Cough Drops and Corpses: A Dexter RP (SevenxWine)

[sevenpercentsolution]

The air was close, hot and sticky that unforgiving October night; it was a Thursday, and the beaches were littered with sweating, lively bodies. At sunset, couples would walk along the sand and shyly hold hands, but it seemed that when dark fell in Miami, the predator came out in everyone who inhaled the night air.

Dexter Morgan felt it too, but he was different from them; certainly, he engaged in intense, sweaty nights the way anyone else did, but his company tended to be a little different.

And much quieter. Eventually.

Tonight, he was enjoying the company of Wilbur Fator, a member of Miami's Elite - he was a man originally from the South, borne of a well-off family and carefully groomed; Dexter always appreciated when people were immaculate. Fator liked to spend his mornings on the golf course, his afternoons on the porch with his pretty wife drinking Mojitos, and his evenings in small dark basements where he paid a human trafficker to bring him a fresh young Cuban boy every month.

Fator liked them young, dark, and pretty, and enjoyed taking his time with them - Dexter had seen the videos; for a man from the South, Fator wasn't terribly discreet.

It would be awful if his wife saw the videos.

Presently, Dexter was on board his little luxury - his beloved boat, Slice of Life; he wasn't a sailor by any means, but Dexter's foster father Harry Morgan had instilled a love of the water in him at an early age. He'd been coming out to Bay Harbour since he was three, and he couldn't bring himself to stay away from the spot - he supposed it was some sort of sentimentality, but he wasn't sure how that sort of thing applied to him.

He whistled a sprightly tune as he idled the boat, and then turned off the engine; he was several miles out on the water, comfortably out of view of anyone - most people avoided the water at night, unless they were up on the beach. The darkness scared them.

Dexter liked it; it was quiet.

He turned to face Wilbur Fator; he was a big, well-built man, so Dexter had needed to use several hefty bags for all the pieces - he couldn't remember which bag he'd put the head in, but it didn't really matter. Dexter wasn't one for keeping trophies, at least, not the kind that some of them liked to take - he was satisfied with his blood slides, a tiny piece of memorabilia from each monster that had kept him company on these late night trips.

With practised ease, he hauled each hefty bag over the side of the boat and watched as they were swallowed up by the black, shifting water; he always weighed them down with rocks from the harbour - it was a rookie mistake to think the body would keep itself down. Even the dead had gas, and it tended to make them bouyant, and when that happened, curious boaters and fishermen couldn't help but peer in, wondering what they might find – like a toy in a cracker jack box, only instead of a cheeky slide whistle, it was a dismembered hand. Fun for girls and boys.

Satisfied that there were no bits of Mr. Fator trying to stick around a little longer, Dexter started the engine again; he would have enough time to get home, catch a few hours of sleep, and be ready for work.

Work.

Unlike many Miami residents, Dexter Morgan liked his job working for the Miami Dade Police Department, he wasn't a cop like his currently damaged foster sister Deb - he was a lab rat, a forensics guy. It kept him low-key, kept the attention away from him.

Or at least, he'd thought it did, up until recently.

Things had gotten unexpectedly complicated when Dexter had discovered he had a brother, one from a life he could barely remember. It had been the life where he'd been Dexter Moser, and his mother had been Laura Moser, and life had been beautiful and perfect up until the day he watched her get torn to messy, wet shreds by a chainsaw.

It had changed something in him, maybe killed something in him - he still wasn't sure exactly what it was that was missing, but his brother Brian was missing it too. They were two of a kind, and Brian had known it long before Dexter - he'd been old enough to keep the memories that Dexter had lost, and as such, he'd been subject to the whims of various foster homes, halfway houses, and orphanages while Dexter had been eagerly adopted by the cop who had worked the crime scene.

It was somehow unfair; somewhere along the line, the decision had been made that Dexter could be saved, and Brian couldn't. Dexter got a relatively normal childhood after that, save for the awkward teenage years where other boys were chasing girls, and all he could think about was what his classmates would look like in pieces.

But Harry Morgan had straightened that out; there were rules to abide by. It was what kept Dexter from being like all the others, rather than just being a monster, he was a choosy monster. He only allowed other monsters to accompany him on nights like these.

Funny that Harry never mentioned he'd had a brother.

But Brian had never forgotten, and had decided one day that he couldn't go without his baby brother anymore, and he'd been overjoyed to discover that Dexter was - just like him. So overjoyed that he'd done everything in his power to get close to him, teasing him with the jigsaw puzzles made of dead, frozen hookers.

Breaking into his home and playfully leaving him clues.

Dating his sister, Deb.

Trying to kill her. Trying to get him to help. He'd even set her up the way Dexter liked it; unconscious, strapped to the table, an electric saw at the ready.

It had been an interesting reunion.

He'd had Brian in his grasp after he'd made a second attempt on Deb's life, he'd had him hanging by his ankles, strapped down in his own home, prepped for the kill. He'd put him out so he wouldn't have to feel any pain - but then Brian had opened his eyes.

The rules said that he should have killed Brian when he'd had the chance, but he couldn't do it, and he couldn't kill Deb either - he kind of liked her.

He'd let him go.

He'd let Brian go, and told him to go away, to get far away from Miami and never come back, because then he really would have to kill him.

He told himself that he would.

And now he knew for a fact that he had been lying; the certainty was gone, leaving dearly devoted Dexter disoriented in the dark. What had once been a clearly paved path edged with rules and boundaries that kept him from ever crossing The Line had suddenly transformed into an endless, misty field filled with the sort of temptations that his Dark Passenger just loved.

It was all because he had broken the Code that Harry had laid down for him - all because he had let Brian live.

And then in an act of outrageous stupidity, he had even agreed to visit his brother in New York, like friendly relatives getting together for a holiday.

Dexter had assured himself he was only going so Brian wouldn't come to Miami – that was too risky, he might get himself killed.

Or – or he might be a danger to others. Something like that.

He had brought a knife with him when he had gone to visit; at one point he had even steeled himself to use it while he stood opposite to Brian in his little kitchen in the ill-gained New York apartment – but he hadn't done it. In fact, he'd pretty much done the opposite of killing him, he'd – done things – with Brian, things that he was sure were very, very wrong for people who weren't like him.

For one, he had shared a kill with him: a middle-aged blonde - guilty of poisoning her three husbands - had been strapped to a polished, clean steel table in some old abandoned warehouse down a backalley in the worst part of the city. She had been there for hours, held down by the clear saran wrap that Dexter had always favoured, mouth duct taped and a folder full of evidence beside her for Dexter to sort through.

It was all Brian's doing - it had been very thoughtful of him.

The memory of it all still made Dexter shudder, because Brian had watched him the entire time - hadn't taken his eyes off of him once, in fact - and if he thought about it, he could remember the bizarre sensation, the strange thought that his brother's eyes were burning into him and leaving a mark somewhere inside.

And afterwards, they hadn't even had a chance to clean up, they hadn't even made it through the parking lot when Brian had pounced on him; they'd struggled and torn at eachother, eventually they even managed to get back into the apartment just before the aggressive pawing had stopped being enough for either of them. Hands and knees had been replaced by tongue and teeth and nails, they hadn't even closed the door behind them before they were all over eachother.

It was wrong, it was so, so very wrong. Harry would have disapproved.

Harry would have also disapproved of what he had done to Brian on the couch later on that evening - Dexter had never used his mouth like that before, but it had been worth it to see the wild expression on Brian's face.

Rubbing at his hair with gloved hands, Dexter stared out at the water and listened to it lap against the sides of the boat; the moon was three-quarters full that night, and the sight of it provided a cold, clean comfort. In that moment, in the middle of the bay, an oddly introspective Dexter was struck by the strange and empty sensation of loneliness - it was followed quickly by a fiery trail up his spine when he thought about Brian's eyes.

The way he looked at him.

The understanding.

But Dexter knew that he couldn't think about it anymore; he had to limit those thoughts because they led to terrible things, the kind of thoughts that threatened to pull him overboard and plunge him into waters that he would never escape from. Waters where his Passenger was at the top of the food chain, and the world was subject to his whim.

It couldn't happen.

He bid farewell to Wilbur Fator and quietly left his quiet little world behind, hid the blood slide behind the air conditioner, and retired to his bedroom; as he got under the covers and stared up at the dark ceiling, it occurred to him that monsters didn't get happy endings - all they got were precious, sparing moments of freedom.

And he had never felt more free than in the moment where his hand had touched Brian's to accept his knife.

 

[wineanddine]

Maybe it was because he had been bred and born there, but there was something about Miami that really made Brian Moser feel alive. He typically hated mess, couldn't stand clutter; by all rights, the sticky, damp air and the number of slick, sweaty human bodies that typically populated the place should have disgusted him. Instead, he had had a tight, knotted feeling of anticipation during the entire drive back to Florida from New York.

He felt like he was on his way to finish some important business.

He felt like he was on his way home.

Not that 'home' had ever held any sort of tangible meaning for him. Brian had spent so much time institutionalized when he wasn't being juggled around in foster houses. 'Going home' had only ever meant 'going back to his room,' the standard 11x15 foot room with concrete walls and bunkbeds.

No, this was different. This wasn't home because of the location, but it was home because he was on his way to see his last living family member again. Dexter understood what he was, because Dexter was the same. Slightly misguided, but Brian was willing to help him work past that.

He had never met anyone before who understood, who was as intelligent as he was. As clever. As perfect, ignoring the minor 'conscience' hiccup.

Brian needed him like an addict needed heroin. He had seen what Dexter was, what he had the potential to become, and he was hooked. It was more than just errant desire; it was visceral. He had no reason to stay in New York. Staying away was safe, and it was lonely, and Brian cared little for the former and even less for the latter.

Besides, Dexter had so much to learn, and who better to teach him than his loving brother Biney?

Rita was a real hitch in his plan. Dexter thought he cared about her, and Brian had a problem wrapping his mind around that. She was a vapid blonde, too concerned with material things. Doormats and nutricious breakfasts for her children, cuddling up to Dexter on the couch after a long day smiling at strangers at the hotel. He didn't understand why Dexter didn't use her and throw her away.

She was a good alibi, at least. She made pretty arm candy, and for a pretty convincing Normal Life cover, but every time he toyed with her picture, all he could think was how pretty she would look with a knife at her throat.

And with that, it had been easy for Brian to break into her home. Late at night with a ski mask, he rattled the front door loudly before smashing one of the windows, careful not to leave any fingerprints or to actually disturb anything else, but it was with such obvious clumsiness that he couldn't imagine the woman actually believing that it was a serious attempt to get into her home unnoticed. He tossed a knife onto the kitchen floor, before ducking back out of the window when he heard Rita's voice floating down the hallway in a too-loud whisper in an attempt to reassure her frightened children.

With a roll of his eyes, Brian trotted down the street, yanking off the mask and tugging on a pair of headphones. He looked like some yuppie going for a midnight jog, not a convicted serial killer, and that was the way he wanted it to remain for now.

Rita heard the commotion in the kitchen, standing up even as her hand groped blindly for her phone. Leaning down, she slid the baseball bat from beneath her bed, hefting it onto her shoulder as she stepped out into the hallway. She could see Astor and Cody crowding the doorway to their bedroom, Astor's arms wrapped around her brother in a protective hug. "Shhh," Rita said, before she crept slowly into the kitchen.

Glass from a broken window, and a knife on the floor, but nothing seemed to be gone, and it was quiet.

She peeked around the kitchen, before glancing into the living room, and then finally - in a rush - ushering her kids out to the car. Shakily, and still in her nightgown, she called 911 and explained the situation, and was pulling into the parking lot of Dexter's apartment complex right as she started dialing his number.

"Dexter," she said a bit shakily, "Someone tried to break into our house, I've called the cops, but how do you feel about a sleepover tonight, please say yes because I'm actually pulling into a parking space right now," she finished in a rush.

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

Normally Dexter slept like the dead - empty, dreamless rest that served only the purpose that physiology had meant for it, but on that particular night, dark images had managed to slink into his head and take up residence.

It was familiar, if only because it was similar to the only other dream he'd ever had; he was strapped to a surgical steel table - except, this time it was as though he had somehow stepped outside of his own body and was looking down on himself.

The version of him on the table was wearing khakis, an obnoxiously yellow tropical shirt, and a lab coat. Stranger still, he could see a distinct look of horror on his own face, the appearance of - was that fear? Yes, it must be; Dexter had never known that look for himself, but had seen it on so many others that he had no choice but to recognize it.

He looked away from the Victim-Dexter and looked down at his own hands; he clenched his fingers, and the tight leather gloves made a comforting squeaking noise. A glance to the right, and there was an array of tools for him, shimmering silvers and gleaming grays, all so perfectly sharp and clean that he reached for the nearest one and held it up to the light to watch it refract. He saw his own reflection in the knife; yes, it was definitely still him.

He turned his eyes back to his - victim - and Harry Morgan was staring back at him now, strapped to the table and looking grim. He opened his mouth, and rang.

Dexter sat up in bed like Bela Lugosi and stared at the wall for a long moment before he realized he was hearing his phone; he lifted it off the cradle, mind still misty from sleep and confusion, and raised the phone to his ear.

"Dexter"

His mind managed to work out that he was hearing Rita, and a glance at the alarm clock told him it was two in the morning.

"Someone tried to break into our house, I've called the cops, but how do you feel about a sleepover tonight? Please say yes, because I'm actually pulling into a parking space right now."

Dexter was silent for a long moment as the breathy, hurried words slowly curled their way through the fog, and he finally managed to answer with,

"Uh. Yeah."

And by the time he reached the door, having yanked on a t-shirt and shorts, he was clear-headed enough to remember that he should pull her into his arms, because that was what worried boyfriends did. Rita clenched her little hands into the material of his shirt so hard that her knuckles buried into his ribcage with surprising strength while Cody and Astor slipped inside, characteristically stoic and silent. The two made a bee-line for his couch,

"Hey," Dexter said, looking over his shoulder while Rita did her best not to show fear in front of her kids, "You guys are already breaking the rules by being up this late."

Cody and Astor stared at him in morose silence, too injured by a traumatic childhood to hear the playfulness in his voice - or maybe he just didn't sound playful. Maybe he sounded like a psychopath, he wasn't sure.

"So how about some ice cream?" he asked, and he watched the two slowly exchange glances; their little features didn't move, but they still managed to communicate.

"Do you have the green kind?" Astor asked, the spokesperson for their little team while Cody continued to stare unblinkingly.

"I have the green kind," Dexter confirmed, drawing Rita into the condo and closing the door behind her, bolting it shut, and moving towards the kitchen.

"I'm so sorry to do this to you, Dex, it's just that I didn't know where else -" Rita began, still clinging to his side.

"I'm just glad you're safe." Dexter replied; he was getting good at this kind of thing and wanted a Tony Award. Or maybe a little golden knife, because if it was a stage show, he was sure he would make the cut.

He also needed to stop making puns.

Rita glanced down and finally recognized her iron grip; she released him then, and backed herself to the counter, leaning back and gripping the edge of it instead; she was still in her nightgown, robes hanging off her shoulders, barefoot and blonde hair dishevelled. Though she was quaking and appeared as though she hadn't slept for a week, Dexter somehow found he liked the way she looked right then. He decided not to inspect the thought any further.

Pulling a block of unopened pistachio ice cream from the freezer, he doled it out into two bowls and handed them to a blank-faced Cody and Astor before returning to Rita; he found her digging into the carton with a fork.

"I have spoons." Dexter said, mildly interested in the way she had set upon the dessert like an animal; she looked up at him then, the fork hanging out of her mouth. There was a long moment of silence, during which Dexter began to suspect he had done something wrong and that Rita was about to attack him with the silverware, but then she was suddenly weeping tears and pistachio onto his chest and leaving him just a little more confused about the entire world.

Cody and Astor didn't have time for the sugar rush to set in before they toppled over onto the couch, while Rita sobbed into his arms for another half an hour; he put her to bed and laid beside her because she told him it would make her feel safe.

"You always make me feel safe." Rita said just before she fell asleep, confirming for Dexter that the existence of sensible people was pure mythology.

He managed to nod off for another two hours before he had to get up for work; he told Rita she could stay as long as she wanted to, told her everything would be okay, and left for the lab, desperate for a day filled with blood stains.

 

[wineanddine]

Angel was pretty good at his little routine by then. Wake up (in an empty bed), brush his teeth (spitting in a vaguely disgusting sink), get dressed (in clothes that were perpetually just slightly wrinkled), grab a bagel (strawberry cream cheese, one of life's little blessings) and go to work.

And that was what he did, except he'd taken a page from Dexter's book that morning and stopped by the local Krispy Kreme to pick up two dozen that he had paraded around the station, winning looks and nods of approval from his coworkers.

Sometimes life was terribly cliche, and one just had to embrace it.

He had saved the last one for Dexter, however, and cut his friend off at the door to work with the nearly-empty box. "For you, my friend," he crowed, before passing the box off to him, whistling a jaunty tune as he headed back to his desk. Not that he had a lot to be happy about these days, but hey! He still had his little girl, and a good job, and maybe he wasn't in a perfect place socially, but at least he wasn't dead.

Or dating a serial killer. Poor Deb.

He sat down, flipping through a few pages before a long shadow fell across his desk, and he glanced up with a squint to see Masouka leaning down. The Asian man was either terribly concerned or terribly amused; given his personality and ability to find humor in some of the darkest places, it was almost impossible to tell.

"So did you hear?" he chirped, glancing back at Dexter as he spoke, before straightening up and folding his arms behind his head.

"Did I hear what?" Angel asked in a deadpan, quirking an eyebrow.

Masouka shook his head, and his expression was obviously concern now, even if he did sort of have the same expression a rubber-necker passing by a severe automobile accident did. "Morgan the sister called in this morning at like, seven. Dead cat nailed to her door, dude, it was sick."

Angel straighted up immediately, but Masouka cut him off. "Team's already out there on it, dude. But can you imagine? I think it's just some sick kid, but you never know when it comes to psycho killers."

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

Stepping into the station, Dexter was tense; just the way Batista did, Dexter had an established routine that he had followed religiously for years, and the appearance of Rita very early that morning had shaken it. Grateful that his face always obeyed his command, he still managed to wear an expression of slightly vapid friendliness; the upside to feeling nothing was that facial expressions also meant nothing to him - they were purely for show.

Of course, Dexter was convinced that he wasn't the only one who did it; with a donut box held in his hands, Dexter watched Batista whistle his way over to his desk, a prime example of human beings putting on a show. He was pretty sure that was why he liked Batista - and Vince, for that matter.

They both pretended.

Initially Dexter considered heading straight for his lab - the temptation to get to his clean, dark little fishbowl was strong - but Masouka's sideways glance had him furrowing his eyebrows questioningly until he elaborated.

Dead cat. Deb's door.

Somehow, he was going to be blamed for this, Dexter decided as he stupidly continued to hold onto the donut box and stare off into space because the Passenger was slowly raking its nails down his spine and leaving trails of cold. Then it purred.

"Ain't that right?" Masouka asked, and stared at him, "Dex?"

"Huh?" Dexter asked.

"Psycho killers?" Masouka elaborated.

"Q'uest que c'est?" Dexter tried, and Vince gave him one of those funny, crooked stares that he did sometimes.

"Cute." Vince said flatly, "You didn't hear about it?"

"No." Dexter said, and Vince shrugged his face.

"Don't worry," Vince said, patting him on the back in a way that was almost consoling, "I'm sure you will."

"Yeah." Dexter said, reduced to monosyllables before he dragged himself off to his lab, oblivious to both Angel and Vince staring after him.

Rita's place had been broken into around two in the morning and Deb's door had been decorated at seven - Miami had one of the highest crime rates in the world and the incidents were very different, but Dexter couldn't ignore the call of the Passenger.

And anyone with a dark enough mind would recognize they were both connected to him.

Stepping into his lab, Dexter stopped in the doorway because a pair of eyes were staring at him through the darkness; anyone else wouldn't have seen him in the absolute shadow of the room, but Dexter's finely honed night vision had him meeting the eyes unflinchingly. Slowly, he reached out and flicked on the light,

"Good morning Sergeant," Dexter said cheerfully, and extended the box to him, "Donut?"

Doakes continued to glower at him, and for an instant Dexter thought he might swat the box away and lunge at his throat; instead, he disregarded it. It was somewhat dissappointing.

"I hear your girl called in this morning." Doakes said.

"Word gets around." Dexter said, setting the box onto a filing cabinet and turning to his desk; he moved to roll out his chair, but Doakes set a foot against it to stop him.

"And your sister called in an hour ago."

Of course Doakes would have noticed.

"Yeah, I just heard about it." Dexter said, "Was about to call her."

"There was a cat nailed to her door." Doakes added, even though he had to be aware that Dexter knew that detail already, "What do you think about that? Do you think it's funny?"

"I guess I'd have to know the breed before I could really get the punchline." Dexter admitted, and he watched Doakes' face twist angrily; the Sergeant had never hidden his aggression, and especially not towards Dexter who had, for some reason, set Doakes off from their very first encounter. There was an unholy hatred that radiated from Doakes, as though he was constantly in search of a reason - anything that would allow him to break someone's neck.

"Listen you fuckin' psycho," Doakes said, because he was always subtle with his opinions, "If I find out you had anything to do with this shit, I will fuck you up."

"Right." Dexter said, dismissive, "Okay."

Doakes continued to stare, but his expression had changed into something strange, so Dexter raised his eyebrows and added:

"Got it."

Before the Sergeant stormed out of the lab, slamming the door so hard that the hinges rattled. For a long moment Dexter stood there watching the door, and then slowly looked down to his hand; he realized then why Doakes had given him that look - at some point during their discussion, he had begun to play with his keychain, and had been toying with the little decapitated barbie head that hung from it.

 

[wineanddine]

Masouka and Angel exchanged glances when Doakes came storming from around the corner to Dexter's little area.

"Weird guy," Vince muttered, and Angel lifted an eyebrow.

"You'd better be talking about Doakes," he said with a slight smirk, words playful, but it was obvious that he was worried about something. Deb, most likely; not that they had ever been best friends, but she was a good girl, he knew, and they did work together. He had always felt a sort of brotherly affection for Deb. She was kind of abrasive, but good-hearted, and that meant a lot to guy like Angel.

Masouka knew she was sharp, but also just thought she was hot.

"Well," Vince said, backing up, "gonna get to work, I guess. See you around lunch," he called, then backed away, heading away.

Deb sat on the edge of a bed in a hotel room, playing with her phone. Her first instinct, of course, had been to call Dexter and demand his help, but he'd done so much for her since the whole ordeal with Rudy. Brian, she reminded herself with a shake of her head, before she dialed her foster brother's phone number, holding it up to her ear.

She was a big girl. She'd take care of herself...

...and surely that moron wasn't stupid enough to come back and try to kill her a second time.

But she knew the mentality behind a lot of these guys. They wouldn't stop until they'd finished what they started.

"So Dexter," she blurted into the phone, hurriedly, "you don't think it's him, do you? I mean, that's a pretty fucking retarded thing to do. He KNOWS that I'm a cop."

And then the first email in Dexter's inbox was dated about ten minutes before he arrived at work, from an anonymous address with the subject YOU JUST NEED TO CHILL OUT.

Hey pal,

It's been a while since we've gone out. I think we could both use a pizza and bowling night. Invite your girl, because I'm bringing one along, too.

She's a bit nasty, but hopefully you'll get along fine.

Let me know if you're interested. I'll be waiting.

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

The doll's head stared at him and Dexter stared back; for a long moment he stayed like that, watching the little plastic face as though he expected it to bring up an interesting subject, but neither of them seemed to be able to find a topic they both liked.

He had no way of proving any of it, he knew, but the consistent and rhythmic unfurling of the Passenger's claws was telling Dexter that there was another monster nearby, but this one was so much more fun than any of the others had been. It was him - it had to be, because the agonizing little curl of heat in the very base of his spine had only ever been caused by one person.

Dexter was wrenched from his thoughts by the phone, and for the second time that day he heard the sound of panic.

"Deb," Dexter said, eyeing the flashing indication at the right corner of his laptop, the one telling him he had new e-mails.

YOU JUST NEED TO CHILL OUT.

The heat spread suddenly up to his neck, and Dexter shuddered bodily and had to restart,

"Deb," he tried again, hovering his cursor over the message subject, like a child savouring the moment before tearing into a Christmas present, "If he was in the city, do you think he'd spend his time nailing Mr. Fluffy to doorframes?"

He opened the e-mail and nearly hissed, but managed to stop himself.

"You've been in the papers a lot lately," Dexter continued, as soothing as he could manage to be while the Passenger was rearing up inside of him, demanding a chance to play, "You probably just got hit by someone with a sick sense of humour."

He held the phone up between his jaw and shoulder; he set his fingers onto the keyboard and they began to move of their own accord:

I don't think she'll be up for a double date, but I'm sure you two will find something cool to do.

Any idea on what cleaning product removes felines? Just wondering.

 

[wineanddine]

There was something about Dexter that always seemed to soothe Deb. Maybe it was the fact that he was so earnest, or that she trusted him more than anyone else in the entire world. He was family, afterall.

If there was one person in the world that she could trust not to lie to her, Deb knew for certain that it was Dexter.

"Yeah," she agreed after a long moment, flopping backwards onto the bed and looking at the door to the hotel room. It was locked sturdily, and she felt safer there than she did anywhere else, if she wanted to be perfectly honest.

"Well, bro," she said finally into the phone, "I think I'm going to get some sleep. Kinda.. shocked after this morning, you know."

Deb hung up, then, and watched bad porn on demand for the rest of the morning, just for something to laugh at.

Brian was also at a hotel, though a good twenty miles away from where Deb was currently holed up. He had been swimming already, had jumped into the pool almost immediately after doing the funny little deed with the cat, and he felt like a predator as he waited for Dexter to email him back.

His brother rarely disappointed him.

Felines? Tried bleach?

Brian felt his own Dark Passenger coiling in him, excited, like a snake ready to strike, but he embraced the feeling instead of hiding it away. It was in his nose and throat, behind his eyes, swelling in his stomach and chest, and it made him feel alive.

My dates are always the best. I've got a big surprise in store for her, too.. I wish you'd be there to see it.

And he wanted to see Dexter, wanted to touch his face with his fingertips, take his hand and draw him away into a room with a nubile young woman on display, ready to be sliced like ham - but that, for the moment, was just a dream he would have to keep nursing.

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

Shocked, that was the word she had used - but over the years, Dexter had become fluent in Deb and knew that she had actually panicked; she had been scared that the Ice Truck Killer was back in the city to finish the job.

And, of course, it wasn't such an unlikely assumption - it seemed that Deb's instincts were improving these days, or maybe it was just pure paranoia, but whatever it was, she was getting better at seeing the patterns that monsters followed, and it had begun to translate to her job. Dexter liked Deb; she was one in a tiny group that he could say that about - he liked Deb very much and wanted to see her advance in the ranks the way she deserved to, but at the same time he found himself considering what it would mean if she became too good. How long would it be, after all, before she began to see some of those dark traits in him?

He knocked those thoughts away; it was something he would have to deal with when the time came, and these days he had no doubts that it would.

Dexter spent some time working on slides, inspecting them through the microscope and measuring bloodstains and impact spatters with a single-minded interest; he allowed himself to be pulled into a dark and familiar little world made of blood and messy, graceless strikes and slices from amateurs, rookies who wouldn't make it to their next kill because they had been too careless with their first one. That was the price one paid for being untidy.

Of course, the Ice Truck Killer had never been untidy - no, Brian had always been very careful, hadn't he? Cheeky, but everything had been thought out, carefully planned, cut clean and precise and placed so intentionally that the obsession behind it had sent chills through Dexter the first time he had seen his brother's work. He had known from the very start that it was a message for him he just hadn't understood why at the time.

Suddenly struck by the need to do so, he looked into his e-mails again and found a response.

He could imagine what Brian would have in store for his current paramour; a cold room, flashing metal, sharp edges and maybe a little nailpolish. He was sure that a date with Brian was a thing to be admired, and the thought of watching his brother do his work - no, he couldn't do that, after all, Brian didn't follow the rules.

Brian didn't have a code - and that made him subject to Dexter's, didn't it?

Dexter realized he was gripping the edge of the desk in a white-knuckled hold, and he slowly released it, letting out the breath he hadn't known he had been holding in. For a moment, he closed his eyes and thought it over.

Then, opening his eyes again, he deleted the e-mail and turned back to his work.

 

[wineanddine]

When an answer didn't come almost immediately, Brian had the sinking feeling that one wasn't going to come at all. He had been afraid of that - he knew his brother well enough to realize that Dexter was still struggling with what he really was, what They Really Were.

And it had taken Brian a while to get that. He couldn't comprehend that someone was able to live with that sort of beast inside of him without embracing it. Brian had long since given up suppressing the Passenger and had become it; he looked with its eyes, spoke with its tongue. His fingers were its fingers, and the pain they wrought together wasn't destruction, but creation. Art.

He was wiping something ugly from the world, and smearing something beautiful in its place.

He was not simply its vessel. They were symbiotes, and to have that ripped away from him... Brian would have felt like a naked invalid, missing chunks of his soul. Not a perfect metaphor, since he didn't quite believe in the human soul, but it would do him well enough.

And as much as he wanted to, Brian knew he couldn't pick up where he had left off. He could barely afford to live in Miami as it was; it had been a while, but people - the right people - would recognize him in a crowd. He couldn't draw attention to himself, and he couldn't start killing and leaving bits of hookers around, either. He was finished with that game, and he wanted the city to think he was gone somewhere, living in a Mexican village until the law forgot about him.

Hiding in plain sight had always been his game. Dexter's game, too, from the looks of it, but Dexter was hiding for all the wrong reasons, and all the wrong ways. He had grown attached to his flimsy second life, far too attached, and Brian would have to do something about it.

But in due time.

He was hungry, but it was early, and he had his plans: he'd wait until night fell, find a pretty young thing at the local bar, and take her back to Rita's. That needy, incessant woman had to have fled to Dexter's for at least a day or two (not that he wouldn't double-check first, it wouldn't do to bring someone back to an already occupied house), he'd clean his date and the kitchen, and dump her into whatever river he could find.

Clumsily, of course. He didn't want the police to realize that he was a pro at the game, just some clumsy half-wit who'd gotten a little stab-happy.

He sat on the edge of the bed, satisfied at his plans, before scooting back atop the sheets and flipping the television onto some inane nature channel. Brian kept remembering when he'd caught an episode of America's Most Wanted a month or so back with his face plastered across the screen.

He felt rather like a celebrity, actually, and they had called him 'handsome' and 'devilishly charming.' Smugly, he settled back onto the sheets and went to sleep.

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

Dexter had spent the day trying not to think about how there would be police in his south beach condo, sitting down to talk to Rita about what had happened, eyeing the place the way that cops always did, because they were looking for things out of place - it was their job, it was second nature, but in his mind's eye, he saw them approaching his air conditioner, or thinking it sounded a little strange.

He shook his head; he wasn't usually given to flights of fancy, but it had become more recent as of late - since New York, in fact.

No, since before that. Since meeting Brian, back when he was calling himself 'Rudy' and dating Deb, that was when it had started, when he had started dreaming and getting nightmares - some part of him had known the truth, but it hadn't been a conscious part, which left Dexter questioning what else his subconscious could be hiding from him. How much more, after all, could there be?

The hours went by in a whirl of blood and paperwork, and Dexter made a point of avoiding Doakes - who had been sniffing far too close lately - for the rest of his shift. It proved to be difficult, because it seemed the Sergeant was making a point of appearing wherever he was these days, usually remaining silent and just staring at him with the same look that had long ago told Dexter that the bigger man had a few skeletons in his closet too - though there probably weren't as many, and they likely weren't wrapped up quite as neatly as his were.

Dexter made sure to keep that in mind; if Doakes became a problem, he would want -

Blood. Blood. Stalk him, hunt him down, cut his neck and watch him bleed.

- leverage.

He pressed his palm against his eye like a man fighting an oncoming headache, but it was the Passenger he was pushing back - the Passenger, who had suddenly just climbed up his throat and told him things, right while he was sitting at his desk at work. Instead of the usual quiet hisses and gentle goading, his darkness had just lunged at him like a crazed animal, the way it had done when he and Brian had been in the same room together.

Take him cut him he's nothing but if you do it you can make him something, he'll have meaning again not another worthless human stain, he can be -

Suddenly flushed, Dexter eyed the clock; he had always been precise with his work schedule, never late, never leaving early, never taking days off - but he had broken that last rule for Brian, and suddenly he was going to be breaking another - because right then, he felt like a schoolboy who had suddenly been caught in class with an unfortunate adolescent problem in his cargos.

He had to leave; he needed to get out of there.

For the first time in all of his years working for the Miami department, Dexter Morgan the fastidious lab rat clocked out an hour early, having hastily packed his equipment and paperwork, and left the building in enough of a hurry that Angel and Masuoka exchanged glances from across the station.

 

[wineanddine]

As much as Brian desperately wanted to be near Dexter, he knew better. More than anything, he wanted to be camped outside the police station, watching. But he had waited before, and now it was a more dangerous game than before. Too many people recognized him, especially near the police station, for him to be safe at all.

It wasn't the kind of desire that could be slaked with something like a photograph. Brian was sentimental, but an odd sort. He wanted to watch Dexter sleep again.

'Of course, if I'm not very careful,' he thought as his date crumpled to the floor in Rita's kitchen, and he tilted his head to stare at the odd angle of her broken neck, 'I won't get that chance.'

And then he cleaned her up, tidied the kitchen. Not the best job. Not even a particularly satisfying job, but she'd been a slut who wasn't even worth his time. He supposed it fit that she didn't really get it, but he was still starving.

He flipped open the phone he'd gotten from her hip pocket before he had dumped her into the river, shouldering the door to his hotel room open as he began typing a text message to Dexter's number (Dexter's number being one of those things that he had seen once and had never forgotten, would never forget.)

Normally Brian liked to work with more finesse than this, but times were tight and desperate. Besides, Dexter already knew the game, knew what he wanted. What was the point of another facade?

You missed a real treat tonight.

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

The outside air didn't help; it was too hot and too close to provide any actual relief and all Dexter could think to do was sit in his car with his head pressed against the steering wheel, enclosed in the sweltering heat of a vehicle that had been sitting directly in the Miami sun for hours, feeling his own sweat running down the back of his neck like a warmer version of his Passenger's nails.

Normally his darkness was more controlled than that - it usually came in gradual waves, a slow crescendo that gave him time to think, time to plan and predict and find the right target. The last time the Passenger had been so impulsive had been back when he was a teenager, after he had been shoved around on the school ground and had gone back to the baseball diamond with a butterfly knife in his hand - he hadn't been doing it for revenge, not really. Back then, his darkness had been lurking around him and standing over him, casting a cold shadow that had made it impossible for him to focus - the boy who had bullied him had been an excellent scapegoat for the Passenger, it had reasoned that anyone who beat up other kids surely deserved the punishment.

The truth was that Dexter had only gone to the field because he had thought it would make the Passenger quiet, that maybe if he just followed its desires that one time, with something other than a dog or a deer, it would stop waking him up at night and whispering things that made him shudder.

Something buzzed against his thigh and Dexter didn't even bother sitting up; he drew his cell phone out of his pocket and looked at it through the gaps in the steering wheel:

Unknown number. A text message.

You missed a real treat tonight.

Dexter had to shut his eyes for a moment, clenching them closed before opening them again to stare at the message, and he let out a small groan; frustration welled up inside of the Passenger, and as a result, inside of him as well. They had missed an opportunity, a chance to release some of the darkness - even worse, a chance to work beside Brian again.

He shook his head and brought a hand up to his forehead, bringing it slowly down his face to wipe away sweat that had moved into his eyes.

No, he reminded himself, that isn't how it works.

Somehow it had slipped his mind, if only for an instant, that there were rules - he couldn't have just gone off with Brian anyways, because whoever his playmate had been that evening, there was a good chance she didn't fit the requirements of the Code. Brian did, however.

But he didn't like the thought of Brian on a cold steel table, strapped down and prepared for the kill - in fact, he was one of the few Dexter could say that for. He wanted Brian beside him, wanted his brother to work with him - if only he could convince him, if he could just teach him the Code, make him realize that structure would keep him alive and out of the blood slide collection, then maybe - maybe he could -

- what was he thinking?

Dexter sat up, rested his head back against the seat, and blinked hard at the windshield; no, he had to be sensible about this. He had to just think about the code, remember the rules - he couldn't afford to let himself forget, or things would become problematic. Of course, they were quickly becoming that way already, because the feeling of the Passenger's frustration wasn't dissappearing, and he knew it wouldn't until he took care of it - even though his last kill hadn't even been two days ago.

He would just have to research a little faster than usual, then - with Rita and the kids in the house, he couldn't let his blood lusting friend get too out of control. He knew he wouldn't hurt them, of course, but - they might see it, especially Cody. He couldn't let that happen.

Dexter moved to start up his car, but something in his side-view mirror caught his eye; Doakes again, sitting in his silver Taurus two spaces away - staring at him. He couldn't be certain how long the Sergeant had been watching him, but he was sweating and flushed and the sunny disposition that he normally accosted the bigger man with was absent - he had been caught, he knew he had been, but the Sergeant wouldn't know what he had been seeing. Just that something wasn't right.

Perhaps Dexter could blame it on a fever during his shift on Monday.

He turned his head and looked down the line and met Doakes' eyes directly; neither of them blinked, and though Doakes glared all of his hatred at him, there was a measure of puzzlement there, too - some vicious interest in the cop that had him furrowing his eyebrows just a little. Slowly, Dexter allowed a smile to curve his mouth because it brought an ugly scowl to Doakes' face that even now, when it was just the two of them, he was keeping up appearances. With a friendly wave goodbye, Dexter started up his car and pulled out of the parking lot, heading for his condo.

The inside was blissfully cool in comparison, enough that Dexter briefly closed his eyes and stood by the doorway to just feel it - his eyes snapped open just in time to find Rita in front of him.

Oh. Right.

She stepped forward and put her arms around him in what would have been a hug, if she hadn't backed up only moments later,

"You're soaking wet," she said, astonished; she looked up at his face then, "Dex, your face is red - are you alright?"

"It's a little hot out." Dexter admitted, but it didn't remove the expression of worry from her face - instead, it grew, and she made a beeline for the kitchen, digging in and pouring him a glass of ice water. In that instant, Dexter felt a brief but intense appreciation for the tiny blonde, but he wished that the glass had been big enough for him to stuff his head into, because he wasn't sure any amount of ice would be enough to quell the burn he was feeling.

 

[wineanddine]

Dexter had never been easily shaken; maybe that's what was what troubled her so much about his expression. Something seemed off, and that was unusual for him. She sighed and passed him the glass of water, concern on her face as she crooked her brow and studied his face.

Or maybe she was just reading too deeply into things again.

She'd always done that, even if she had only recently began to voice those concerns. It had never occurred to her until after Paul had - been killed (the thought still jilted her a little bit, even if she was reluctant to admit it) how well she fit the 'battered wife' stereotype.

Oh well.

That's not who she was anymore. She had moved on... and she had a good man to show for it.

Rita pressed her hand briefly to the side of Dexter's face, running her thumb across a line of the sweat, before she pointed to his couch and headed hastily for the air conditioner to turn it on a bit higher. "Sit, would you? I'll get dinner started.. I was going to take the kids home tonight, the police didn't find anything this morning, we can't hide forever, but maybe it's a good thing we're still here."

Not that she was in a hurry to move in with Dexter. She wanted to take it slow with him, and she was.

And as empowered as she was - mother of two with a job, she still enjoyed making dinner for her man. Not that Dexter's kitchen was overflowing with groceries, but there was enough for some soup, and she'd go out to pick up a salad while it was cooking.

Mother of two with a job, but not a great job. She had learned to feed a family on a budget, but none of them were going hungry. "Dex, just sit down and I'll get you something to eat.. the kids are at a friend's house, I figured you didn't want them running around here, and the peace and quiet has been nice.. we'll talk in a minute, okay?" She braced her hands on his shoulders, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek, before leaving him with the water.

And Brian was left in his room, staring at the phone. He'd known this time that he wasn't going to get an answer, but he knew Dexter; if his brother was being this callous, then he was bothered.

Mission accomplished. If he could only figure out how to achieve the rest of his goals.

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

Dexter didn't protest; Rita's hands felt cool in comparison to the furnace that his skin had become and he dragged himself to the couch, silently obeying the command of the tiny blonde; it occurred to him that he must look like a mess right then - he never got like this, he had always been collected at the worst of times, didn't lose his temper, didn't lash out.

Well, not in ways she had seen.

The incident with Paul, he'd maybe acted a bit - rashly. Maybe slamming a cast iron frying pan into his skull hadn't been the best response, and maybe dragging his body to his car and wiping the blood up with his sock hadn't been a great way to follow it up, either, but really, it had all turned out for the best anyways.

But this was strange behaviour for him; he knew he looked ill, tense. He would need to make up an excuse, but he couldn't use work as the reason, couldn't let Rita think stress was getting to him. Of course, he couldn't tell her it was because his estranged serial killer brother was trying to seduce him with a trail of dead bodies, either.

We'll talk in a minute, she had said. Dexter didn't like those words because it meant he would need to think fast, to come up with something reasonable quickly, but his brain wasn't working the way he wanted it to, it just kept crawling back to the brief stay in New York and the way Brian's eyes flashed in the dark.

Dexter barely suppressed another shudder; he really was a mess, and Rita's kiss was still burning on his cheek while the Passenger's voice whispered in his ear. He couldn't even turn to his blood slides for comfort, not with Rita there - it was a side of him he could never let her see.

But then, he remembered, Rita had looked into his darkness before - she just hadn't realized what she was seeing. The first time it had happened, she had called him passionate, wild; he hadn't bothered to tell her that she had actually been experiencing what homicide would feel like if it was translated to sex.

The Passenger needed something. Anything.

Dexter rose from the couch and moved around it in one fluid motion, stopping for a moment with his hand resting on the back of it, eyes on Rita, chin tilted down slightly; he watched her for a long moment, moving through the kitchen, pale and small. When she finally looked at him, she did a double-take, gave him one of those nervous white smiles and tucked a bit of blonde hair back behind her ear,

"Dex?" She asked.

He said nothing; he simply began to slink towards her in a way that had her gaping at him.

The soup didn't get made, but the ingredients wound up strewn around the pristine kitchen as poor Rita was mauled through the entire condo, and some time later while they laid on the bed in a sweaty heap, she observed that very occasionally he was like an animal. With no witty response available, all Dexter managed to do was give a half-hearted growl that left Rita clutching her sides in laughter.

 

[wineanddine]

Brian was a man who worked with plans - who had worked with plans his entire life. At the institution he laid careful ones, all in his head, of course; he couldn't leave any sort of paper trail. It was too dangerous, and besides, he had no reason to when he could hold it all in his head. Every action he made was the chance to get some sort of a response, an opportunity to get closer to what he needed.

Of course, he had made too many mistakes when he was young. On his way to becoming a sociopath, he said. Antisocial personality disorder. He was the Boy Without a Conscience, tossed from home to home to institution to home, but he was okay with that for a while. It kept things fresh, original.

It wasn't until he was well into adolescence that the full repercussions of being branded with that title might mean. People would judge. Become suspicious. There was no way to clean his record at that point, so he worked at becoming better, cleaning up, and planned his moves for the future. Different names. Different identities. It was the ultimate anonymity, wasn't it? With enough careful talking and research and work, he could become anyone in the world that he wanted to be.

So, understandably, when Brian's plans failed to pan out, he became frustrated.

He needed more of a response from Dexter. He needed his brother to want this as much as he did, but he was resisting every step of the way. Not that there wasn't a thrill in this. Challenge was what excited him, got him up in the mornings, but he was impatient. He had waited too long for this, had gotten such a taste of it in New York...

.. he closed his eyes, remembering Dexter's face. The couch.

Dexter was in. Would be in. Brian just had to coax it out of him.

But what could he do? Another attack on Dexter's family.. he just wasn't ready for that. He couldn't imagine it would be met with anything other than a jab of a needle to the throat, and it just wasn't what Brian was ready for.

Stopping by the apartment was risky, he knew that, especially with Rita's car in the parking lot, but it was pushing three AM and he had few other choices. He slipped an envelope beneath the door, sealed and lettered with Dexter's name on the front in slanted, masculine handwriting; it contained a message that simply said You can't run from the past forever. We need to talk. I'll be at home.

The police had long since stopped keeping surveillance on the old Moser home. Stupid to return there, maybe, but it was the place that contained the only real -good- memories that he had, and besides, it was mostly boarded up now, most of the windows shattered from where neighborhood kids had started tossing rocks at them. Not a place to live anymore, but a place to sit in the kitchen and reflect.

He had no idea if Dexter would take this bait, either, but damnit all, he had to get his plan back on track somehow.








(/overwhelms you with posts, disregard this if you like!)

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

For the second time that week, Dexter dreamt; he dreamt of sharp and flashing silver and glittering liquid crimson, he dreamt of cold stainless steel pressed against the bare skin of his back, dreamt that he couldn't lift his arms away from the slanted table he had been strapped to. The room he was in was cold and his breath came out in rolls of fog; he couldn't move his head to look around, but only a few feet away from him, he could see buckets of unclotted blood, each carefully labelled with a name.

The fifth one was empty.

And then there were clever hands and dark eyes, a low voice in his ear and teeth on his skin, nails on his chest and a knife against his throat, the feeling of damp breath against his face, and the murmur of 'brother' that somehow made his teeth ache.

Dexter woke up with sweat on his temples and the taste of iron on his tongue, naked and tangled in the sheets; beside him, Rita lay asleep and undisturbed by his twisting. He peered to his right and the clock blinked 2:00 a.m. at him; he had to rub his eyes to relieve them of the burn that made him feel as though he had laid with them open for hours - and maybe he had, he knew for a fact that he had done stranger things - before rising from the bed, unable to sleep any longer.

Stalking across the living room, Dexter's thoughts were still muddled with sleep and hazy from the memory of his dreams, but the Passenger was wide awake, alive with the clarity of a true predator - and the predator was hissing things, low murmurs, but not it's usual ones. No, the Passenger was telling him something.

Something was wrong.

No, something was - different.

Just like before, Dexter's first thought was to check the refrigerator. He wasn't sure if he was dissappointed or not when he didn't find anything - but the Passenger had nothing to say. He was just about to check behind the air conditioner, just in case, but then he caught sight of something sticking out beneath his front door - an envelope.

You can't run from the past forever. We need to talk. I'll be at home.

Everything Harry had taught him told him to wait, told him to plan, told him to be careful.

Told him to kill Brian

Dexter ended up sitting on the couch with the letter clutched in his hands, barely resisting the bizarre urge to smell the paper, as though he might be able to find some trace of Brian on its fibres, might be able to feel him through the neatly scrawled lettering.

The damned heat was moving up his spine again, crawling through him and over his limbs, making his head swim.

Brian had come to his apartment again, while he was asleep - while she was asleep. And only days before, he had broken a window in Rita's house, nailed a dead cat to Deb's door - they weren't warnings, but they were reminders. Brian was playing.

But the game was becoming darker.

Rita was still asleep and smiling when Dexter was pulling on his clothes, still lost in sweet dreams while he slung his bag over his shoulder and tugged on the tight leather gloves, flexing them and revelling in their familiarity.

When he got in his car, it was the Passenger behind the wheel, hungry and apprehensive, leading him forward.

This was reckless. This was stupid. He hadn't planned anything, he was going in blind and the knives, hefty bags, and saran wrap he was armed with seemed suddenly meaningless in the face of what he was telling himself he had to do, just as he had told himself before. Just the way he had meant to do it in Brian's economy freezer, when he'd had him strapped down and prepped for the kill, just the way he had gone to New York planning to do it, too.

He had to do it, he reminded himself. The Code demanded it, and he had already broken it too many times, had already betrayed everything that Harry had taught him, had let Brian continue on, let him kill more.

And for what?

Dexter flexed his fingers in the leather and told himself that this couldn't go on. He moved silently through the grass of the old Moser home and up the steps to the front door, intent on moving as efficiently as possible, but when his hand touched the old metal railing, he froze.

Suddenly it was summer and she was in white, bare foot and blowing bubbles on the front steps; the cotton of her dress felt cool against his cheek, where he was resting his head on her leg, watching the soap float through the air. He prodded a bubble with one tiny finger, and Biney watched him intently, smiling.

Dexter pulled away from the railing as though he had been burnt by it, staggering back to stare at it, looking at the front yard again, just the way he had done the first time he had set foot on the Moser residence.

No. he told himself, hands going to the door, turning the handle, an action that seemed to take more effort and co-ordination than it should have, Focus.

The inside of the home was sparsely furnished, dark, but Dexter's well-trained night vision allowed him to move through it - but his finely honed predatorial skills seemed to be rapidly giving way to memories as he found himself stopping in rooms, staring at points on the wall or the floor -

- remembering.

He didn't have an answer while he was in the car, no way to know why he had broken the Code, but as he stood in the home that he had spent his short childhood in, it came to him.

For freedom, the Passenger reminded him hungrily, To be whole.

 

[wineanddine]

It was the dusty couch in the house that Brian had retreated to while waiting for Dexter. It was certainly a scene out of a shitty goth movie: he lay on the cushions in the dark, his arms folded lazily across his stomach as he stared at the ceiling. His face was slack, almost drowsy. Occasionally a car would putter by, and dim lights would arc across the ceilings and walls from the headlights through the dirty window panes.

Dexter had to answer.

He had tried and tried, pushed as much as far as he felt he could, safely. Was it too late? Had it been too long?

Brian's eyes focused on the ceiling before he shut them and inhaled a low breath. For some inexplicable reason, gooseflesh crawled across his arms. He wasn't used to feeling panic. Dread. But since his birth in the shipping container, he had never thought that he would be denied by the one thing in the world that meant anything to him.

His eyes popped open.

Dexter would answer. There was no other possible option. He was the only other person who understood the craving, had felt the urges. Brian had seen it in his eyes, even when Dexter was playing faithful and loving boyfriend. It was a facade, and a damn good one, but that didn't make it any less fake. And he had seen it again when they were in New York, sharing a kill, working in perfect tandem.

But he was alone now, wasn't he? This was supposed to be the future he was working toward, but at the most crucial moment, it had broken, taken the wrong track.

Then he heard Dexter's car and he sat up quickly, feeling himself relax.

No. This was right. This was better. Things would go according to plan, and hastily Brian stood up, moving to silently tread to the door, frozen and silent save for the sounds of his own breathing. He chuckled humorlessly, leaning forward as he reached for the doorknob.

That was Dexter's car. He will be standing there.

And he was.

Immediately, Brian surged forward, wrapping his arms tightly around his younger brother and pressing his face into the side of his neck, letting out a low groan.

"Thank God," he said quietly. "I was afraid that you were going to stand me up."

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

Dexter had allowed himself to be distracted when he should have been vigilant, and he might have paid for his inattentiveness if things had gone differently. Of course, he had expected Brian to be there, had expected that he would have to confront him - he had even expected that he might be ambushed by his bigger brother, because really, it was what he would have done if the roles had been reversed. He had expected everything except for what happened.

Brian appeared in front of him, having thrown the door out of the way with such intensity that it bounced back against the wall; Dexter's head snapped up, every muscle tensing in preparation for a fight, but what came was somehow the worst thing that could have happened. Instead of attacking like the predator he was, Brian strolled forward and wrapped his wiry arms around him, tugging him in and pressing his face into his throat; Dexter could feel his eyelashes against his adam's apple.

There was no fight. He was being held. He was being pulled into strong, warm arms, and held close to someone just like him, someone who knew, who understood - a monster just like him.

And it felt good.

Dexter wasn't sure where it came from, but he found himself saying:

"No."

A strange ache opened up in Dexter's chest, his hands sliding up to Brian's slim waist, gloved fingers curling against a narrow ribcage and he began to push, just a little; he could feel Brian's muscles shifting under his palms, even through the leather, and suddenly the feeling of the other man's body against his own felt like too much - he didn't know why. All he knew was that he had to get it away from him, or something inside of him was going to break.

He moved his hands to Brian's upper arms instead, trying to minimize contact, trying to pull away, but Brian was strong for how thin he was,

"No." Dexter repeated hoarsely, and his movements were suddenly more violent, like a startled animal, a wolf caught in a steel trap as he shoved Brian hard, bringing a knee up in a kidney shot.

 

[wineanddine]

That brief moment that Dexter froze while Brian held him made the struggle, the fight to get him there worth it. The warmth of the other man's body against his own - the fact it was his little brother's, little Dexter's, the boy he had promised his mom he would protect. Of course, 'protect' meant something a lot different now than it did when they were small children. No more scraped knees and bee stings.

Brian would protect Dexter from himself. From the stupid Code that he followed so diligently. That was no way for someone like them to live. It was beneath the both of them.

He felt him start to shift away, but he didn't release him then, instead exhaling a reluctant, acknowledging sigh. Dex just wasn't ready. No matter how much he wanted him to be ready, it would take a little time.

And then Dexter made the blow to his kidney and Brian let out a muffled yell, releasing him and stumbling back. His eyes were wide as he stared at Dexter, his expression like a child whose feelings had been hurt, but he forced himself to relax, and when he smiled, it was toothy, weirdly white in the dark room.

"You're wearing your gloves," he said softly, catching his breath as he held his side, before he paced to the couch and took a seat. "You at least owe your big brother a cup of coffee before you take him out back and kill him, you know. It's not my fault you never answered any of my calls."

So he had to convince Dexter, or die. He folded his hands into his lap and quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Shut the door behind you, would you? And wipe your feet."

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

He watched intently as Brian stumbled back - the strike was satisfying on two levels; the first was the one that had been groomed by Harry Morgan, the one that told him bad people should be punished, and it was his job to do it. The remaining delight came from the Passenger, who had been craving any sort of contact with Brian, and seemed to relish the idea of scrapping with him again - though, it was the one time his darkness didn't approve of killing someone; the Passenger wanted to have Brian around.

Wanted to keep him - however that would have to happen.

You could just take the troublesome pieces off and keep the rest.

Dexter's eyes fell down to his own hands, to the skin-tight gloves that clung to his fingers, and his eyes moved back up as his brother offered a lightning fast smile that made him feel hungry. Dexter stood in place, fingers clenching and unclenching rhythmically, craving contact and a throat to squeeze, shoulders hunched, eyes boring into Brian - everything about him right then told the dark tale of a predator looking for a fight -

- but then Brian spoke again, and a perplexed expression crawled across Dexter's features. It was almost with disbelief that he watched Brian move across the room and slink down onto the couch, like a lazing cat.

For a long moment, Dexter continued to stare at Brian, and as his brother watched him and remained seated so casually, Dexter couldn't help suddenly feeling stupid, and some part of him wanted to go back out the door, get in his car, and go back to bed. He couldn't help wondering if that was a normal reaction to family. Maybe.

Regardless, he found himself numbly moving back to the door and closing it. As an after-thought, he locked it, and the sound of the bolt sliding seemed to echo through an otherwise silent home. As he turned and moved towards the couch, he found himself suddenly hyper-aware of the world around him, and he stood in front of Brian, staring down at him as he sat primly, expression shifting between the predatorial one, and something puzzled.

For a long moment, there was complete silence, and then words slipped from Dexter before he could really think about them, even though they came out deadpan:

"Deb always wanted a cat." he said.

 

[wineanddine]

The perplexed expression on Dexter's face meant a lot to Brian at that moment. It meant that he hadn't made any real decisions yet - perhaps he had decided, but he hadn't decided, not with conviction real enough to storm in there and take him out. It pleased him, but he didn't want to admit that much.

Instead, he just watched Dexter with a muted smile as he moved to the couch and took a seat, before he leaned slightly to the side and, very lightly, rested his hand on his younger brother's wrist.

"Yeah, I know. She told me once," he mused, and then realized that perhaps Deb wasn't the best person to be talking about at the moment if he wanted to keep Dexter from killing him. He squeezed his wrist and then let go, leaned back a little on the couch and let his eyes cut briefly across the room.

"Kind of like old times, isn't it?" he murmured, finally looking back at Dexter. "If we could just reassemble mom we could have a nice little reunion by candlelight." His tone was light, ire, and he had to shake his head to get rid of the mental image of his mother, lifeless and stitched up like Sally on the love seat.

Food. He didn't have any food. (He wasn't sure why he always wanted to feed Dexter, but the impulse was there. Something about wanting to make sure that he ate right between vivisections.) "There's some beer in the kitchen," he ventured finally, and idly the hand that was on Dexter's wrist pulled back to rub at his side where the knee had collided, and without segue he finished, "And what's it going to take to keep you from killing me? I'm willing to change, Dex. I'm trying."

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

Dexter stared down at the hand on his wrist like it was something bizarre and foreign, the look of puzzlement remaining firmly in place, even as he looked to his brother's face again, staring at him intently. Eventually, he took a step back - he wavered a little on the spot, gloved fingers flexing and clenching and wiggling at his sides as though he didn't know what to do with them, like an over-energetic kid with nowhere to go.

"I don't really remember old times," Dexter said, and then his brow furrowed as he thought about the images that had come to him in his exploration of the home, so he added, "Much."

Dexter was lingering; he loomed, he took a few unsettled steps back and forth, pacing a small trail along the floorboards but never coming to close or straying too far from Brian, watching him the entire time, never looking away. Part of him had difficulty believing Brian was there, in front of him, even though all signs pointed to it being true; his eyes followed Brian's hand to his side, observing him massage the spot where Dexter had landed a firm strike.

Strange that Brian was showing discomfort - especially around another predator.

The offer of beer was tempting, if only because it was something to do with his hands - and besides that, Rita had got him to like the foul stuff, feeding it to him in the ultimate display of a domestic life, handing him a cold beer when he came to her home after a long day of work, sitting down on the couch with him, putting a slender little arm around his shoulders and kissing him on the cheek.

Sometimes she gave him a lot of them; there were times he lost count of how many he'd had, but it inevitably ended with him doing things to Rita that he sometimes had trouble remembering, all he knew was that when he woke up in the morning with a foggy head, she always looked pleased with him. Beer was magical.

Maybe it was the thought of Rita that made Dexter's eyes flash the way they did, but regardless of what thought had spurred it, his expression was suddenly more predatorial than ever.

"We don't change." Dexter said roughly, "We just adapt."

 

[wineanddine]

Brian had only ever been drunk by himself. He wasn't willing to put himself in a position so vulnerable around anyone else, though he was good at pretending. It wasn't hard - weave and slur enough and people would titter behind their hands that he had had a few too many. A normal man, part of good society.

He didn't understand how Dexter wore it like skin instead of the mask that it was.

"Then I'm willing to adapt," Brian said, and his expression was sharp, serious. It had somehow moved away from the game that he hoped that it would be, but he had anticipated that. New York had been uneven ground. Dexter had nothing to lose there, but Miami? He was surrounded by things that he thought he loved, thought he cared about. If only Brian could prove otherwise.

If only, if only.

"Everything I've done, Dexter," Brian said finally, words deliberate, "I did for you. That game that we played, the Ice Truck Killer... you enjoyed it, because I knew that you would. I got the wrong impression, brother. I misinterpreted. I thought I was doing what you wanted me to do." And he held his hands up then, hands pale, palms out in a show of peace, deference to Dexter.

"But I'm willing to do what it takes to - to coexist. I'm not going to pretend that I like Harry -" that son of a bitch "-but it's not exactly like I had the chance, is it?" A slightly bitter tone tinted his words there. He had been too old. Unsalvagable. "I'm throat up here, Dexter. What else do you want me to do?"

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

Dexter was still watching Brian, but his focus seemed somehow sharper; Brian was trying to reason with him. Trying to negotiate.

But he knew his brother wasn't really negotiating for his life - that sort of thing was below Brian, he would never beg or plea for the sake of his life. He would, however, try to convince someone for other reasons - and Dexter was painfully aware that Brian wanted to work with him. The purpose behind all of it - the Ice Truck Killer, dating Deb, and the disguise he wore to do it all, it had all been for the end game, for the moment where they were together, face-to-face, masks removed.

"I didn't even know you existed." Dexter said.

Yet there he was - sitting in front of him, slouching against the couch, the very picture of everything that was right, the embodiment of the only honesty that Dexter could ever know, because so much of his life had been masks and feigned interest, and Brian was just -

- Brian.

Just like him.

What did he want Brian to do? Join him? Fall in line, abandon the freedom and come with him, follow -

The code.

Fuck the code. Fuck the crime lab and fuck morals and standards and ethics, fuck all of those stupid faces you have to make so people think you're not dead inside and fuck Harry Morgan and his fucking rules and you know what, fuck bowling shoes, too.

Dexter was speechless. The Passenger was acting like a three year old.