Title: Snow and Fire
Author: Gail Christison

(notes and disclaimer with part one)

Giles, dressed in a heavy, cream, cable knit sweater that covered his cute, denim covered butt, was measuring grain for the chickens when Buffy found him.

"We forgot the chickens!" she wailed.

"Stop panicking," he chuckled. "They're all present and accounted for, even the old boy, there." The crowing culprit was jostling his consorts shamelessly. "I'm assuming shared bodily warmth," Giles teased over the cackle, as the Rhode Island Red, Black Orphington, and multi-coloured fowls clamoured at the wire for the food they knew was coming, despite their run being carpeted with new snow.

Buffy watched as he tossed the pitchers of grain over the wire and the hens fell upon the food, picking it out of the snow. Giles had already broken up the ice on their water and collected the eggs.

In the broad daylight they realised the homestead was a lot more extensive than it seemed in the blizzard. Everything had survived the storm, mostly in tact. Buffy followed him to the barn, where the cat greeted them like long lost relatives, meowing and curling around their legs shamelessly as they saw to the horses.

Afterwards Buffy picked up the unhappy feline. "I forgot about him last night," she said guiltily as he climbed up to lie across her shoulder. "He must be starving…poor thing."

"I daresay," Giles said dryly. "And probably has fleas, too."

"Yearghh! Now you tell me," she squawked, trying unsuccessfully to detach him from her shoulder, cursing as his claws dug in deeper and deeper, before finally giving up as Giles roared with laughter.

"Bring the miserable creature up to the house and we'll find it something to eat," he told her between gasps, then relented when he saw her face. "Silly goose. It's too bloody cold for fleas. They're a summer affliction."

Buffy scowled and followed him out of the barn. "You are so going to get it later, Mister. Be very glad I'm being held hostage here…owww!!!" she yelled as the cat suddenly used all four sets of claws to launch himself off her shoulder.

"What the…?"

They watched it scamper back to the barn, Buffy holding her shoulder.

"That hurt," she complained. "A lot. Stupid cat."

"It probably lives in the barn. I'm sorry," Giles said apologetically and eased her pretty, wide-necked sweater off her shoulder. There were several sets of puncture marks and one parallel set of deep scratches just an inch or so long.

Before Buffy could even offer a scathing observation, the handsome head bent and his warm lips touched the wounds…several times.

Her knees turned to jelly and her body instantly burned like fire as the velvet touch moved over each mark.

When she groaned, he lifted his head, put down the bucket of eggs and dragged her into a clinch, capturing her mouth and kissing her with all the pent up fire and passion they both needed to exorcise. Buffy responded, straining to him, until neither of them were aware of anything but each other.

Only the sound of Rusty barking at the back door interrupted their reverie. They parted reluctantly, Giles' free arm curling possessively around her shoulders as they ploughed through the drifts of snow on their way back to the house.

He fed the dog while Buffy hunted for cat food, amid the pleasant breakfast aromas of the fresh coffee, bacon and egg, and buttered toast that Buffy had taken up earlier to a much more chipper Rhiannon McAllister, whose main problem now seemed to be an ankle swollen to the size of a melon, a still painful knee and more bruises than a football player on Monday morning.

Giles also volunteered to go back to the barn with the glad tidings for the cat, when Buffy found and opened a can of sardines after giving up on finding any real cat food.

She grinned as she handed him the smelly feast. "I promise I'll have your breakfast ready when you get back."

"Good," he said with feeling. "I'm starving. It must be the altitude."

She tilted her head to one side. "And the good mood you're in?" she teased.

"Entirely," he agreed, his eyes dancing and shouldered the back door open. "Back in a minute."

He was back in quick time, pausing inside the door as he closed it, amused by Buffy's sudden domestication. Unlike the last time, during that frenetic Thanksgiving a couple of years back, this time she seemed to actually be enjoying herself. He came up behind her as she turned eggs, bacon and hash browns in a huge, cast iron frying pan, and slid his arms around her waist, surprised when she didn't jump, even a little.

"You're no fun," he murmured, kissing her ear.

"Slayer hearing," she replied, chasing a recalcitrant slice of bacon with her spatula and leaning back against his chest at the same time.

"You're not the bionic woman you know," he teased.

"Much," she growled. "I could take her in a heartbeat…and big ol' Steve too…if I wanted."

"I have no doubt," he agreed, moving his mouth to her other ear, "but I prefer you to confine your battles to the forces of darkness, rather than the products of seventies television."

"Spoilsport. Breakfast is served," she announced. "Stick some bread in the toaster and bring the coffee to the table.

He snorted, but did as she ordered. By the time she'd dished up two plates of hot food, the toast had popped up, and both of them moved to the table together with their breakfast.

"I haven't eaten so much in years," she groaned when they pushed their empty plates away. "Not even at our Thanksgiving."

"I enjoyed every morsel," he added. "Well done. I can't remember the last time such simple fair tasted so good."

Buffy paused. "You're right. Better than good…maybe there's something to be said for chicken-to-table service?"

He chuckled. "I'm certain of it. And real smoked bacon, and, if I'm not mistaken, that wasn't processed bread, either. Good lord!" he added suddenly.

"What?" she demanded, alarmed.

"I just realised that neither of us has checked the phones this morning," he explained, a note of incredulity in his voice, and pushed his chair back to go and pick up the one on the wall.

A moment later he re-cradled it and shook his head slowly. "Presumably a lot of lines are down and the authorities are probably working flat out…damn it. I'm going to have to get myself a cell phone."

"Great plan," Buffy agreed. "Except you haven't got a hope in hell of any reception here in the mountains, anyway, my love."

He rolled his eyes. "All right, smart arse, one to you. I'd just like to get some proper medical attention for Mrs McAllister's ankle and preferably see her husband home before we leave."

"Yeah, well, you saw the drifts out there, Giles. You're going to need your snow harvesters or whatever."

"Snow ploughs," he corrected dryly and shook his head. "Californians."

"Hey!" she shot back then grinned. "No fairs picking on the bottle blonde. It's Christmas. If no one comes today, I'm even going to do Christmas dinner for you and Mrs McAllister. There's that joint in the fridge and everything we need is here. So behave yourself."

"Joint?"

"Mm. Big piece of meat for baking, thawing in a tray," she told him facetiously.

"I know what it is," he muttered. "I was wondering what kind."

She shrugged. "It's without horns or wool or cute lamby tail. How do I know?"

"I can see who's going to be doing most of the cooking tonight…and the cleaning up, I'll be bound," he growled.

"You're so cute when you're annoyed," she grinned and stood on tiptoes to kiss his nose before picking up her patient's new pitcher of water and sashaying out of the room. "It's a corner of beef," she called over her shoulder, just before completely disappearing from sight.

"Brat!" he called after her, then chuckled and smiled to himself. He'd never seen her so relaxed…and truly happy.

"Stuffy!" her voice called back from the bowels of the house.

He chuckled again and set about cleaning up the kitchen.

*******

"Tell me again where she said the firewood was?" Giles demanded, and rattled the big wood bucket expressively.

Buffy stopped, knee deep in snow and breathing hard, an empty kindling box in her arms.

"She said it was past the hay barn, down in the storage shed near the pigsty."

"Pigs?" Giles exclaimed. "I wonder when they were last fed."

"I didn't know," she complained.

They continued to plough through the new, soft, snow, both heaving and blowing by the time they reached the pigsty.

"It's empty!" Giles exclaimed, checking each of the pens. "They must have sent them to market already. But there are no breeders."

"So what? They just fatten little piggies up for bacon and pork chops?" she asked unhappily.

"Something like that, yes," he confirmed, heading off towards the closest building.

It turned out to be an open shelter full of firewood, as expected.

"Excellent," he said, dropping the bucket and pulling an axe from it's rest on the wall.

Buffy looked around. "Where are you going to chop? There's nothing but snow."

"Good point," he said, crestfallen, and let the axe drop to his side. "Well, we'll just have to improvise."

He dragged an oversized log to the small area of shelter not covered in stacked firewood and stood it on its end. The diameter of at least eighteen inches provided enough surface area to stand kindling and other small chunks of timber on for splitting while Buffy made a pile of heavier pieces that didn't need cutting.

Giles had a respectable pile of both kindling and split firewood and had actually removed the heavy farm jacket to really swing into the chopping, when a piece of pine splintered and a big chunk of it went spinning over Buffy's head and out into the snow.

She dropped the piece of stump she was carrying and tried to run out and get it, but didn't bank on the depth of the drifts. After three strides she tripped, cart wheeled through the snow and landed face down.

It stung, and it was cold, but worst of all, Giles thought it was funny. She could hear him roaring with laughter behind her.

In a few moments she was up and launching a big snowball, surreptitiously compacted while she was on the ground. Her accuracy was deadly and Giles spluttered and yelled when it hit him just below his chin, frigid against his work-heated skin. It ended up in his hair, on his shoulders and down the front of his shirt.

It was Buffy's turn to laugh, until he came towards her, bending to scoop up snow as he marched out.

"Oh no. No you don't!" she yelled, giggling, but didn't move fast enough and wore the whole thing in the middle of her back. Their snow fight lasted for at least ten minutes of missile throwing and chasing and culminated in both of them falling into the snow, still trying to stuff snowballs down each other's shirts.

The wrestling continued until their weapons disintegrated and melted.

"We are so going to need dry clothes," Buffy complained between giggles, wriggling beneath the warm body that had her pinned.

"And whose fault is that?" Giles asked pointedly, pinning her hands to the snow.

"And who's letting you win?" Buffy shot back.

He looked down at her face and smirked. "Fair point," he conceded, captured her mouth and plundered it for a seemingly endless time, utterly unchallenged. "Any complaints?" he drawled when he raised his head.

Her breasts heaving, Buffy smiled back. "Plenty. We're in the snow. We have to get that wood up to the house and I can't do evil things to your body until we get back to Sunnydale. The waiting's going to kill me," she growled, sliding her legs around his hips and lifting her own so that their positions became extremely intimate.

Almost involuntarily, Giles pushed against her and heard her groan, then rolled off, not trusting himself to take the game any further, stood up and offered a hand.

Buffy wrinkled her nose and took it, coming to her feet lithely and easily and shaking off the excess snow, as he was.

"Do we have enough wood yet?" she asked as they walked back to the shelter, trying not to think about the fire in her loins, the ache of her body or the memory of the feel of his against her...

"I daresay it will do," he said in a pitch lower than normal and held out his palms. "I find that the novelty of chopping wood has worn off.

"Giles," she exclaimed, concerned. Both palms sported large blisters, some already broken. "That's it. No more rustic fun for you. We're going back to the house and find something for your hands."

"Don't fuss, love. They're too cold to be very painful at the moment, but they will be if I start splitting wood again, and they get warmed up. We'll carry this lot back and lay the fire for tonight, then we're both going to get into some dry clothes."

"Now who's fussing?" she teased, filled the box with kindling and hefted it easily.

Giles gingerly finished filling the bucket to overflowing and they struggled back to the house through the snow.

"You should have said something earlier," Buffy admonished some time later. She was bathing the blisters, while Giles sat at the kitchen table with a palm up. "I'm not exactly 'Helpless Girl', you know. I could easily have taken over the chopping part."

"Consider it a man thing. Not the thing to sit and watch a woman chop wood…even a bionic one," he said gruffly.

"Or a Slayer," she sighed, looking at him fondly. "At least we've got a fire again. You'd think they'd have central heating in this day and age."

"This isn't a modern house, Buffy. They might be happy with the more traditional elements."

She lifted an eyebrow and looked over his shoulder. "You mean like the microwave, and the deep freeze?"

He tilted his head to one side and gave her his best 'smart arse' look. "You know very well what I mean," he growled and closed his hand around hers, pulling her onto his lap.

"Patient revolt!" she wailed. "And no hurting the hands… Hey your pants are still all wet and squishy."

Giles deliberately slid his hands down to cup her butt. "So are yours," he growled and bent his head to kiss her neck, just under her ear.

She groaned and turned her face to catch his mouth. "You're doing this deliberately," she moaned, kissed him again. "I'm about ready to jump out of my skin and you're fanning the flames," she added when she lifted her head again. "Have you no pity?"

He was about to make a comment about what she was doing to his lap, when they both jumped like startled cats at the sound of the phone ringing. In seconds Buffy had answered it.

"The snowploughs will be here by tomorrow. They're going to work on the road all night. I told them about Mrs McAllister's accident. They said if nothing changes, the doctor will come up with the snowploughs, but I'm to ring them if anything changes and they'll get someone up here, somehow. Apparently there's at least one snowmobile in town."

"And her husband?"

Buffy came to the back of his chair, slid her arms around his neck and kissed his temple. "Not a word, and I forgot to ask. I guess if he's in town, he'll call."

"Mm," Giles murmured non-committally, deep in thought. "In the meantime, I suggest we try to make something of this Christmas for our host."

"We? You're going to help me cook dinner?" she teased.

"Why are you so surprised?" he demanded indignantly. "Who stuffed the Thanksgiving turkey, made certain the vegetables didn't burn and got stuck, I might add, with the clean up, afterward, just as I predicted I would?"

Buffy ran her tongue around the rim of his ear. "Self fulfilling prophecy."

"Rubbish," he retorted. "More like a bratty little wench who always wants everything her own way…and gets it," he added, trying not to laugh as she gave him a shove and roughed him up.

"That's low," she complained. "I don't always want things my own way. Sometimes I want them other people's way."

"Your assault on the English language has reached new heights," he observed acerbically, straightening in his chair and pushing back his ruffled hair. "Go and tell Mrs McAllister that the phone is back on, while I organize things down here."

"Who died and made you mission leader?" she growled good-naturedly, but went anyway.