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Once Buffy had dragged Spike safely out of Ben’s sight, they waited for the young doctor to move on before doubling back to ICU. Since she’d told him to forget about the - admittedly mind-bending - kiss in the closet, Spike hadn’t said a word, keeping up a sulky silence. It was grating on her nerves almost as much as the usual commentary he constantly kept up whenever she was around him. It wasn’t going to make her feel guilty or anything; she hadn’t asked him to kiss her, and he’d ruined any chance she’d ever have with Ben. She’d just have to pack away those daydreams of white picket fences once again.

When they returned, ICU was quiet, even for this time of night. A cardiac emergency had called the nurses away from the desk, crash cart and everything. Which was fortunate - although not for the poor person having the heart attack - they needed to know where the mystery woman from the newspaper was being treated. Buffy took the opportunity of their absence to search through the paperwork on the nurses’ desk for any clues. There were lots of notes in spidery handwriting, work rosters and test results, but nothing useful.

Spike was sniffing the contents of the blood sample tubes when he tapped a chart on the wall in front of him. “There’s a Jane Doe in 138.”

Buffy took the chart down. “Could be our Valkyrie.”

138 turned out to be a small room down the hall. The lighting, dim for night-time care, revealed a woman in a bad way, tubes and wires keeping her alive as she lay lethargically in the bed. She was conscious, barely, and she blinked with dull eyes that held little hope as they entered the room, though she didn’t speak. The golden hair, which once would have trailed behind her dramatically as she raced across the battlefield sky on her mighty steed, hung flat against the pillow, pooling limply around her bruised face. Somehow she was not the woman Buffy had been expecting. She’d imagined she’d look like the other Valkyries, strong and imposing and vital. Instead, the woman looked diminished and frightened.

“Brunhilde?” Buffy asked gently.

As she uttered the name, the air seemed to grow heavy with staticy magic. The injured Valkyrie in the bed looked stricken, and the heart rate monitor started to beep furiously.

“Looks like she’s about to peg it,” Spike observed unnecessarily.

“Shouldn’t we do something?” Buffy thinking that they might have inadvertently killed the woman. “Get a doctor!”

His reply was callously casual. “Nah, she won’t last long.”

Buffy was about to snap back at him when the magical tension ended with their ears popping. The room was suddenly full of very angry Valkyries. When Buffy had spoken the name of their sister, she’d somehow cast a spell, summoning the other Valkyries from Asgard, Stockholm, the Espresso Pump, or wherever the hell they’d been.

Noting the plight of her fellow, Sigrun held her hand to Brunhilde’s forehead, and the woman flushed with life again. The pale hair began to shine, and her skin flushed with health as her injures disappeared. It was a huge relief to Buffy, who’d been contemplating CPR up to that point. Brunhilde sat up and pulled her blankets to her neck before starting to detach the tubes underneath.

“Where is the banner?” asked Rita, her voice calmer than her expression suggested.

Brunhilde tried to look innocent. “Where’s what?”

“The banner. You took it,” accused Hlokk.

Brunhilde sighed, stalling for time. “I can’t, there’s a man present.”

Ten pairs of female eyes fell on Spike, attention didn’t seem to bother him one bit. He shrugged loosely. “Don’t mind me.”

Buffy shoved him out of the door, then turned back to the Valkyrie in the bed, arms sternly crossed. “Okay, man gone. What happened to you?”

“I was crossing the road.” Brunhide explained. “There was a billboard. It had Fabio on it. I was distracted! I never saw the car.”

Buffy gagged. “Fabio?”

The Valkyrie twirled a golden tress around a finger. “What can I say? I loved the hair.”

“What happened to the banner?”

Brunhilde pulled down the covers and gingerly got out of the bed. She rolled up the folds of her lacy, yet demure, nightie and unwound the band of silk that bound her middle.

The banner unfurled from her hand. An eight-foot tongue of rich white silk, its pearly sheen made it appear as if rainbows had been caught within its weave. It curled and flapped on a non-existent breeze, rippling with magic, restless as an angry bronco. Embroidered upon it in rich, dark silks, the raven emblem loomed stark and foreboding, a harbinger of Battle.

“War is coming,” said Skuld.

Buffy nodded. “It is. Her name is Glory.”

The Valkyries looked grim at the mention of that name.

“Glory will be a difficult foe,” Rita said eventually. “But it will not be impossible to best her if you are valiant. There remains hope.”

“Do you know something?” Buffy asked eagerly, seizing the opportunity to find out about what was threatening her sister.

“Nothing that you do not already know,” the Valkyrie answered. “Glory may be a god, but she is weak now. When the time comes, you will know what to do.”

“Will we win?”

“Only the Norns that weave the future know what is to be, but we can see into your heart. You are full of love.”

“I’ve heard that before, but what does it mean?”

Buffy was sure there was a twinkle in Rita’s eye as she answered. “Love is a gift. Accept it as it is offered, even if it comes from unlikely quarters.”

Buffy laughed. “What, even Spike?”

“This vampire complements the Slayer. He has his own part to play yet,” Rita said seriously.

“Complements?” Buffy scoffed. “No, no, no! ‘Aggravates’ is the word you’re looking for.”

Rita smiled. “Do not waste what time you may have. Remember what you’ve been told.”

Rita turned to leave. While she had been speaking to Buffy, the other Valkyries had rounded on Brunhilde, who looked glum but relieved to be well again. The banner had been rolled up, and was now tucked underneath Randgrior’s arm. They were ready to go.

Rita spoke to Buffy one last time. “We thank you and your vampire for returning our sister to us. The banner is now safe, and will hang again from the walls of our hall. Ragnarok will come at its foreseen time, as it should. Buffy. Slayer. Battle Maiden. You have already caught the eye of Odin.”

Buffy tried to remember where the god might have seen her. “What, that freaky old guy with the birds?”

Luckily, Rita ignored that flippant description of the All-father. “Yes. He has offered his favour for your fight. When the time comes, you will be welcome amongst the chosen in Asgard. There will be a seat for you in the hall of Valhalla.”

Buffy looked down at her shoes, uncomfortable with the accolade. The toes were a little scuffed, she noticed. What the Valkyrie was offering was an honour, a blessing, and all Buffy could do was accept it with grace. “Thank you.”

There was nothing more to say. The Valkyries faded from view and returned to Asgard without ceremony. Buffy opened the door to let Spike back in.

“They gone?” he asked, looking about at the empty room.

“Yup,” Buffy said, folding her arms nervously. “They went away happy bunnies. Banner intact. No more Raggyrock.”

“Good. I suppose we’d better be off then.”

“Yeah,” she agreed.

But neither of them moved, and Buffy wondered just how this scene had managed to shift into an awkward new boyfriendy-type moment, where neither one of them knew whether to stay or go. Scratch that; he wasn’t a boyfriend, and he was never ever going to be, and they weren’t having a moment, they were having a… thing; a mortal enemy, alliance of convenience, type thing.

“About before…” he started holding her gaze.

“It never happened, Spike.”

“Yeah, I know. You told me to forget about tonight…” He moved closer, evil in sweetness, walking with a slow, confident swagger, seductive as all hell in leather and punky bleach.

“And?” she asked expectantly.

“Tonight isn’t over.”

The kiss that came was firm and passionate, in case of her complaint, before becoming tender as she surrendered to it. His soft lips brushed hers with the lightest of touches, making her mouth tingle and open to him. He knew the right pressure, the right places to touch and the right moment to deepen it, his tongue skilfully sweeping hers along in an exquisitely sexy Latin slow dance.

“Buffy…” he rasped as she broke for air.

“Shhh,” she murmured as she leaned in for more of those delectably sweet kisses. “Remember, tonight never happened.”




That’s all Folks!





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