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Torn

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You came back wrong.

Buffy's antennae twitched in surprise when she heard Spike's words; she paused on the wind, which buffeted her back and forth. It still surprised her, how much venom he could get into those screeches of his - she'd heard the like from Admirals trying to hook up with her, right from when she'd left her cocoon, but him... It was a sign of his evil, his mothness, that he could use this sound to insult as well as attract. She hated it.

Shut the fuck up, Spike!

What did it say about her, that she could do it too?

From his perch among the roses, Spike was laughing at her, fluttering in the shade of a dark red bloom. She wanted to be unaffected, but her antennae would not stop curling and flexing from the strength of his pheromones. His anger and his despair terrified her, but his desire, his attraction - it was intoxicating what it did to her, how she could feel it shimmering through the air.

Make me, his words cawed with dissonance, rippling along her body, making it all that worse.

She wanted to escape into the sun, flash her white wings with a blinding glare of light and be gone from the rose garden, away from Spike - but the wind was buffeting her closer, swirling her in freefall nearer to the leaves and thorns.

Desperately fluttering her wings, trying to think, trying not to, Buffy seized on some grass pollen, caught like her in the summer breeze. With her superlepidopteral strength she hurled it Spike's way, hoping it would catch him off-guard.

It did. The air around him flared with his surprise as the sticky globule snagged on his wing; he beat them wildly to try and shake it off, swirling patterns of grey and blue. Not caring what her pheromone trail could tell him now, Buffy took the advantage, flying closer, gathering speed and direction as her wings worked with the wind.

You don't know me, she screeched at him, clawing her legs against each other, talking a language she'd never known before her return from the Final Cocoon. You know nothing about me. With a burst of speed she slammed against him, in control at last as she knocked him back against the rose stem. You know nothing!

Pain bled into the air as Spike's wings caught on thorns, green ripping through grey membrane. Is that right? he asked her nonetheless, slamming his broken wings against hers, buffeting her into the shade with him.

She could sense it then, the thick tang of her feelings on the air, mingling with his. When their bodies met, end to end and then not, his antennae - all over her, feeling her, encouraging her to do the same... She couldn't help but give into it, let out all her pain against him and the world, feel red petals, green leaves, brown thorns give way underneath her pure white wings.

When the rose head fell, they fell with it, and in the sticky scent of perfume and sap... Buffy knew what she'd become.