He’d never seen a thing as gaudy as this trinket Angel’d brought, and yet it mesmerized him, dangling from his hand, reflecting the bits of moonlight that came through the window.

It was heavy, too, heavier than he’d expected it to be. In the shadows of the tomb, it had seemed almost trivial, a prize to be won, the sort of fashion jewelry earned by winning enough tickets at an arcade. All that had mattered was that Angel didn’t get to keep it.

Then it was his, and suddenly it didn’t seem like a toy anymore. He could still feel the weight of it hitting his palm as it slid from Buffy’s fingers. Meant to be worn by a champion, she’d said, but he didn’t need to hear the words to know that this was something special. He had sensed it as soon as he’d touched it – this jewel was dangerous, powerful.

And it would probably be the death of him.

Death had never really frightened him – not since his own a hundred and twenty-some years ago. What was there to fear when he was already living on borrowed time? There was a thrill in facing it head-on, testing his immortality, flirting with danger. Explained the Slayer obsession, at least. Even since falling in love with Buffy, that one part of him hadn’t changed. He’d faced down apocalypses with her, prepared for every fight to be his last, and he’d pulled through every time – even when he wished he hadn’t.

Granted, this one did have an air of finality to it. The First. Ultimate evil. An army of Slayers. The turning on its head of everything that had been certain about the world. She never did anything by halves, he had to give her that.

The sound of the basement door opening caught his attention, and Spike looked up to see Buffy coming down the steps. He stood, watching her from across the room, the amulet’s chain still gripped in his fist. “Hey,” he said.

“Hi.” She stopped at the foot of the stairs, the old wooden table with its mismatched chairs standing between them. The sleeves of her jacket were pulled down so that her hands disappeared inside, stretching the fabric taut along her arms. She looked fragile, careworn, like she’d already been through a war, though the big battle was still yet to come.

“You busy?” she asked, as if she might be interrupting something – as if there were anything for her to interrupt.

“Just admiring Captain Forehead’s taste in jewelry.” He didn’t succeed in winning a smile, but then again, maybe Angel wasn’t the best material for humor with her. “Big day tomorrow. You ready for this?”

Buffy nodded wearily. It wouldn’t take much to close the distance between them, to pull her into his arms, and yet – He glanced down at his unmoving feet, as if they had a mind of their own. Probably better off, anyway. Oh, sure, she might’ve turned to him for comfort the past two nights, but she was still queen of the mixed signals, and the last thing he needed was to get the brush-off from her tonight.

“Last night before the end of the world, love. Thought you’d want to spend it with your friends.” He tried not to sound like he was fishing, but he couldn’t quite keep the hopeful, pleading note out of his voice.

She gave him a wry look. “You know, it kind of helps if I don’t think of it that way.”

“Right, yeah,” he said quickly. “Sorry.” He knew she understood what they were up against; he’d been around for most of the speeches. No need to remind her of that. Besides, she said they were going to win, and she’d done this enough times to know. “So, uh, how do you want to think of it?”

Buffy sighed, sinking down in one of the chairs at the table. “I don’t know. Like the night before something good, I guess. Something where the anticipation gets you excited.”

“Birthday?” Dropping the amulet on the bed, Spike took a seat opposite her.

“I said excited, not dread,” she scoffed, a trace of a smile creeping onto her face. “You know what my birthdays are like.”

He leaned back in his chair, tilting his head in thought. “Graduation?”

“Mmmm, no. Giant snake.”

“Christmas?”

“Ah-ha!” Buffy replied triumphantly. “An event with no disastrous connotations. I knew there had to be one.”

“Christmas it is, then.”

“Good.” She nodded with authority. “That’s it. Fighting the First is going to be just like Christmas.” She held his gaze for a moment before a sharp laugh broke through her mask of seriousness. Leaning her elbows on the table, she covered her face. “That’s ridiculous.”

Spike smiled. “If it’s Christmas, good little girls ought to be in bed, yeah? If they want Santa to bring them presents.”

“We’ve already got our presents,” she replied, glancing at the amulet, no doubt thinking of her own shiny new toy upstairs. Her voice softened. “Besides, I need to be here. With you.”

“Need?” he repeated, his tone lowered to match hers. So much of their relationship had been based on need, even from their very first unlikely alliance. Before the soul, he’d thought he knew what she needed from him, thought if he could just give it to her, then she would love him, but he’d been dead wrong. He knew better now.

“Want?” Buffy corrected herself, but uncertainly, as though she didn’t know the right word. “I don’t know, I… can’t imagine spending tonight anywhere else.” Her hand slid across the table, reaching out for his. Looking up at him, she added, “I wouldn’t have made it these last few days without you.”

Spike ducked his head. What was he supposed to say to that? “Sure you would’ve. Meant what I said the other night. It’s you who gets you through.” He gave her a smile. “I’m just here to give you a reminder when you need it.”

“Thank you for that.” She returned the smile with such warmth that it almost made him forget every doubt he had. Then, she shifted slightly, drew her hand away from his to pick at her fingernails. With her glance darting over his shoulder to the tiny cot against the wall, she asked, “What, uh, what do you need?”

She couldn’t possibly mean… wait, was she blushing? For a moment he allowed his imagination free rein. The things they could do, their last night together. She would, too, if he asked. Somehow, he knew that – tonight, she would give him whatever he asked for. Not that he deserved it. But then, he hadn’t deserved anything she’d given him lately – her friendship, her trust, the title of champion, not to mention his brand new fashion accessory.

But she couldn’t give him what he really wanted, and the last thing he needed was her pity. “Told you before, not looking for anything from you.”

She nodded, haltingly, like maybe she wasn’t quite sure whether to take it as a rejection or not. “Then, could we…” Again, her eyes drifted toward the bed. “Like before?”

“Of course.”

As she came around to his side of the table, he stood, so close he was a breath away from kissing her. Instead, he gently helped her out of her jacket and draped it over the chair back. She glanced down skeptically at her clothes, inappropriate for sleepwear, and wordlessly walked over to the clothesline strung up next to the washing machine, yanking a white tank top from its hanger.

“That even yours?” Spike asked, one corner of his mouth turned up in a tiny smirk.

She shrugged. “Does it matter anymore?” As she began to unbutton her blouse, Spike turned away to give her some semblance of privacy – silly, perhaps, but things were different now. He scooped up the amulet from the cot and gave it one last pensive look before placing it carefully on the table.

“Still not sure if I trust that thing,” Buffy remarked. He turned back to find her finished changing, watching him with interest.

“Right, well, dangerous thing, don’t know what it does, give it to Spike,” he teased.

Her eyes widened, and she gave his arm a light smack. “Hey, you asked for it, buster.”

“Oh, and when was the last time you listened to me?”

“You’re right. Let’s give it to Faith. I don’t care what happens to her.”

Spike raised an eyebrow. “I’m touched.”

She shot him a playful glare as they climbed into bed, settling down with her back pressed to his chest. Spike slid his arm beneath hers and draped it across her stomach, drawing her close so that they fitted snugly against one another. Just as he’d started to close his eyes, she whispered, “Spike?”

“Mmm?”

“I trust you.”

He hesitated for a moment, trying to discern the origins of the non sequitur. “Buffy, I –”

“No, I mean…” She shifted in his arms, rolling over to face him. “What I said before. I don’t know if I trust that doohickey Angel gave me, but I trust you. Whatever it does, I trust you to – to handle it. I know you’ll be okay.”

He exhaled an uneasy whoosh of air and wondered if she knew, if she could sense the death and foreboding that radiated from the amulet. He could feel the weight of it again, hanging heavy around his neck. Not an albatross, but a mantle of responsibility – bestowed by her – a responsibility that demanded sacrifice. It felt as though she was asking too much of him, more than he could promise, to stay alive. “Buffy, I don’t –”

“No,” she interrupted him, sitting up abruptly and swinging her legs around so her feet were on the floor. “Don’t. Christmas, remember?”

“I’m sorry.” He scrambled to push himself up. She couldn’t leave, not tonight. Running his hands gently down her bare arms, he said, “It’ll be all right. Like Christmas.”

She turned, looking back at him over her shoulder, and her eyes contained something he couldn’t describe, something he’d only seen in the last few nights, when he’d held her. One hand came up to stroke his cheek, barely brushing the skin, then firmer as her fingers crept to the back of his neck, drawing him in. Her eyes fluttered closed, and he could feel her heart pounding, her breath warm on his cheek. She paused for a moment, and then opened her eyes. “Spike, I –”

His whole body stilled, waiting for her to finish, equal parts anticipation and dread. She must have felt it, too, because she stiffened in his arms, and her gaze dropped to his chest.

She sighed, bit her lip. “If we can just get through tomorrow…”

The tension eased out of him, and he nodded. It was too late for them, anyway. Oh, she could drop hints at “maybe when this is over…” but they were never going to go for coffee and date like normal people. Sodding end of the world, one or both of them was likely going to die tomorrow. Wouldn’t do any good to pretend tonight. Lies might comfort her, but he’d spent far too long trying to convince them both that she loved him, and he was done fooling himself. Now, he only wanted those words if they were true.

“Come on,” he said, guiding her as they lay back on the cot, with her snug against his chest. “Let’s get some sleep.”