Disclaimer: I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Dexter. They belong to Joss Whedon and Jeff Lindsey.

A/N: I wrote this after reading both Darkly Dreaming Dexter and Dearly Devoted Dexter in the same night. Since then, it has been sitting in various stages of being done for about a year and a half. I know, a really long time. The fic is very stylized in the way that the two novels are. If you haven't read them, I hope you enjoy just a little taste of what you're missing. I don't often write in this style so I am interested to know what you think. You know what that means, review please.

Timeline: The fic can either take place after Dearly Devoted Dexter or sometime early second season of the TV show. It easily fits into both worlds. Anyway, you don't have to be familiar with Dexter to understand the crossover. But, I have to warn you that Dexter's world is dark and a disturbing.

Dexter and the Dark Angel

It was a rare moon that hung over the Miami sky. Large and orange, it loomed low in the late night. So close that one could almost reach out and touch it, caress its crater carved surface with callused hands. It rode with us in the darkness, held our hand as we tarried through the night. Its silver-tongued voice called to the Dark Passenger. They exchanged promises and propositions of what the late hour would bring. And oh, how we were thrilled with all of the possibilities. The Dark Passenger eagerly whispered into my ear. Conspiring with the moon had stimulated his dark desires. His cravings drove me into the night. And so, here I was listening fervently to his murmurs, enthused as much as he was for the near future.

We had stalked and waited. Researched and planned. The Need was great and all was just right. It was time for my careful preparations to be put into action. All had been precisely plotted and packaged tightly with a pretty bow and we had found just the perfect one to take. His name was Harold Nutford and he had a naughty habit of mutilating teenage girls. Nine had been linked by me to him so far.

They were the type of girls whose deaths got the public riled up - pretty and perfect with bright futures. The public saw their daughters, sisters, and girlfriends in the headlines. They wanted blood and demanded a witch hunt. Complete with all of the pomp and circumstance and a burning at the stake finale.

However, the Miami police department had not been able to appease the masses. They had no leads, no clues. All and all, they were thoroughly fucked over. The police had no chance of finding this guy, but I did. Now, I am not a saint. In fact, I am a very bad man and my reasons for wanting to catch the killer were not justice or even glory driven. No, I wanted him because rarely do I find someone with such impeccable taste and design in this line of work. And what I had witnessed at that first crime scene had intrigued me.

That morning had been like every other as I walked into work. It had been my turn to bring donuts and as I sat the box sagging with weight on my desk, the phone rang. I'd been needed at a crime scene right away, and had only enough time to grab a single sugary delight on my way back out.

The drive was short and I enjoyed the blood thirsty morning traffic I traveled. Cars honked, people hollered, a heavenly symphony my ears soaked up. It seemed like everyone turned into psychopaths when they got behind the wheel of a car.

Twenty-five blissful minutes later I walked through the door of a nondescript warehouse and into the crime scene. My eyes were accosted by an orgasm of epic proportions. The back wall had been covered in intricate designs. They weaved in and out of each other, speaking softly in some language only known to them. From far away it looked like it could have been paint, but I knew better. The way it slightly split and cracked where it dried. The Dark Passenger stirred and I felt him watch intently from my eyes, entranced by the flowing grace of what only could be blood that decorated the back wall.

That first glimpse of the scene was not something that I would easily forget.

I'm not exactly sure how long I studied the alien writing. Studied the sensual strokes complementing the hard lines and was awed at the perfect form of the circular objects. It was all beautiful. B – fucking – eautiful.

I turned my gaze away from the calligraphic masterpiece to the rest of the scene and saw artistic expression at its best. Preciously put on the floor was a precisely placed piece of red fabric with intricate trim. Three heads had been positioned in the center of the silk. Two blonds on each side and a brunette in the middle. Their entrails danced along the silk mirroring the designs on the wall. They sang to each other in a foreign dialogue. A sensual melody that one would serenade a lover with filled the air.

"Dexter," coming out of my silent reverie, I swiveled to see my boss Matthew approaching. He was wearing the usual, a nicely pressed Armani suit with a gray tie - looking like the perfect poster boy for well dressed detectives. "Have you ever seen something like this before?"

"No," I replied. It was the truth; I hadn't seen anything similar before. But I knew that this would not be the last time. The killer was leaving a message, and whatever it was, it was falling flat on our ears.

I hadn't been surprised when a second crime scene showed up two months later. Now, my memory wasn't photographic but it was pretty damn good. And while the designs and images on the walls were similar, I knew instantly that they were not the same. The killer was leaving a new message and I wanted to be the one to decipher it. I needed to be the one. The longer I had stared the scene the greater I wished that I could have heard the song coming out of the beautiful girls' mouths. I had wanted to join in their angelic singing. Even now I could almost hear the haunting melody.

With the police still falling flat on their faces, I had known that I had the chance to make my dream a reality. You see, I have this knack for getting into a killer's mind. Since we tend to share the same hobbies, I have an edge that the police simply do not possess. But very few people know that. My step-father Harry knew though.

He raised me, taught me that there were rules that I needed to live by. These were lessons that I took to code, even after he died. The Harry Code. When faced with a decision some people might ask 'What Would Jesus Do,' but I do not. I highly doubt that Jesus would let me embrace my dark desires. I don't know if there is a heaven, but I do know that I would not be welcome there. Undoubtedly, they'd shut the gates and post a guard to make sure I didn't sneak by or pick the locks. So, instead of calling on some supposed higher power that would condemn me, my dilemma was solved with, 'What Would Harry Do?"

I began my search by looking for connections between the girls. What might possibly link these seemingly different ladies together? I spent a long time searching for the connection. But the length of time I search for information never discouraged me, and instead I felt the sweet ache of anticipation build within me. Hours turned into days and days turned into weeks before I found a link. Sara Portaige and Crystal Zostuka were best friends. They had been abducted one night after a softball game. They had played in a league team called The Dragon Snaps. A cute name I supposed, although what the hell Dragon Snaps were I had no idea. Some sort of vegetable?

The third girl was the one that had given me trouble. I couldn't find any connection between the first two girls and her. Her name was Michelle Watabe and she had disappeared a week later after volunteering at a local soup kitchen. A regular Mother Theresa. It wasn't until the next three girls disappeared that I had found a connection. I could link a Mr. Harold Nutford to the first five of the six girls. He coached a competing softball team called the Pumas, which had played Portaige's and Zostuka's team on a regular basis. He also went to the same church as Watabe. The fourth girl that went missing was his neighbor and the fifth girl worked at a coffee shop that he frequented.

Once I started to unravel his life, all the girls had fit like little neat pieces on a puzzle.

Tugging on my black gloves, I silently came back to the present and stalked stealthily across the lawn. I had done my homework and knew that the man lived alone. No wife, no kids, not even a dog. Which was a blessing because animals hate me. Although, I can't really blame them. If I were a dog, I'd probably hate me too. Most humans find me charming, and to my chagrin, attractive. Why? I have no idea, but it is a feature that I use to the fullest. You see, I am very good at acting. If I was in the professional business I probably would have won an academy award or two by now.

The Dark Passenger purred as we came closer. Mr. Nutford got home Monday thru Friday at 1:30am from his job as a nursing assistant. Between that job and coaching the Pumas, he was a busy man. I'd watched him for two and a half weeks and memorized his routine. He lived on a set schedule, and I was thankful that he didn't have a more active social life.

It was no fun to be stood up. Tonight, I'd be there to welcome him.

Out of my back pocket I pulled the velvet like wallet that held my lock picking gear and noted that the house was dark. Even though I had done all of the research, it comforted me greatly to see the lights off. I hated being wrong, especially after all of my careful planning. I made short work of the lock and let myself in. Glancing around, the slippery silence of the house swept over me in soft waves. I could feel the emptiness in the air. Quietly, I locked the door behind me. There was no need to announce my presence quite yet.

Last week was the first, and only time that I had been in the house. I'd found the bit of evidence that I had needed in his living room. He had a scrap book of all of the articles following the case on the coffee table. I don't understand how someone who created such intricate and tantalizing designs could be stupid enough to make a scrap book. God, it had looked like a coffee table book that a person left out for guests to look through. And, to top it all off, there were even hand drawn sketches of the designs found at the crime scenes in the back of the book. The three sketches were carefully drawn out and taped onto pages that folded out. The third drawing was a new one I hadn't seen before, and I knew that it would be coming soon enough. This knowledge didn't help, and the anticipation was still killing me.

Ha, killing me.

I almost wanted to wait until the third one was finished before making my move. If the first two were Picassos, the last one was Leonardo Da Vinci. Fucking mind blowing. But I knew that the Dark Passenger wouldn't be able to wait for that long, and the Harry Code wouldn't allow it either. One called for satisfaction and the other justice, and I couldn't risk the chance that Nutford would get away.

After finding that Nutford-interpreting-Martha-Stewart evidence, I took some time to glance around the rest of the house. I had been going through the kitchen when I heard the front door unlocking. Realizing that it was a quarter to two, I had quickly let myself out using the kitchen door. I'd watched Nutford for awhile, but he hadn't noticed that anything was note worthy. And after that short field trip, I felt that I had enough inside information to move forward. It would have been nice to look around the entire house, but I hadn't and I would have to make the best of the situation.

As I approached the kitchen for my second soiree, I could hear a lone cricket chirping inside. Upon my entrance, his serenade paused only for a moment before continuing blissfully oblivious. The kitchen had slightly changed since I had been there seven days ago, different dishes in the sink and some bananas now sat on the gray linoleum counter top.

I reached inside my backpack to retrieve the items that I brought with me. It was only midnight, so I had plenty of time to set up. I pulled out the Barbie doll that I had styled like the first victim. There was one for each of the six dead girls. I had wanted to have three more for the three girls that had gone missing in the past five days (I hadn't linked any of them to Nutford yet, but I was sure that he took them). But, there wasn't anytime and I believed that my point could be successfully made without the final ones. I liked my quarry to know that they had been caught. Perhaps it was the satisfaction I got when they realized that someone had trapped them. It was part of the game that I played with my target. It went along with my rituals of researching, planning, stalking and executing. I am a dutiful Dexter when it comes to my subject.

The first doll was placed on the counter sitting up. She was a blond wearing a blue cheer leading outfit. Exactly how Sara Portaige had been dressed the last time she'd been seen. In a way, these dolls were homage to my brother, Brian. I was adopted by Harry when I was two. My brother and I were those children that they show in primetime specials, the ones discovered in situations that scar and emotionally ruin; the kind of situations that transform perfectly presentable children into ruthless killers and psychopaths. I discovered that Brian has the same hobby as me. His Dark Passenger hunts with him throughout the night as well.

As I reached back down into my bag I heard the cricket's call stop. Pausing in my action, I tilted my head to listen. There wasn't any superfluous noise, so what was the cricket reacting to? Instead of grabbing Barbie doll number two, a perky doll named Crystal, my fingers wrapped around the handle of my flay knife. There was little resistance from the sheath as it came free of its protective grasp. I stood up and turned around with my knife hidden in hand.

There was no one there, not that I was expecting anyone. My shoulders relaxed a bit as I continued to look around the room for a few more minutes. The crick was keeping silent and my shoulder blades itched in anticipation. Turning back around, I reached again into my bag, keeping the knife firmly grasped in my right hand.

I rarely make mistakes, because if I did, I would have been caught long ago.

Unfortunately, this was one of those rare instances and as the vase hit my head, I didn't have enough time to even consider what I had done wrong.