A/N: Crossover tiiime! Turn out writers block isn't a friend, and the only way I could think of to get past it was to get rid of the same old scene. Then, one night, in bed, trying to sleep, it came to me…crossover! Solve two cliffhangers in one! :P OR try to. Let me know what you think. Should I continue? Get rid of the Fang Gang? They're limited time only, I'll get back to Dawn n' Buffy n' them later. :D











Remorse wasn't something a vampire had to deal with. It simply didn't exist when a demon stole away with your soul. But now he had one. And the remorse was killing him. There were times when he thought it more than he could bear. Times he knew it would be easier to end it. And even as he walked away that morning, away from two people he couldn't live without, as he walked away with the sole purpose being to make himself a pile of dust…he couldn't do it. What kind of example would that be to Dawn? Hell, even to Buffy? Things get bad, make it quick and painless.

"Bloody hell," he muttered to himself. Now he was worrying about what kind of example he was. "What's next?"

But he already knew the answer to that.

What was next?

Next was finding advice, something to help him get through the sleepless nights and endless soul tearing guilt. So he headed the one place he could think of.

"Angel Investigations," a falsely cheery voice said as he pushed his way through the glass doors.

He looked up at the long haired brunette that stood up as he entered. "Who're you?"

A tall shaven headed black man came to stand next to her.

"Fred," she answered. "And this is Charles Gunn."

"Where's Peaches?" he asked confusedly. Who were these people?

"Peaches?" Gunn asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Tall, broody guy," Spike answered shortly. "Need to see him."

The two fell silent, exchanging looks.

"What? Does he prefer sulking these days?" he asked.

"What's your name again?" Gunn asked a bit hotly.

"Spike…William…oh, bloody hell," he muttered. "Whatever. Where's Angel?"

"We haven't seen him," Fred answered softly. "For a while now, actually."

"He's missing?" Spike asked, taken aback. Worry for the man was buried by worries that he might never get the help he needed. That only succeeded in making him feel worse.

"And Cordy, too," Fred added, sighing.

"Chase?" Spike said with even more surprise in his voice. "And you're sure they haven't run off in a torrid affair or anything of the like?"

Gunn scowled, Fred's eyes widened.

She reminded him of Dawn. He shook that thought away. "Right, so that's a given."

"When did this happen?" he followed up.

"Hey, we're the detectives, maybe we should be doing the questioning," Gunn said darkly.

"For starters, who are you exactly?" Fred asked.

"Old mate of Angel's. We go…way back," Spike said slowly. "But I need to find him, and it looks to me as if you do, too." He pointed to the piles of overflowing files. "So if you've nothing else to do…"

"Right," Gunn said, still eyeing Spike.





Back in Sunnydale, things were quiet, morose.

Dawn and Buffy tiptoed around, not wanting to say the wrong things, worried about setting each other off on another crying binge.

Willow, still distraught over her relapse into the dark arts, stayed close to Xander, crying into the night when no one could hear.

Anya, with Xander's help, made repairs on the Magic Box and reopened for business.

Giles returned to England with promises to make frequent visits and phone calls.

Things were of the norm in Sunnydale.

Life was hell.





Spike stood stoically, staring at the moon, arching his back to get the kinks out. He and the other two had spent the entire night looking for and following up leads, starting with Connor, who Spike was a little more than shocked to find out was Angel's son.

Surprise, surprise, he was nowhere to be found.

The others, mainly leads on tall dark men with "poofy hair" as Spike called it, had turned up nothing.

He stared at the sky, sighing.

"God knows we could use a bit of help," he muttered. "Then, you probably don't deal with the vampires, huh? 'Course you did give Angel a son, so who knows these days. If you're listening, O great ponce in the sky…we could use a little help."

He scoffed. He was talking to a sky and a being who probably hated his kind, if he existed at all.

His smirk fell flat from his face, though, when he saw a tiny glowing ball of white light dance in front of his eyes.

"All right, mate," he told himself. "You're not drunk, but you're seeing things, that's for bloody sure."

The ball zoomed past his face with a tin rush of air; he spun around to follow it with his gaze.

It floated inside, and he followed, amazed and muttering curses.

"What the…?" he whispered as the ball hovered over an open map.

He leaned in to take a closer look, peering at the paper.

The sphere of light traced along a road, finally coming to a hovering stop above a corner.

Spike memorized the address, but still rubbed his eyes when he looked at the light before him.

"I must be going insane," he said with a laugh.

When the orb cascaded into a shimmery vision of Cordelia Chase herself, he knew he'd gone mad.

"No, you haven't," she told him with a small smile.

He gaped. "I am NOT seeing this."

"You are," she contested. "Now you need to go find Angel. If you want help, if you want to help them, you need to find him. You can start there."

"You're…dead?" he asked softly.

"Not quite," she smiled. "Long story. Just…find him?"

He nodded. "I plan on it."

With another soft smile, she was gone.

He checked the map, trying to find a sign he wasn't hallucinating. Nothing.

"Sodding hell," he muttered. "It's better than nothing."





Never one for the "ask questions first, shoot later" method of approach, Spike held the man at the counter of the cheap hotel by the throat, feeling only slightly guilty. After all, it wasn't really HURTING him. He read quickly through the manifest, hoping for some familiar clue.

Nothing there, but only four rooms were occupied. He'd simply pick out those without the muffled sex noises coming from within and see where it got him.

It must have been luck, or perhaps some kind of divine intervention - he wouldn't put that past judgment- but the first room he kicked the door into revealed a teenager matching Gunn and Fred's descriptions.

He had been on the bed, but in a second had Spike against the wall.

"Who are you?" he demanded threateningly.

Spike twisted around, grabbed the boy's arm, and shoved him face first into the wall, smacking his head off the plaster. Blood oozed from his nose almost instantly.

"Friend of your father's," he whispered coolly, menacingly. "Now you, boy, are going to sit down, and listen, aren't you?"

Connor writhed in his grip, slipping out and sending a blow to Spike's stomach.

Angry then, Spike roared in frustration and grabbed Connor's wrist again, pushing him against the wall, holding him there by the pressure on his arm, and gave him a look that could have frozen the sun.

"Wanna know why they call me Spike, kid? Hmm?" he said icily. "I took my victims' mate. Held 'em down by like I am now, and I pushed the sharpest bloody tip of a spike I could find right straight into their brain. Made 'em suffer. Made 'em scream in bleeding terror while their grey matter was oozing out the fucking hole in their skull! If you don't cooperate me I will make it so much slower and so much more painful than that for you. You know why? Because I can tell myself it's for the greater good. And it would be. Think I'd hesitate? Wanna try me? Go on, gimme an excuse."

Something in him told Connor this was true, because he quieted down, piercing Spike with his gaze. "Another vampire."

"Something like that," he muttered. "I'm gonna let go now. And you're going to do what?"

"Cooperate," he said begrudgingly.

"Good boy," Spike said with malice.

He let go and true to his word Connor stood with arms slack.

"Where is he?"

"Who?" Connor asked, feigning ignorance.

Spike growled low in his throat. "Don't toy with me, boy!"

"He's been taken care of."

"Wanna elaborate?"

"No," Connor said seethingly.

"Well you're going to," Spike said. "Remember the alternative."

Connor glared. "He's in the ocean."

Knowing it wasn't the time to give in with surprise, Spike said again, "Elaborate. Location."

"No!" Connor cried angrily. "He killed my father! He was an old man, he was innocent, and he KILLED my FATHER!"

"No, he didn't," Spike said with certainty. "He couldn't."

"How would you know?" Connor asked. Spike could tell he was reaching his last nerve.

He grabbed Connor's hand, but the grip was not fierce. "Because he couldn't. Because if he did it would eat at his soul and he wouldn't be able to live with himself. He could get away with that before because he had the demon in him doing the dirty work for him. Now? With his conscience nagging at him? He couldn't, more importantly, WOULDN'T do that. I know the man. Trust me."

Connor looked away, toward the dirty carpet floor. "Off the pier. He's probably drifted, but…"

Spike released his arm. "Good man. Now I'm gonna leave you here. I'm gonna go try to find your blood father…and hope it's not too late, for both of our sakes. Cause if he's dead, you're gonna have to live with what it's like knowing you killed your innocent father over nothing."

He turned to the door, pausing on the threshold. "You come looking for him tomorrow night, Connor. You come and you see what you've done. And pray to whatever God you believe in that he can forgive you."

When Connor looked up, tears unshed in his eyes, Spike was gone.

Consciences are the devil.