Lawrence lay back in the pod, and gave the nod to the other hunter on duty to hit the button switching the golem on. The glass lid closed and for an instant there was blackness before he found himself jarred by the strange sensation of teleportation. It was always disorientating to the brain to be in one place – the pod – before suddenly being yanked across the room to look out through the eyes of the golem instead.

He stretched, tendons previously unused clicking with the effort and looked at his hands, wiggling his fingers - all TEN of his fingers in front of his eyes. His left hand was hard to move at first, the motor skills dulled from years of low use. It felt different than when he had his gauntlets summoned, Butch augmenting much of his movement with his own momentum. He’d conditioned himself to life with one hand, used to doing everything with an elaborate set of motions which facilitated things as best he could, it would take effort not to default to these habits, his dominant hand truly dominant in his mannerisms.
But it felt good, it felt so good and he made his way over to peer into the pod where his true body slept peacefully, giving himself a small smile and patting the glass. He felt good and the golem seemed functional, so he was set to head out, giving Kevin, the guy on duty a wave as he made his way out of the lab.
Outside it was a lovely day and his first stop was going to certainly be his house to pick up some other clothes than the attire the lab had kitted the golem out in. The default clothing was unflattering generally as a rule, hanging loosely on him, but even in this he felt like a supermodel, the look a casual rakish one rather than awkward as it might normally be. It was wonderful being his former self and like this even his mannerisms changed, he was lazy and confident, aware of the fact that he looked good and willing to use it to his advantage. Forgotten was the irritability normally present at a low level in his actions, he felt good instead.

No one was home when he got to the house, which was a shame really, wanting to show off to Rodney how he looked, but he got changed anyway, dressing a bit more riskily than usual, wearing a finely fitted shirt and a pair of his more form fitting trousers, leaving his top button undone in a display of disorder he wouldn’t usually tolerate. He laughed aloud at one point as he realised he had donned his shirt and pulled up his trousers without using his left hand at all out of sheer habit and went on to fasten his belt with two hands, a task which normally was rendered complex and elaborate now simple.
He ran a comb through his hair, no longer thin and dyed to hide the grey hairs but now with volume and a brilliant gleam to the platinum blonde that brought back memories of compliments from hairdressers and partners alike. He was ready to go.

Of course, he couldn’t leave without playing something on the piano and he sat himself down with elegant grace, splaying his fingers – ten fingers, what a novel feeling! – over the keys. He closed his eyes, letting himself simply feel the piano, caressing it like the body of an old lover, neglected too long. It took him back and what joy he was capable of, that restless desire for motion seemed to rise in his chest. He wanted to play, he wanted to let free the desires he’d suppressed so long, to seek for the meaning of emotion once more in the rise and fall of the music.

He played a chord, a simple, familiar chord and it run out rich and full, ample and responding to both of his hands rather than stunted and alone in the face of just one. He began with a simple melody, searching and careful and he let himself lapse into the slow methodical introduction of one of his old favourites. Moonlight Sonata was well known and commonly played but to him it represented a song which had first made him feel like there was a language to explain the yearning that he reached for every single day. It was a voice where he felt like he had none at all for a very long time.
He played a myriad of different songs, far longer than he meant to, lost in the sensations and finding himself locked in that wild fixated place where in the yearning reaching flow of the music he felt like it was almost possible to reach out and touch the feelings caught up in the threads of it all. He broke the spell only long enough to dash upstairs and retrieve a few pages of hand written sheet music from a carefully stowed folder.

It was titled Melody and when he played it and only for as long as he played it - left hand fumbling only once or twice as he went - he felt like he was forgiven.