled away until dead. He seemed to have far more wrinkles than a man of his age should, his mouth permanently tugged down in a twisted frown…

Until he glanced up at Luke and Luke smiled broadly.

When he saw that smile, Vader smiled back: a shy, hesitant up-twist of his lips, sweet in its tentativeness.

And Luke kept smiling because… Vader’s eyes.

There were as blue as the deepest lakes on Naboo. As the sky that overarched them, clear and glassy and calm. He had Luke’s eyes.

Or rather, Luke had his.

“Hello,” Luke whispered, “Father.”

He stepped forwards, his oxygen mask awkward against his face, and Luke pressed a hand to Vader’s cheek, careful of what looked to be raw, open sores still carved into his skin.

Vader teared up.

Alarmed, Luke drew his hand back—but Vader reached up to hold his hand there, and leaned into it. His eyes weren’t quite shedding tears—Luke took a moment to wonder if they could—but they were misted over and gleaming, certainly waterier than before.

“Hello,” Vader rasped, “little angel.”

His voice was so, so different without the vocoder.

“Luke,” he tried out, as if he was tasting the sound of it.

It was weak. It was wheezing. Luke could tell that his vocal cords had clearly been ravaged by whatever had happened, but hearing his father’s voice… Hearing the reverence, the tenderness, the emotion…

“My son,” Vader whispered, and blinked.

Luke leaned forward and pressed his forehead against his. “Father.”

His gaze roved over his face, taking in the details: the scar over his right eyebrow, the shape of his chin—it was cleft, like Luke’s!—and the way his lips formed the words.

“Not much of a father,” Vader huffed. Self-loathing roiled in the Force.

“No. How dare you.” Luke brushed his thumb over Vader’s cheek. “Look at you.”

“There is a reason I have no mirrors in my hyperbaric chamber, Luke,” Vader said, gesturing around vaguely. He ripped his gloves off his hands, revealing hard, gleaming durasteel. “I am aware I resemble a monster—that I am a monster.”

Luke didn’t refute any of that. Not because it was true—because he knew it wouldn’t change anything.

“You’re my father,” he insisted instead. And he took Vader’s hands in his own, kissing each of the knuckles, grasping them gently. Then he lifted his head and kissed the scar at Vader’s crown, then the one over his right eyes, then another one that snaked around the back of his ear. Finally, he rested his cheek against Vader’s again, wrapping his arms around his torso.

He said in his ear, “I love you. If you want to be a monster…” Vader might not be able to cry, but the thin film of tears over his eyes was wetting Luke’s cheek. “…then you’ll have to try harder, because I’m not intimidated by the act.”

Vader closed his eyes; his eyelashes brushed Luke’s cheek gently.

“Little angel…” he said. “I do not deserve you.”

“Perhaps not,” Luke agreed. “But you have me anyway. Whether I’m parsecs away on Naboo…” He rested his hand on Vader’s chest, careful not to push against any buttons. “…or right here.”

Vader held Luke so tightly he half-feared he’d be crushed.

They stayed like that for many hours, Luke leaning against his father, sitting in his lap, and Vader basking in every moment of Luke’s presence that he could. But it came to an end, as all things must; Vader carried a dozing Luke to his room and tucked him in bed, then woke him the next morning; and then he watched him descend the steps of the Palace. He tried not to think about the last time he'd watched someone descend those steps against the backdrop of a sky full of colours—but Luke was not Ahsoka, and this was not sunset. It was sunrise.

Luke descended slowly, one hand in Ahsoka’s, one hand in Sabé’s. Until he reached the bottom, where he let go, so he could wave goodbye one last time. It was that moment that seemed to freeze and stretch into eternity: Luke’s hair glinting in the golden light, his face wide in a smile, hand blurred in motion.

And then Vader blinked, and his son was gone.

Beginning | Previous | Final Part

#the heir #luke palpatine #ONE. MORE. PROMPT.#THIS IS FUCKING UNREAL #luke skywalker #darth vader #!!!!!!!!!!

69 notes · View notes