Sum of the Whole
He dreams of tying his shoes and clapping - he dreams of folding paper and writing a grocery list and buttoning his shirt.
He doesn't, thank fuck, dream of playing his guitar because that would...kill him. It sits in silent accusation in the back of his closet and he's stopped using his umbrella - doesn't wear that really nice Cavalli trench coat that's nearly a year old and only twice worn.
He dreams of Angel - of standing beside him in that cramped office and plotting a rescue - plotting redemption. Dreams that their shoulders brushed and that Angel looked up at him and didn't smile with his mouth but with his eyes. That Angel sees him and didn't fake falling asleep, this time.
And he wakes up slick with sweat, his throat raw - stump aching. Cock aching but he is - was - right handed and he can't get himself off with his left hand and he doesn't want to, anyway.
He wants to store up the frustration and the ache, the need and the *love* hate, so when this new thing is ready to be loosed upon the world he won't feel...
He goes into the bathroom and flips on the light - turns on the water and gets into the shower and slumps against the cold tiles. Pushing aside the dreams, the night, the ache in his chest - the sense-memory of Darla's cool, cool lips on his and how they could have been - might have been...
No. Today he's Vice President. Today it all changes - it's all new. He is. Today, he's finally free. He tells himself that as he rubs soap over his body - still-clumsy south-paw, eyes averted from his maimed arm. It doesn't matter that Angel smashed his hand and smashed....so many things. After today, he's not going to be crippled anymore. That - he swears.