SUMMARY: Sometimes, just when you thought you had everything figured out, you realize that you know nothing. And that's exactly what Spike is about to find out when going to Italy to warn his former lover of impending doom.

RATING: NC-17

DISCLAIMER: BTVS is property of Joss Whedon. I own nothing.

SPOILERS: Inspired by the first book of the comics Buffy season 8. You don't need to have read it to understand what's going on, but it will spoil you if you haven't read it yet.

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CHAPTER 4: Welcome onboard Angelus Airlines

Pure darkness. Even in the darkest hour of the night, there is always light. Sometimes not enough for the human eye to notice, but it's there nonetheless. The total absence of light, that's pure darkness and it is the same to a supernatural being as it is to a human.

A loud hollow thud almost instantly followed by a few choice words were heard by no one.

A flash light was slapped a few times, and then the inside of the wooden crate was suddenly visible again to a very irate Spike. His usually beautiful face was scrunched up, eyes narrowed, and mouth twisted in an angry sneer. He rubbed his abused head with his free hand. Rough turbulences were shaking the plane every which way. He could imagine the passengers above his head in the main cabin listening to the soothing voice of a flight attendant instructing them to remain seated and fasten their seat belts securely. Lucky bastards.

Vengeful thoughts flooded his brain. "Get to Rome..." He mumbled through clenched teeth "warn the Slayer, get back to the States, and KILL the bleedin' Poofter. Oh yes, he'll pay for this."

Spike put the quickly dying flash light next to him and returned to his cards, the only distraction he'd had for the past seven hours besides fantasizing about different ways of hurting Angel. The fantasies were definitely more entertaining than his game of Solitaire.

Angel had sworn that he didn't have access to the W&H private jet anymore, but Spike refused to believe there wasn't another way. The wanker still had access to his bank accounts. He still had the cars. He had contacts. There's no way stuffing Spike in a crate and putting him in the cargo hold of a commercial plane was the only way to get him to Rome.

Angel’s answer, when he’d told him what he found out, had nearly enraged Spike. The older vampire had decided that Buffy was a big girl who could take care of herself, that she was safe in Europe, and the army wouldn’t get to her there. He thought Spike was over reacting and had no reason to panic. Spike knew Angel’s reaction was because his ego had not healed from the blow of being rejected by Buffy. It only proved to him that Angel’s love of Buffy had been the selfish kinda love. Not that he didn’t already know that. After much yelling and cursing, mostly on Spike’s part, the wanker had finally agreed to at least help him get to Rome even though he thought it was a ploy to get back into Buffy’s pants. He’d dug into his large bank account and arranged for ground personnel at the airport in Las Vegas, and in Rome--people who knew about demons--to overlook the content of a big crate. The one that currently held Spike. Angel had sworn it was the best he could do.

"Bloody stupid wanker is probably having a good laugh. I'll show him. Wait until I get back."

Having no one around except for a dog barking occasionally nearby, the vampire allowed himself to whine.

"What kind of a pathetic wanker puts himself through all this for a girl who doesn't give a bleedin' rat's ass about him? I'm no fool for love, I'm a bloody IDIOT is what I am."

But after hours of feeling sorry for himself and being very vocal about it, it seemed that even the dog had enough. A loud bark followed by a growl answered him.

"Oh shut it! Don't make me come out of here and drain you."

The dog whined.

"Threatening dogs now." He sighed. "Yes, Spike old man, you are pathetic, no doubt about it."

He put down his last card and lost the game. For the five hundred and fiftieth time. He kicked the cards with his heel.

"Bloody stupid game."

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Buffy woke with a start. She was sweating despite the cool humidity, and panting heavily. She pushed the covers off of her and sat on the edge of the bed, hating the cold stone floor beneath her feet. Spring in Scotland was damp and a fourteen century castle was not humidity proof. She'd lit a fire in the hearth before going to bed, hoping it would keep her warm and dry, but it was long dead now. She shivered and put on her bathrobe before going to the balcony to get some fresh air, hoping to clear her mind of the familiar nightmare.

For the past two weeks, she'd had the same dream over and over. The details were fuzzy, but she couldn't stop thinking about it. She was back in what she now referred to as the good old days of Sunnydale, walking through a cemetery with Spike by her side. She always enjoyed the first part of the dream, loving the familiarity of Spike‘s company. She missed him so much. Here in Scotland, she was constantly surrounded by people, but she'd never been more alone in her life. Dreaming of Spike made it easier. But then, the dream changed. Some military, probably the Initiative, was surrounding them. And in the dream, they wanted her. Then there were flashes of her being captured, Spike in a military uniform, the two of them running, Willow hovering a few inches above the floor, her eyes pitch black. But every time she saw the stakes being thrown magically in the direction of Spike's chest, she woke up.

If it wasn't for Spike being there, she would believe this could be a Slayer dream. But he was gone. So was the Initiative. And Willow for that matter.

Buffy was standing on her balcony, staring blankly at the sun rising over the Scottish country side. She'd loved it at first but soon realized it would never be home. She had always wanted to travel and the opportunities for sightseeing had been numerous over the past year. England, France, Germany, Italy, but she felt like she'd seen nothing at all. Being THE Slayer amongst hundreds of other Slayers--most of them untrained--came with heavy responsibilities and the burden was starting to weigh on her shoulders. Her every move was scrutinized by young and admiring eyes, and she felt she wasn‘t allowed any mistake. She had to be perfect and make the right decision all the time and this was the kind of pressure she could do without. Her life had turned into a weird remake of that Jim Carey movie in which his life was a number one rated TV show and everyone knew everything about him, and this castle where they’d set up head quarters had turned into a prison to her.

But most of all, she craved the loving arms of the one person who never judged her, always accepted her for who she was--flaws and all--wrapped around her. Not that it would ever happen again.

Someone cleared their throat behind her to get her attention. She didn’t turn around.

“Buffy?”

Xander’s voice. He’d probably knocked on her door, and getting no answer, decided it was OK to just walk in. Even her friends these days seemed to have come to the common understanding that it was alright to barge in on her at any time of the day or the night. No privacy for Buffy Summers. Yes, she had become very bitter.

“What?” She asked, still not taking her eyes off the landscape.

“The girls came back from their expedition.”

“And?”

“They were successful. To a certain extent.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She asked, pretending to be interested.

“They managed to destroy the nest, but didn’t get much information.”

“That’s alright. At least, there’s about fifty less fledging vampires we won’t have to worry about. We’ll get the information elsewhere.”

“I guess.” Xander agreed hesitantly. He waited a long time for her to add something but she was silent. He finally asked: “Buff? Are you alright?”

“Peachy. It’s just...”

“Just what?” He asked curiously.

Buffy turned her back to the green hills batted in soft orange light. She smiled lightly. “Every time I stand here, it makes me feel like I’m some kind of princess prisoner of the wicked witch and waiting for my prince to come rescue me on his white horse. I know, it‘s lame.”

“Uh... Oookay.” Xander gave her a look that clearly said he thought she was going nuts.

“Never mind. Must be the castle thing.” She laughed. “Any word on Willow?”

He shook his head, his expression turning somber. “Nothing. But we’ll find her. I know she’s alive. She has to be.”

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The very loud and unpleasant thud of landing had happened a good ten minutes ago, followed by the regular bumps and sharp turns of taxiing. The plane had now stopped moving and Spike was waiting, not knowing what to expect. Angel hadn't exactly been forthcoming about the details of the deal. All he'd said was that everything had been taken care of.

He heard a few unidentified noises, then people moving around right outside his wooden prison. He could now see light filtering through the cracks. His already painful head took another blow when the crate was lifted and transported out of the plane, then put onto a cart and driven away.

Spike was getting impatient and thinking about busting out of there and making a run for it, when the ride finally came to an end.

“Alright, Slayer,” He thought to himself. “The cavalry is here. Not that you’ll ever admit needing to be rescued. Silly bint.”

A nail claw was wedged between the planks, and the top of the crate was lifted. Spike was sitting Indian style, glaring up at whoever was the man standing there. "You a friend of Peaches?" He asked, barely controlling a growl.

The dark haired man dressed in maintenance navy blue overalls looked puzzled. "If I like... peaches?" He asked with a thick Italian accent. "Not my favorite fruit, but they're fine."

Spike rolled his eyes and stood. "Never bloody mind."

They were in an empty hanger. Through the open door, Spike could tell the sun had just set. “My name is Mario. I’m here to help you get out of the airport safely.” The Italian man handed Spike the same blue overalls he was wearing himself. "Put this on, please. I will escort you out."

The vampire grumbled, but took the garment anyway. "Thought you Italian types had fashion sense, I was obviously wrong."

He put the overalls over his jeans and T-Shirt, then neatly rolled his precious jacket and put it safely into a bag. He looked down at his fake safety pass. Under a picture of him, it said Giovanni Angelo. Spike shook his head at Angel's immaturity. Under the name was written: FCO sicurezza, Personel di manutenzione. It didn't look like the real deal.

"And you think we're going to get through security with this piece of crap ID? You're off your rockers, mate."

"I'm not quite certain what "off your rockers" means, but security won't be a problem. A friend of mine is working the entrance for the staff. He is aware of the situation. No one will look too closely at your pass, but if you don‘t wear one, someone will notice."

Spike shrugged. "All right. Let's roll then."

The two men got on the cart. They drove out of the hanger and followed the path toward the airport. They parked near a side entrance and got off. Spike followed Mario, trying his best to look inconspicuous. They followed a few hallways until they reached an overweight middle aged man sitting at a desk in front of a door.

The two Italians greeted each other, then the fat one looked at Spike’s security pass. He nodded, then stood up to punch a code on the door and open it. He moved aside, letting Spike and his companion go through.

The two of them made their way through throngs of unruly passengers pushing their heavy luggage around and looking lost. After a few people bumped into him, Spike was tempted to change into game face to scare them off, but it wouldn’t do to draw attention to himself so he tried his best to control his temper.

“Someone is waiting for you outside.” Mario informed him. “They’ll take you wherever you need to go.”

They went through the automatic doors. A black stretch limo was parked there. The man stopped and turned to face Spike, his hand extended. “Good luck, friend.”

Spike shook it. “Thanks for helping, mate.”

The man smirked. “Don’t mention it. I was generously paid for my trouble.”

Spike chuckled. “I figured that much.”

He watched the Italian leave, then turned to the limo. The door opened. He walked to the car and looked inside.

“William! Caro mio! So nice to see you again, daaaarling.” The exuberant stylish woman exclaimed warmly.

Bleeding hell, Spike thought when he saw the head honcho of the Roman branch of Wolfram&Hart sitting at the back of the limousine.

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CHAPTER 5: Doing it the American way

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