Title: Snow and Fire
Author: Gail Christison

(notes and disclaimer with part one)

Rhiannon McAllister stirred as soon as Buffy entered the room with food and water for the dog, which leaped up and fell upon it with all the gusto of the ravenous.

"Soup?" Buffy asked softly.

The other woman nodded, seemingly far more lucid now. "I must be all right. I'm starving." She looked at her water pitcher, which was almost empty. "I'm afraid I've been awfully thirsty too. Could…could I ask you to help me? I need to go to the bathroom," she asked awkwardly.

With Buffy's strength it was hardly an issue, despite what was obviously a twisted knee, and the bad strain to the woman's swollen right ankle. Far too late to strap it…

When she was settled again, Buffy filled her in on the condition of all the animals and asked if there was anything else they should do.

Rhiannon shook her head slowly. "No. Nothing. Not this year. I-I was hoping…" She trailed off and bit her lip.

"Your husband?" Buffy asked gently.

"Things have been tough for a while. He got a job that takes him on the road a lot. I thought he might come home for Christmas. He said he would try to be home yesterday…but the storm…"

Buffy looked away. She knew too much about men and jobs that took them away from their families.

"You and Mister Giles should help yourselves to the food in the refrigerator. I can't thank you enough for your help. At least we won't starve," she said wryly as the wind rattled the windows with a howling gust.

Buffy smiled. "Thanks. We'll keeping checking the phone. You should rest. I'm sorry I can't get you something better for the pain."

The older woman cocked an eye at the bottle beside the pitcher. "You'd think from their advertising campaign that I'd be dancing around the room by now," she observed dryly and they both chuckled.

Just then Rusty returned from where Buffy had fed him in the bathroom to touch his nose to his mistress's hand before curling up next to the bed, on the thick carpet, again.

Buffy smiled and promised soup shortly, missing Giles already.

He was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.

"Miss me?" she asked, stopping two from the bottom, making her almost head to head with him.

He took her in his arms and kissed her thoroughly. "Does that answer your question?"

"Perfectly," she purred and grinned contentedly. "Did anyone ever tell you, Mister Giles, that you have great arms?"

He chuckled and lifted her down to his level. "Not in so many words, no."

"Well they are," she told him as they headed for the kitchen. "All strong and manly."

Giles pushed open the kitchen door. "I would have thought you'd had far better examples of strong, manly arms, than mine," he teased back.

Buffy turned, suddenly serious. "They weren't. Not like…" She stepped into his embrace again. "It's like…your arms just want me. Their arms wanted me to want them. I was supposed to be there for them, make things all right for them…all of them, even Angel. He…he said he wanted to take comfort in me…a-and Parker…we know what he wanted me for…" Her expression grew hurt. "And Riley…Riley…"

Giles closed his arms around her as the hurt radiated outward from her. "You don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to. It's obviously still very painful."

"I didn't love him, Giles. I couldn't even say the words. I needed him…I wanted him…to make it all right, to make things…normal, but I didn't love him. A-and I think he knew…that's why he…"

Giles looked up at the ceiling. "Granted, it was difficult for him, but no one ever said that it was mandatory to fall in love in every relationship one is going to have. It would, perhaps, have been fairer to tell Riley the moment you realised how strongly he felt about you, but it wasn't your fault that you didn't grow to have the same feelings for him as he obviously does…did…for you."

He looked down again and met her troubled gaze.

"Did you tell Olivia?" she asked softly.

If he was disturbed by the question, he didn't show it. "Not…not at first. Not in so many words. I love Olivia…as a friend…and she loves me…but she has a boyfriend in Milan, another in London…an ex-fiancé in New York, with whom she is on excellent terms. Her life is not lived on the same terms as most other people. Her work means that she is almost never in the same place for more than five or six weeks at the very outside. She has learned to live…and love…within that frame of reference."

Buffy searched his face. She knew him. "And you didn't mind…that you weren't the only one?"

He met her gaze, and she saw the truth before he spoke. "I would have…" he said quietly.

"…If you were in love with her," Buffy finished.

He smiled at the concern in her eyes for him and nodded. "Shall we leave this fascinating discussion for the time being and forage for something nourishing?"

"Sounds like a plan," she agreed and reached up to brush his lips with her own. "You don't mind if we do that every now and then though, do you?" she grinned.

He chuckled. "Not in the least. In fact I insist upon it. Now let's see what's in the refrigerator."

A cursory inspection of both refrigerator and freezer revealed much Christmas fare, as well as two bottles of wine, exotic fruit, pate, and smoked salmon, obviously bought in preparation for the return of the prodigal husband...

The larder produced crusty bread, an extensive array of packets, cans and home-bottled fruit and jam and jellies, a rack of root vegetables. A large box of pickling onions and bottles of vinegar explained the jars Mrs McAllister was retrieving when she fell.

Giles raised his eyebrows, then went and lifted the wall phone from its cradle. It was still dead. They both moved to the window to look out at the un-abating storm. Only the wind had eased slightly. The snow was still tumbling down in the darkness.

"We're lucky we've still got power," Buffy observed.

"Indeed," Giles agreed soberly. "We won't be back in Sunnydale for Christmas at all, I'm afraid. Even if the snow stops by morning, the road will be impassable. And we may even have to wait until Spring thaw to come back for Sowi's talisman, the way things are going. I don't like the chances of finding anything resembling a cave with the 'Marking of Kyrroth' on it, up here, after this."

Buffy smiled slowly. "I guess it means that Mrs McAllister won't mind what we eat, as long as we replace everything when the weather clears."

Giles grinned back. "My thoughts exactly."

Rhiannon McAllister had made short work of canned soup from the pantry, bread, and some of the smoked salmon from the refrigerator, arranged in thin slices on a roll. She also bade them help themselves to anything they wanted, as Buffy had anticipated. Not having eaten for many hours, they needed no second invitation.

They settled back in the living room, at Buffy's suggestion, on the carpet in front of the fire, with the picnic they'd assembled, including a steaming bowl of the left over soup, and bread, some of each of the brie, pate, salmon, rolls, and fruit, accompanied by one of the bottles of wine.

When they were done they were both glowing, from both the fire and the wine. Sleepy and content, Buffy had moved around to sit in front of Giles, leaning against his chest as they sipped their last glasses of chardonnay and watched the flames dance on a new knot of tree root right in the centre of the hot coals.

"Pretty how the flames keep changing colour," Buffy mused.

"Mmm," Giles agreed, deciding that technical explanations were not required. "Very pretty," and kissed the top of her head as naturally as breathing.

"We're going to make a tradition of doing this," Buffy murmured contentedly. "You've got a great fireplace in your apartment."

She felt his chest move and heard the chuckle. "Which is sadly underused due to your appallingly unsuitable weather," he pointed out.

Buffy frowned. "Maybe we could get Willow and Tara do a cold spell sometimes, just for Sunnydale…or maybe even just for your apartment?"

He made a suitably squashing sound. "Magic is not for such frivolous use, as you well know. There will be days for this…and they'll be all the more special for their rarity."

Buffy turned and snuggled into his chest. "Like you," she sighed happily.

Giles grinned again and closed his arms around her. "Indeed. Exactly like me," he told her, tongue in cheek.

It was well after midnight before they cleared up and scattered the dying coals from the fire before heading for the stairs.

Buffy had never felt so content, relaxed and happy in her short life. "How are your bits and pieces?" she asked apropos of nothing.

Giles gave a great bark of laughter. "I beg your pardon?"

Buffy turned crimson. "I was thinking about the snap frozen bits, potty brain…although I suppose that counts too…" she added mischievously.

"Buffy!" he growled good-naturedly. "My bits are fine. I was very fortunate all round. Fortunate you were here to find me, and even more fortunate that what you found wasn't already irrevocably frostbitten."

They reached the landing and Buffy turned to him, grinning. "My good fortune too," she teased. They gained the top floor and Giles was still chuckling to himself. "You're incorrigible, Miss Summers."

"Of course I am," she agreed, opening her door, then sighed and looked pitifully at the child-sized bed. A split second later a glint danced in her eyes. "Goodnight…and Merry Christmas, Mister Giles."

He moved across the hall and enveloped her in his arms before kissing her very satisfactorily. "Merry Christmas, love. Sleep well."

As her door closed behind her, Buffy muttered, "I intend to."

Giles had just settled in the big bed and was about to turn out the bedside lamp when his door opened, not giving him long enough to be startled before he saw Buffy's beautiful face.

"Something wrong?" he asked immediately, then swallowed as the head that was poked around the door, with its freshly washed and apparently, dried, cloud of blonde hair, was followed into the room by a body in a beautiful turquoise nightgown, just transparent enough to show the outline of her breasts and the turquoise g-string underneath.

He cleared his throat. "Um…di-did you borrow that from Mrs McAllister?" he stammered.

Buffy shook her head. "I bought it for myself after Riley…left. I wanted to do something wild. I brought it because I thought we'd be staying in a hotel…and I wanted… well, just call it a little self-indulgence…" she finished awkwardly. "You don't like it? Too much?"

Giles cleared his throat. "On the contrary," he said hoarsely. "You look beautiful, Buffy."

She grinned engagingly. "Did anyone ever tell you how cute you are when you're doing tousled and flustered at the same time?"

He coloured even more. "Not in recent years, no. Nor has anyone appeared in my bedroom looking like a goddess at two in the morning." The wind gusted and rattled the window. "Especially in a snow storm," he added dryly.

Buffy produced something from behind her back. It was a small, wrapped parcel.

"I wanted to give you your Christmas present," she said playfully, her tone provocative.

His eyes flashed and he smiled. "Ah, so it's not all a plan to avoid having to sleep in the cot?" he teased. "In that case you'd better get your own gift from my bag over there."

Her face lit up. "You brought one for me too?"

His mirrored hers. "Of course, silly girl. It is Christmas, after all."

In seconds she'd retrieved the somewhat larger parcel and climbed onto the bed.

Giles smiled and stroked her arm as she settled near him, then frowned fiercely. "You're freezing. Why didn't you say something?"

"Being cold doesn't exactly go with being sexy," she pointed out, turning her parcel around and around while he took his more sedately.

"It doesn't go, period," he growled and lifted the covers. "Get in, now. The electric blanket is still on low."

She was under the covers and feeling the warmth of the electric blanket seeping into her frozen legs when she realized exactly where she was, and with whom, and suddenly became incredibly self-conscious again.

"O-open yours first," she prompted, trying to sound casual.

Giles, who had been making far too much of examining the wrapper while Buffy slid into the bed along side of him and moved across so that she was close enough to lean against him, began to undo the paper.

Fully expecting it to be some item from his own shop, or Buffy's usual fare of handkerchiefs, aftershave, tiepin or budget cufflinks, he was not prepared for what he found.

As he lifted the gold chain from its box he said quietly: "open yours, Buffy."

Puzzled, Buffy swiftly opened her gift, and lifted the lid inside the wrapping. The pretty floral box contained two separate gifts.

One was the perfume she'd been hinting loudly about for weeks, but the other was a small velvet case. It contained a small, silver antique cross on a chain that looked just as valuable. She picked it up very carefully to look at the subtle filigree, and the tiny but stunning sapphires, three in all, inlaid in the centre shaft.

When she looked up again, eyes glistening, Giles was watching her, still holding the gold chain she had given him, the small but heavy gold crucifix hanging at the end of it. It had taken her from the end of the previous summer to pay it off, but she'd done it. The idea had been borne when she realized he was serious about the magic shop, the memory of what had happened to the last several owners sharp in her mind, and galvanized when Giles surprised her with her very own work-out area.

The emotional separation from Riley had been coming for a long time, but the unconditional love and care with which Giles and Xander had crafted that gift just for her, finally crystallized something she'd been unable to grasp since Angel had deserted her.

True love was unconditional. Everything else was irrelevant. All of her relationships had lacked that one fundamental…

They were all conditional, in one form or another.

"It's…beautiful," she whispered, the emotion in her voice describing far more than just the attractiveness of the piece.

He looked a little self-conscious, half smiled, looked down then looked up again. "It was my grandmother's. It's been locked away since my mother died. I-I was going to give it to you when…when you turned twenty-one, but since we fought Adam, I've had an overwhelming desire to give it to you sooner. I-I can't explain…but I've always wanted you to have it."

Buffy blinked, flicking moisture out of her lashes, and nodded toward his hand. "Mine isn't an antique, but I wanted…you bought that damned magic shop…and I can't always be around when you need me…"

Giles' hand closed on it, emotion evident in his own face now. He understood, and what it meant was even more precious than the gift itself.

When Buffy realized how moved he was, and that he really didn't know what to say, she put her gift down and took his, unclasped it and slipped it around his neck. When it was clipped she looked up, their mouths just millimetres apart.

Giles reached around her and picked up her crucifix. It felt cool against her skin. She shivered, both from the sensuousness of the metal and the warmth of his touch as he worked the old clasp very gently.

When he was done they were still in almost exactly the same position. Neither of them moved, only the sound of their breathing punctuating the suddenly charged atmosphere.

It throbbed as Buffy very slowly allowed her forehead to rest against his chin, her breast rising and falling faster with each breath.

"Tell me I can stay," she whispered and heard the rasping intake of his next breath.

Giles closed his eyes. It was sweet torture being with her like this, so soon…so very soon.

"I want you more than I want to wake in the morning," he breathed, "but not here, not now. It's not our home, or our time, but I don't want you to go either…" He tilted her chin up and kissed her mouth very gently.

At the same time, he reached across, moved her gift onto the side table and turned out the light, before drawing her into the warm circle of his arms and sliding both of them under the covers.

Neither of them knew just how tired they were, until they woke the next morning exactly as they had gone to sleep, Buffy still curled in Giles' protective arms, her head still on his chest, under his chin.

Woken by, of all things, rooster crow, they both stirred at the same time and blinked at the amount of light in the room.

Moments later the significance sank in. Buffy blinked. "It's stopped," she croaked.

Giles was squinting at the open curtains. "Thank God," he muttered. "We may even have an outside chance of getting out of here after all. Depends whether snow ploughs are going to be needed or not."

Buffy turned her body and wriggled up far enough to kiss his mouth. "Why would you want to plough snow?"

He gave a good-natured guffaw. "Not plough. Push it off the road so that traffic can get through," he explained. "And a Merry Christmas to you too."

Buffy blinked. And immediately felt at her throat. "Merry Christmas, Rupert," she said softly, fingering her precious gift. "From me and your Grandmother."

For a few moments Giles was very still. "I like the sound of my name when you say it," he told her eventually, his voice a shadow of its normal self.

Her blue grey eyes searched his. "But something's wrong?" she asked carefully.

He shook his head and smiled slowly, his eyes, his tone charged with the strength of his feelings.

"Something…something is very right. I can't, quite, believe—"

Buffy covered his lips with her fingers. "Believe," she told him. "Believe that I love you, and that this is how it's always going to be from now on." When their lips met again, it was as two burning fires merging into one inferno of passion.

"I know," she breathed whimsically, when they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily and fast. "N-not here, not now…but you are in so much trouble when we get back to Sunnydale.

Giles trailed a finger across the soft skin above the bodice of her nightgown. "We both are," he growled as she shivered…and not from the cold.

"Time to check on our host, see to the livestock and start breakfast," he said, without removing his fingers from the inner curve of her breast.

Buffy held his gaze as her own fingers deliberately slid over the thigh of his pyjamas and came to rest provocatively where it would disturb him the most.

"Do we hafta?" she asked huskily, her eyes dancing.

"Yes," he squeaked, cleared his throat, and repeated, "yes. You know very well we must, minx." And breathed very strangely as her fingers trailed over the area in question, before being withdrawn. "Now," he added in a strangled voice, for good measure.

"Spoilsport," she complained. "I'll check Mrs McAllister. You check the livestock. I'll meet you out there when I'm done."