[She's crying too now, enough to blur his face, and she isn't even sure if it's the pain or the sound of his voice, the raw wild pleading. You were perfect, she thinks, and the memory of the other Anya's vicious adoration is sharp and shining in her chest. You're always perfect, and she doesn't know whose thought it is. She gasps, tries to speak through the sobs in her throat. His hand is warmer-than-human and impossibly strong as ever on her neck, and the worst part is that she wants to sag against it, that the touch feels comforting against the blaring pain from from her arm in spite of everything.]
You were good, you were, this isn't punishment, she loves you, you know that -
[She shouldn't, maybe, shouldn't reinforce it, but she knows damn well she can't break it, but can't quite bring herself to say have faith, can't stomach that either.]
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You were good, you were, this isn't punishment, she loves you, you know that -
[She shouldn't, maybe, shouldn't reinforce it, but she knows damn well she can't break it, but can't quite bring herself to say have faith, can't stomach that either.]