She’s trying to understand. She knows why it’s bad to hurt people– why hurting Faith was bad. That was wrong, and it made a part of her feel scared and very, very angry with herself. But what she doesn’t understand is– is it bad to hurt bad people? She understands why she shouldn’t– because when she does, an innate chord inside of her strikes and says no no no no no stop– but when someone else does, especially when Faith does, she can’t seem to understand why it is a problem. No part of her screams no no no the same way at all. No portion of her demands otherwise. She doesn’t get it.
“Hurting people is wrong, even if they’re bad,” The statement is always a partial question, almost, almost half a confused curiosity and yet it’s– somehow half-solid, like a partially formed conclusion. She doesn’t understand. “–You should. Feel very strong and very brave about it. It was the right thing to do, if you wanted to keep me safe. I’m safe, and I wouldn’t have been– safe if they weren’t gone. I was… valuable to them. I did– things they needed me to do. For the money I made them and for I– don’t know what else.” She doesn’t. The things she does when she’s not herself are hazy, stuck behind a screen.
She’s shifting up further to press a kiss to the crown of a head, to a cheek, to the other, to the corner of a mouth, to a brow, a patient offering of worship that finds a spot, a spot, a spot. She couldn’t feel more grateful (and she’s trying to shake the idea that she belongs To Faith now, like she’s passed hands on ownership, like she can never be a person, belonging always to someone else.) She’s getting used to it, slow, slow, slow.
“If you hadn’t done something I would still be there– and there was bad. It was a bad place and I was–” she’s starting to filter memories slowly, but they’re hard, rough, and they’re something she doesn’t want to keep, but she knows it she doesn’t they’re going to be much too much and she won’t let that happen, won’t let them, burdensome, sit on her chest like a nightmare, “–It doesn’t matter. I’m not there anymore. I’m here. And you helped me. And you wanted to keep helping me.”
“I don’t want to be stardust for a long time,” She declares, and it’s quiet but surprisingly solid, “I want to be your person first. I want to be who I am again. And then I want to be your stardust. I think that would be a way I want to stay, something immortalized but intangible, like the air around us.”
“What’s done is done.” A hand lifts and waves, an idle gesture. What’s done is done is done is done. Life and death kinda sorta have a strict no-return policy. “You’re here, they’re not. You’re safe, they weren’t.” Don’t tell Angel. Don’t tell Buffy. Don’t tell anyone. But if it happens to come up, she’s prepared to— hesitate first, then deliver the exact same explanation. —No, screw that, she wouldn’t hesitate. She’s Faith fucking Lehane, Faith fucking Lehane doesn’t hesitate. Faith fucking Lehane used to be proud of her kills. Still is. At least the ones who were undead before they were dead-dead.
“You’re here, I’m helping you, I want to help you and I want to keep helping you for as long as you need help.” Her grip tightens. Instinctive, protective. There’s that muscle memory flaring up again. She needs to pull closer and hold tighter. Needs. Needs, needs, needs. There is no want anymore. Alana’s warmth has become a necessity.
“You won’t be stardust for a very long time, I promise.” A kiss to a cheek, gentle. “You’ll be yourself first, then you’ll be mine, and even when you’re stardust, you’ll be mine. But it’s been one helluva long night, wouldn’t ya say? So. Sleep? Yeah? Sleep’ll make ya feel a little better. Have ya feelin’ a little refreshed. Sleep is good.” Intricate tan digits brush and graze a temple before disappearing into a head of hair to push a stray or two behind an ear. “We’ll sleep. And then in the morning, you can help me with the kids. See how we work? I help you, you help me. It’s a give and take, that’s how we work. I don’t like sayin’ ‘that’s how marriage works’ because— well— ain’t like that’s how it doesn’t but— it’s how we’ve always— managed and connected even before we got hitched.” A ring on a finger just reinforced it.
“Take M’suer Elephant— I wasn’t kiddin’ when I said he helps with the scary stuff because he does. He’s a much better monster fighter than I am.” By a goddamn landslide. “Um,” a pause, to slide backwards and to bring Alana with her. “But you can uh, still stay close, ya know. If you want. You’ll have double the protection from the scary.” The scary. What she means is nightmares.
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