The Little Things

Satisfaction

(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction

–

"Lord Vader?" A chirpy voice sings over and over, causing Vader's eyes to fly open. As he sits in his chamber, his eyes set firmly on the nurse, Kya, who gives him a gentle nudge. She has that familiar smile, bedside manner; admirable to some, claustrophobically annoying to him. Her blonde hair is neatly swept back in a ponytail, her tidy look and energy converges, and it seems superficial at first. She's just doing her job. But it was so rare that a pair of eyes would settle on him and didn't immediately exhibit a raw panic. She was warm, welcoming, waving her white flag––so to speak.

"I think you nodded off for a second there." She chuckles lightly. It was difficult for him suddenly to keep steering his ship in an angry sea. She encourages a convincing quintessence of hospitality, and he acquiesces – more responsive than he expected. That was how long it had been since someone gave off such an airily open-heartedness and directed it towards him.

Maybe his warrior cries have been heard. A token of optimism. Someone kind, helpful, efficient. Someone cares that he's breathing, that his heart is beating.

Vader plants his hands on either side of his chair, straightening his back to sit upright.

"How've you been feeling?" She asks. "Any particular issues?"

"Same as last week." He grumbles with a voice that wasn't quite awake.

"Alright. Can you take this off for me?" He flinches as her hands approach his mask. He hasn't allowed anyone to visualize his vulnerability. But she seemed voraciously dedicated to her optimism, it didn't seem so scary. It definitely didn't seem real. An ambiguous current between them had him questioning why this interaction was taking place at all.

"Let me help you with that." She insists, unclasping the helmet from the rest of his armour. He accepts the situation eventually, by pushing himself further into a state of suspended consciousness. Letting go of the anxieties that typically have him lashing out, acting rash – which at first, felt extremely out of character as he rages in his discomfort, like he had given up and given in to dream-like visions. But it felt strangely good. And he soon realized why.

Vader looked at her with his own eyes, a sight far stronger than it usually is. This was a vivid representation of how he used to see the world – because he wasn't looking from Vader's point of view. This was Anakin's.

The great vision wasn't the only thing that acted as a callback to a more empowered time in his own skin. He felt the leather fabric of his gloves at the tip of each finger. He felt his long hair tickle his neck as she removes his helmet. He was drifting away from the static evolution of Darth Vader and embodying the disjointed memory of being Anakin Skywalker.

She smiles once she gets a good look at his face, "What a beautiful man!"

And those words made him feel dejected. He got away with a lot when he looked like this, was treated differently, was respected due to his skill and not the fact that he could instill fear. He himself couldn't ignore the fact that there will always be a dichotomy between how people react to Anakin and how they'd take to his mutilated face. This was one of the reasons he'd never let anyone see him without his mask – because the person least accepting of him was himself. He could never put a face to his consequences.

"You must have girls throwing themselves at you all the time, don't ya?" She laughs, a fresh breeze of a chuckle as she checks that no hair strand of hers is out of place. She's flustered at the sight of young, dashing Anakin and has to will herself to remain professional.

But Vader knows, under the surface of delicate yet rugged bone structure and dark blonde locks, he is still the monster in beguiling wrapping.

She does seem to have a way of helping him put down his shield – weapons made of sharpened words, pent-up frustrations, and a tough exterior. She allows him to relax with her bright, casual smile, a feminine essence that he hasn't felt since...