I want to write but I can't get comfortable anywhere.
Can't watch any TV as Bob is playing Theme Park.
Can't go out as I'm skint.
I don't have anything interesting to say.
I'm fed up.
So I'm going to post another little snippet from chapter three of the fic I'm working on, and the picture I made that inspired it.
Something catches her eye. She picks up the glossy print, her hand unsteady, her stomach doing a sudden flip. There was no mistaking Spike in the photo, as if such a thing was possible. She knows the jut of that jaw and the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the Goth-punk hair and the lapels of that coat that she’d used to grab him, to make him kiss her, to make him shut that beautiful mouth to stop him saying I love you and meaning it. She’s seen that face with a thousand and one expressions, glee, and despair, alive with ecstasy and broken with pain. She could shut her eyes and sculpt him now, the shape of him feels burned into her touch like a muscle memory, every flaw, scar or mark she’d known and kissed.
Seeing his face again hits her harder than she had ever thought imaginable. It’s not even a good picture, just a blurry still from a Sunnydale Security camera, but seeing it here – amongst the scraps that remain of the Watcher’s Council records which cover Giles’ kitchen table – is almost too much. He’s out of context here - out of her life, and it hurts.