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Walking into the room, Dexter knows his problems are only just beginning. The first issue is the decor - yellow sofa, blue pillows, purple walls. It's so garish that his eyes struggle to adjust to the surroundings, dark spots and colorful flashes twinkling across his eyes like he's stared into the sun. The second is his wife, whose first action after sitting down is to look at him with some confusing blend of plainly negative emotions. He doesn't know what that look means, but it makes him uncomfortably aware of his inadequacy as a mimicry of a human being.
The third is the marriage counselor - a woman whose name Dexter can't be bothered to remember - who stares him down in tandem with Rita. This is their third session, and he can't imagine why they're back here after the abject failure of the first two.
It's just the same crap repeated over and over again - be honest, be more emotionally available, talk to her, be supportive. Not even touching on the first thing for obvious reasons, he doesn't know what half of the rest means, and what he does understand, he never learned how to do to the level that's being expected of him. But of course he can't say that or he'll look like an idiot or an asshole or both.
Or the counselor will start digging into the why and discover his darker impulses. That can't happen under any circumstances.
He tries to get comfortable on the sofa next to Rita. The material is scratchy against his skin, and he ends up sitting forward with his elbows on his knees to avoid touching it. He's sure the hunched posture will quickly become uncomfortable, but it's better than the fabric rubbing on his body.
"So, Dexter." The counselor says. Fuck, here we go. "You seem tense. Is there something wrong?"
Yeah, I'm a serial killer who's trying to foil a police investigation because the guy they're hunting is going to end up on my table. "No, just busy at work."
Thankfully, Rita joins in to corroborate his lie. "Yeah, his boss is making him work crazy hours. He's barely home! It's ridiculous!"
"I see. So you're feeling lonely because of Dexter's absence?"
"Yes." Rita says, frowning. The counselor assesses them both for a moment.
"Dexter, is there any way you could cut back your hours?"
"No, there isn't." He stresses. "We're hunting what's possibly the most prolific serial killer in American history. I can't just ask that during an investigation this huge."
"Okay." The counselor writes something down before looking back at him. "Then, do you think you could make the effort to spend quality time with Rita when you're off work to make up for your absence? Perhaps you could get a babysitter and take her on a date. How would you feel about that?"
"I'm fine with that." But I'd much rather be out hunting Trinity. Dexter makes the mistake of sitting back, and his arm grazes the disgusting fabric of the sofa. He recoils, scratching at his arm to get rid of the residual discomfort that lingers on his skin.
"Are you uncomfortable, Dexter?" God, enough with the questions.
"I'm fine." Rita reaches out to rub his shoulder and he relaxes slightly. She smiles gently. She seems upset at him, but can still find it in herself to be kind. How does she do it? Dexter is suddenly uncomfortable again, struck by the thought that she wouldn't be this nice to the real him.
The counselor is assessing him again, staring with those dark, calculating eyes. "How often do you lie, Dexter?"
He freezes. How the fuck could she tell? Nobody but Doakes could ever see through him like this, and now the discomfort is worse than ever. The counselor takes on Doakes' face, calling him a sick fuck and a freak and all those other fun insults he used to throw at Dexter. He pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut, and when he opens them again, the counselor's back. Her eyes bore into him like she can see his rotten soulless core. He doesn't like it.
Dexter opens his mouth to lie again, but the counselor knows he's a liar now. If he bullshits anything, she'll know and confirm her suspicions and everything will fall apart. But he can't tell the truth either, as saying 'almost every second of my life' isn't conducive to repairing a romantic relationship. His only option is to stay silent, confirming the existence of guilt but not the extent of it. He shuts his mouth and avoids both women's gazes, choosing instead to focus on a potted orchid in the corner of the room.
"Dexter?" Rita sounds disappointed, as she should be. She married a lying, unlovable serial killer and is just now scratching the surface of who her husband really is. Eventually, she might even learn the whole story and get him thrown in jail, doomed to the electric chair or lethal injection or maybe a firing squad if he's really unlucky. He's so used to living in the shadows that the thought of his death being made a public spectacle fills him with discomfort.
He chances a glance at her, grimacing when he sees her stricken expression. He hates this. He apologizes because that's what good husbands are supposed to do, but he doesn't feel like a very good husband right now.
"I don't want an apology, I want the truth. Why have you been lying to me?" A gentle hand is placed on his shoulder and the contact is suffocating. He wants to leave, he really really wants to, needs to, even. He tries to get up or speak or do something but he can't, his body refusing to cooperate, though he does manage to release a very pathetic-sounding noise that makes him cringe. Dexter sits there on that god-awful sofa, pinned by both Rita and the counselor staring down at him. He covers his face in an attempt to distance himself from the situation - if he can't see their stares, then maybe he'll be able to fucking think - and it almost works, if not for the counselor speaking again.
"Telling the truth scares you, doesn't it, Dexter?" Of course it does, when the only reward honesty earns me is a death sentence. He keeps that thought to himself. The counselor changes gears, proceeding down a different line of questioning when she gets no answer. "Is there anyone who knows or has known the real Dexter Morgan?"
Oh god, please no. Dozens of faces and memories flash through his mind, most of them fond but the rest making his breath stutter as the pain and horror of them squeeze his heart in a vice grip. The upside-down face of his brother, the only person other than their mother that he ever cried for, appears at the forefront, his cheeks drenched in red from the slash on his throat. Biney stares dead-eyed at him and he hates it. He wants it to stop and for a moment his wish is granted, but Harry quickly comes to replace Biney, wearing the grief-stricken expression that had crossed his face when he saw Juan Rinez half-dismembered on a table.
Dexter uncovers his eyes, hoping the light and scenery of the room will wash away the bad memories; the images fade, but he can still hear whispers of his father's disgust and his brother's final pleas. Fuck, he needs it to stop! Stop it!
The hand on his shoulder squeezes softly, the thumb rubbing up and down on his arm, alternately scrunching and smoothing the fabric of his shirt sleeve. The whispers continue to plague his mind, reeling him back into his own head despite the external stimuli, but Rita's voice cuts through it all. "Dexter? There is someone, isn't there?"
Yes, there's many someones, but his playmates are something unspeakable to the normal human mind, a secret unable to be shared with anyone. But there has to be someone, because to say nobody is to admit an antisocial lifestyle, driving the wedge between himself and Rita deeper and deeper until there's no way of fixing it. There must be a person who's known the real Dexter Morgan, for the sake of himself and his marriage.
That person will have to be Harry. He'll have to share the wicked, awful truth about the End of Harry in order to protect the fragile stability of his relationship. He gathers up all his courage and utters the words.
"My father." They feel like acid on his tongue, burning through flesh and muscle and all of his resolve. The counselor's hard gaze softens slightly, perhaps relieved that he's not the secretive, perpetually-lying freak he could've been.
"And how did he feel about the real Dexter? What was his reaction to seeing who you really are?"
"He..." Dexter buries his face in his hands again, not wanting to see how the two women react to his awful admission. "He threw up and- and told me to stay away from him."
Rita gasps. She must be shocked at how horrible he is to have made a grown man vomit from merely being in his presence. The counselor makes some kind of noise, but he's too drained to try and parse the meaning of it. She might be disgusted at him too, for all he knows, and that's probably an accurate assessment based on the wealth of evidence he's acquired over the course of his lifetime.
But of course, even shock and disgust can't overshadow the power of morbid curiosity. "And what happened after that, Dexter? Did you two manage to repair your relationship?"
Fuck fuck fuck. He doesn't want to answer. He can already hear Rita sniffling next to him, the precursor of tears and noisy, obtrusive wailing. But the expectant silence constricts him until it forces his hand and he says, "No."
"Why not?"
"Because he killed himself two days later."
Rita sobs, and thus begins his wife's flood of tears. He can imagine how they run down her face, smearing her makeup and leaving tracks of flushed skin in their wake. The sound of tissues being ripped out of the box on the coffee table before them quickly follows. The counselor is silent, digesting the information. Maybe she'll write it down on her notepad, his second worst secret forever immortalized in blue ink on lined paper.
His posture becomes uncomfortable again, his tense muscles urging him to move, stretch, or get up and pace around the room, but he doesn't want to see what expression Rita might be wearing. It's his fault Harry died and now she knows it - that's a hundred, no, a thousand times worse than just making him vomit. Dexter killed someone he cared about. Surely she's worried he'll kill her too, now. Not that he wants to, he really doesn't, but he didn't want to kill Harry, or Brian, or Doakes, and they're all dead anyway.
Maybe he should follow in the footsteps of Jeremy Downs and take himself out of the equation before he hurts any other people he cares about.
He shakes that thought away. He doesn't actually want to kill himself. Maybe he's too self-centered to do it, or maybe he's not self-centered enough. Either way, there's too much work for him to do to waste time entertaining such macabre ideas. Work such as Arthur Mitchell. The idea pops into his head of its own accord, possibly his subconscious trying to distract him from what's happening around him, and he latches on to it, needing to be away from reality and the stress of everything. Maybe finally dealing with the infamous Trinity Killer will help him unwind from this shitshow.
His brain conjures up fantasies of the ways he could take out all the stress of today on the older man, his outer senses dulling as his mind turns inward. Maybe he'll bash Arthur's head in with the hammer he'd used to kill his most recent victim, Earl Doorman, and pawned off to Dexter at the Four Walls site. It'd be karmic retribution, a full circle, fitting for a man who's finally returned to his origin point after all these years. The Dark Passenger likes his idea, rumbling softly and baring its claws and teeth.
Dexter's muscles are truly aching now from lack of movement, especially his arms, and he mindlessly stretches out in his distraction, immediately regretting it when the reality of where he is sets back in. Bright, unbearable room, scary counselor, itchy gross sofa. His skin brushes the sofa's fabric again and it makes him kind of want to throw up. Maybe if he does, they can leave and he'll no longer be forced to appease the master of this room by dishing out more factoids on the worst parts of his life.
Rita's still in tears, though crying more quietly than before, and the counselor is studying him with startling intensity. Caught between the two women, he doesn't know what to do. Should he comfort his wife? He wants to, but he'd be surprised if she doesn't hate him now. Rita will probably refuse any attempts he makes to do so. And on the off chance that she miraculously doesn't, he'll surely find a way to fuck it up anyway. His thoughts shift to the counselor. Maybe he should just stay where he is and see if she's going to bombard him with more difficult questions. If that's the case, he'll need to prepare himself for it. But will she ask any more questions? Dexter hopes not. He's drained, sucked dry by his vampiric emotions, and all he wants to do is have a relaxing night out with a playmate and his knives followed by a scenic nighttime tour of the bay.
"Dexter." The counselor says eventually. Great, another fucking question. "You seem convinced that your father's death was your fault."
"Yeah, well, two days between is a hell of a coincidence." She frowns at him, like he's in the wrong for coming to an accurate conclusion based on evidence.
"Dexter, I think you feel a lot of guilt about this, and it's affecting your ability to open up to Rita. I suggest seeing a psychiatrist to discuss this further." The counselor pulls a business card out of a nearby drawer and hands it to him. The card proudly displays the name 'Dr. Patel', with contact info on the back. This is going in the first bin he sees.
"Right." Now would be a good time to extricate himself from this situation. He stands, smiling tightly at the counselor and spouting pleasantries that she can probably tell he doesn't mean. Dexter drops a few bills on the coffee table for Rita to get a taxi home, and then he walks right out the door.
Finally, he's free from that suffocating space. Who knew stale office building air could smell so sweet? But no, he's not actually free yet, because Rita comes rushing out after him.
"Where are you going?" He turns towards her and sees her teary face. It's unsettling to see her like this.
"Uh..." To kill Arthur Mitchell. "Somewhere I can be alone."
She looks resigned. "Okay, Dexter. Will you at least drop me home?"
Now he's confused. "You... want me around?"
"Oh, Dexter." She sighs sadly. "Of course I do!"
Women continue to baffle him in new and surprising ways. He was expecting a much more negative reaction than this. But, he supposes, Rita's forgiving nature is a blessing in this circumstance. He tries to smile, but there's a part of him secretly waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"That's... great!" Dexter says awkwardly, hesitating on what to say next. His wife smiles reassuringly.
"Yeah." She replies, also awkward. She wrings the strap of her purse in both hands and looks around the office floor. "So, you'll drive me home?"
He furrows his brow, confused again. "Uh, I gave you money for a taxi though?"
Rita purses her lips, sniffling once and looking disappointed. She wipes her cheeks. "Fine. I guess I'll see you at home then."
And then she enters an elevator that's conveniently already waiting, the doors closing behind her as she presumably descends back to the ground floor. After pressing the down button to summon another elevator, he stands there for a while, wondering if he did something wrong. The ding of it arriving on his floor perfectly coincides with a realization, as if the sound is an sfx of his eureka moment - was he supposed to agree to drive Rita home? Wow, he's such an ass. Husband of the year material right here.
As the elevator descends back to the ground floor, Dexter considers calling her to apologize. He pulls out his cell to dial her number, but that's when he sees the time. Four pm. That's prime time to whisk Arthur Mitchell away unnoticed by his family. The doors open and he rushes back to his car, choosing to call Arthur instead.
"Kyle?" The older man asks in lieu of a greeting. "Why are you calling?"
Dexter prepares the friendliest tone of voice he can muster. "Hi, Arthur. Are you busy at the moment?"
He's not, I checked. Arthur Mitchell takes the hours between four and six as personal time. Just as expected, he responds, "No, I'm not. What's this about, Kyle?"
"I just..." he trails off for effect, playing up the idea that he's in emotional turmoil, "need to talk. In person. Could I pick you up in about half an hour?"
Half an hour is just enough time to get back to his apartment, change and gather his kit, and drive back to the other killer's home. It's a tight timeframe, but Sally gets back from running errands at five.
Arthur is silent on the other end of the line, probably weighing up whether or not he wants to obey the whims of Kyle Butler. "Okay, Kyle. I'll see you in half an hour."
The call ends, and Dexter grins, the excitement already beginning to wash away his bad mood. He pulls his car out of the parking lot and speeds off. He's got a kill to prepare for.
The drive feels simultaneously lightning fast and incredibly sluggish, the adrenaline rush of being on the hunt affecting his sense of time. His heart begins to race as he nears his apartment, and almost forgets to put the car in park before practically jumping out and running inside to get dressed and gather his kill tools. Donning the combo of henley, cargo pants, and work boots gets the Dark Passenger excited, making his body jittery with pent-up energy. His teeth start to ache too, like he's a teething puppy, and Dexter can't help but chew on his fingers as he packs a duffel bag one-handed.
He knows the biting is unprofessional, but what else is he supposed to do, grind his teeth? And let the dentist charge him through the nose for treatment, yeah right. He quickly requires both hands again, so he swaps fingers for the leather of his gloves and finds he likes it a lot better. Soft, squishy compared to bony appendages, and importantly, not impacting his movement. It's almost a struggle to release the gloves from his mouth and pull them on, that's how good it feels to have them there. Dexter reluctantly unlatches his teeth, which instantly become achey again, and the bitten material is wrapped snugly around his hands, indented and slightly damp.
Okay, let's get this show on the road, Dexter Morgan. He flexes his gloved hands a couple times before slinging the duffel over his shoulder and leaving. The hunt is afoot, and there's a spring in his step as he heads back to his car.
The homicidal highway drivers are a comfort, their violent lane changes calming his excitement just enough to keep a clear head in the face of Arthur Mitchell's complete occupation of his thoughts. Dexter has the hammer with him, and the Dark Passenger floods him with sense memories of holding it in his hand and fantasies of how it might look when the Trinity Killer's blood and brain matter coats sheets of plastic tarp after bashing his head in. He thinks about going slow with the man - using the hammer elsewhere, shattering the various bones of his body from feet to shoulders before dealing the killing blow, utterly destroying the body that snuffed out hundreds of innocent lives so similar to those he cares about. He thinks of his family: Deb, a young woman living alone; Rita, who was once a mother of two; and Harry, father of two.
(His own biological parents were a mother and father of two, too, but those memories are so hazy and few in number that he hardly spares them a thought.)
Dexter swallows thickly. After the counseling session, Harry's name leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He can't believe he was forced to talk about... that. Stay away. Fuck. Why is he thinking about this again? His grip on the steering wheel tightens, his leather gloves squeaking as they stretch and warp over his knuckles. Just stay away. The fact that he's unable to will the memory away both pisses him off and inspires within him a distinct feeling of wrongness, like the beginning stages of an illness, and oh, his stomach begins to ache and squeeze, twisting itself in knots as if it's trying to become a pretzel. Unfortunately, this exact moment is when he pulls up outside the Mitchell house, feeling sick to his stomach and gloves suddenly sticky against his palms. Arthur is waiting on the front porch, so he puts on a brave face and waves cheerily as the man approaches.
"Well, Kyle," Arthur says as he buckles in to the passenger seat, "I can see why you called. What's bothering you?"
"My wife, the one that left... she said she wanted to try and fix our relationship." Arthur is silent next to him as he pulls back onto the highway, and the ache in his teeth is getting unbearable. Dexter bites down on the inside of his mouth, clamping the flesh painfully between his teeth.
"Pardon me for assuming, but that sounds like a good thing." The man eventually says, incredulous. "Why do you look so upset?"
He... looks upset? Since when? He's putting on his friendly face and everything. Looking over, he sees Arthur staring expectantly at him, and he sighs out his nose before releasing his bitten mouth from its torment. Forced to utter the truth to another person, what a joy. "We're going to marriage counseling, and something the therapist said brought up bad memories."
"What kind of bad memories, Kyle?"
"My father's suicide." This will all be worth it, Dexter. Got to keep him distracted so he doesn't realize where we're headed. "And... the last thing he ever said to me before he did it."
He keeps his eyes firmly on the road, waiting for the older man to fucking say something, but he doesn't. For several minutes, they sit in tense silence. Dexter starts to chew on the inside of his mouth again, wondering when he's going to get an answer; the docks are fast approaching. He finally bites the proverbial bullet and looks to Arthur, and finds him pale and staring off into the middle distance. "A-Arthur?"
The man startles, blinking a few times. What a sight, the Trinity Killer startled. One would think him immune to such a human thing, but most would think him immune to love as well and the man is clearly a caring father to his family. "Sorry, Kyle. I was just remembering my mother."
Ah, right. His mother that died to suicide. Feigning innocence, he asks, "Your mother?"
"Yes." Arthur looks solemn. "She committed suicide too. It's a terrible thing, isn't it?"
Dexter hums in agreement. Arthur continues to speak. "She blamed me for the death of my sister, Vera. Both of my parents did. She couldn't stand to be around me, a living reminder of what happened, anymore and jumped off a bridge."
"I'm sorry, Arthur." He's shocked to find that his words are genuine.
"What about your father? What was his reason?" They're almost at the warehouse now, and the Dark Passenger screeches with excitement.
"He couldn't live with the guilt."
Dexter pulls into the warehouse's lot, the building itself obscured slightly by old machinery and stacked shipping containers. If Arthur recognizes this place, it doesn't show in his expression. "What guilt, Kyle?"
"The guilt of raising a serial killer." Arthur turns to stare at him, shocked and slightly afraid. The tranquilizer needle goes in quickly, before the man even realizes what's happening, and he's out like a light. He kills the engine (ha) and exits the car, staring up at the top floor. That's where his kill room will be.
Lugging all of his supplies up multiple flights of stairs is no easy task, but seeing everything all set up - and with a nice view of the ocean - fills Dexter with a sense of accomplishment, dulling the ache of bad memories dredged up and relived. The Dark Passenger preens at a job well done and urges him to get on with the fun part. So, he plucks up a packet of smelling salts and cracks it under Arthur's nose, following it up with a couple of slaps to his cheek.
"Wuh... where am I?" The older man looks around, seeming to make no connection.
"You don't know?" He asks jokingly. "I suppose the plastic tarp kinda... obscures most of the details. But surely, you'd at least remember the view, right?"
Dexter crouches down behind Arthur, grabbing him by the chin and tilting his head toward the unobstructed doorway. The sight of the ocean and rusted large machinery must do it for him, because he whispers out a frightened little, "oh my word."
"This is the warehouse where you killed Tarla Grant. And now, where I'm going to kill you." He jabs two fingers into the man's forehead for effect.
"So was Kyle Butler a lie? A ruse you made up to hunt me down?" Arthur asks as he turns to grab his scalpel, pipette, and glass slides.
"Yeah, he was. I'm a big fat fucking liar." He smirks wryly, feeling slightly hysterical at the admission. "But hey, it all worked out. I've got the one and only Trinity Killer on my table."
Slicing into Arthur's cheek, Dexter sighs in relief as he watches the blood flow out. He gathers a small drop in the pipette and places it on the slide, squeezing the two panels of glass together and admiring his trophy. A lovely red moon to commemorate the capture of his most fearsome prey. "You're going to be the star of my collection, Arthur. How exciting."
Arthur doesn't deign his comment with a response, turning his head to look back out at the sea. "Will you just kill me already?"
"Ah, but-" He turns the man's head back so they can make eye contact. "I still have a few things to ask you."
"Ask away, then." The Trinity Killer says, dropping the use of Dexter's alias entirely.
"One thing that intrigued me from the very beginning is your ability to balance killing and family. How do you do it? I just can't figure it out."
Arthur laughs at him, loud and hard. "Don't tell me you actually care about that wife of yours and those little monstrous kids. The purpose of my family is to protect me from suspicion, nothing more. I couldn't give a damn whether they lived or died."
What?
Dexter feels rage, white hot and incandescent, well up inside him. How dare he! Picking up the hammer and pulling a face shield over his head, he makes a display of striding to the other end of the table. "Remember this hammer? It's the one you used to kill Earl Doorman. I'm going to use it to kill you."
The Dark Passenger shrieks, urging him to punish and make hurt this awful, horrible thing on his table.
"I can't even imagine having the gall to deride the people who love you." He takes a deep breath, pointing the head of the hammer accusingly at his victim. "I'm going to make your death slow and painful."
And then he swings it down, making a sickening crunch as it impacts the monster's ankle. It screams, and he does the same to the other one, then its calves, knees, thighs, until the legs of the beast are a mess of bone shards and flesh. The arms are next, hands, elbows, and long bones all decimated to leave a whimpering and sobbing thing behind. This creature called Arthur Mitchell is now weak, retribution for what he's - it's - done. Dexter returns to the head of the table, raising his arm up high above his head as he glares down at the weakened monster.
"Goodbye, Arthur Mitchell." He swings down, once, twice, thrice, again and again as he shouts a string of curses. He will never be like the Trinity Killer, if it's the one feat he ever accomplishes. He loves his family, loves his wife.
He pauses mid swing. Wait. He... loves them. He does? Really, truly loves them? What a surprise. This is something he could never have seen coming. His grip goes slack and the hammer falls to the ground, but he barely notices in his daze. Wow, I've never loved someone before. Didn't even think myself capable. A smile might be spreading across his face, unbidden. He might even laugh happily. Wow, wow, wow. What a lovely feeling.
The disposal process is, for once, enjoyable, a probable side effect of newly-discovered Dopey Dexter and his hippie beliefs of love and togetherness. His whirring bone saw tenderly separates the pieces of Arthur Mitchell's body, the plastic tarp and garbage bags gently caress and cocoon the lumps of flesh, and the trunk of his car protects his bounty from harm. His boat carefully transports what was once living to its final destination, and his own two hands release the bags into the ocean's cold embrace, freeing his latest playmate from the constraints of existence, and why the hell is he talking like this? Snap out of it, Dexter.
All this lovey-dovey feely stuff routing its way through his system seems to be affecting his vocabulary now, an unsettling prospect for future verbal conversation. He sighs, taking his boat back to shore and hoping this will work itself out by the time he gets home.
Unfortunately for him, it doesn't end up this way. His mind is riddled with thoughts about Rita - what's she doing, how's she feeling, and a bunch of other inane questions that can't even be answered because he's alone in his car on the highway. The drop-off of his new slide at the apartment is quick, briefly introducing Arthur to his other friends and then hurrying back out to race home.
His teeth still ache somehow, and he can't help but start biting his mouth again with the anticipation of seeing Rita and holding her and smelling any lingering traces of her perfume and kissing her softly like she deserves. Dexter starts to taste blood, which is just great (note the sarcasm), so he rips off his gloves and stuffs them in his mouth for the second time today to nibble on instead. God, he might actually be an adult-shaped teething baby; this is ridiculous. He's sure he looks ridiculous, at the very least. A grown man driving around chewing on leather gloves - that'd be enough to earn a TV show character a wacky nickname and the reputation of being a social outcast. 'Watch out for Glove-Chewing Gary. You don't know what you might come down with if he gets his teeth in you!' He can almost hear the southern twang.
The turnoff for his neighborhood appears after what feels like way too long of a drive, everything feeling sluggish following the stressful and draining day he's had. He just wants to get home, kiss his wife, eat a warm meal, and sleep. Surely, that's not too much to ask (remembering how upset Rita was at the counseling, it actually might be, but he doesn't care and wants it anyway).
The tension in Dexter's body disappears when he's finally enveloped in suburbia, and with it the achey teeth that have been plaguing him all afternoon. He spits his gloves out into his lap so he doesn't look like a fucking idiot in his own neighborhood. Just in time, too, because there's his house coming up. Whatever the hell he is definitely doesn't deserve Radiant Rita, Bringer of Sunshine and Happiness, but she's willing to stick around despite his ridiculousness so the least he can do is try to appear normal.
He pulls in the driveway, shuts off the car, and walks up to his front door, passing the gate he washed graffiti off of, the security light he destroyed with a rake handle, the porch where he scrapes muck out of his shoe treads after a kill. Dexter may prefer apartments to single family houses, but he realizes that he's left a mark on this place; this house is his home, like it or not. And he finds he does like it, because his family is here.
He twists the door handle, opens the door, steps inside, closes the door, locks the door; a simple five-step process that bridges the gap between Daddy Dexter and the Dark Passenger. On the other side of the door, a quiet house awaits him. Cody and Harrison are almost certainly asleep, Astor is probably in her room doing homework, and Rita is sitting at the dining table as the dishwasher hums in the background. She looks up when she hears his footsteps, and he tries to smile but it ends up feeling more like a grimace.
"Dexter," she sighs, scooting her chair back and standing up, "I started to think you weren't coming home. It's so late."
"Sorry."
Rita shakes her head slightly as a faint smile crosses her face. "Have you eaten?"
"No." He says, and he feels his stomach rumble.
"Okay, well I've got leftovers in the fridge. Why don't you heat some up?"
Leftovers sound very appetizing to his empty stomach and post-kill hunger, so Dexter heads to the fridge and finds a cling film-wrapped pan filled with rice, sauce, meat, and vegetables. He identifies it as paella when he peels off the wrap and smells the aroma of saffron, garlic, and paprika. After dishing some up and heating it in the microwave, he brings it to the table and starts to eat. It's delicious, and he says it out loud to his wife, who has sat back down and is watching him eat.
"Good. Syl will be glad to hear that." Rita smiles. She reaches over to squeeze his hand gently, which until that moment had been drumming fingers on the tabletop.
"You didn't make this?"
"No. I spoke with her on the phone after I got home, and when I told her about today, she offered to bring dinner over. No, no, I didn't mention anything about what you said during the session, Dexter, I wouldn't do that." She placates when he tenses up, curling his hand into a fist and pausing with his spoon halfway to his mouth. Rita strokes circles into the back of his hand until he relaxes and continues to eat. "The kids loved it. I'll have to get Syl's recipe and make it myself sometime."
Dexter hums in agreement. He'd love to have this again. He chews and swallows another bite, scooping more onto his spoon-
"I love you." He blurts out, distractedly, flippantly, nonchalantly, because now that he's had his realization, loving Rita feels like the easiest, most normal and natural thing in the world. He takes another bite, blissfully unaware of his wife's world tipping on its axis just next to him.
"What?" She whispers, hand tightening over his. Dexter looks over, mouth full of paella, and sees her shocked expression.
"I love you." He repeats after swallowing, intently watching her reaction this time. His wife raises her hand to her mouth, tears brimming in her eyes, and takes a shaky breath. The tears fall when she blinks, and the hand covering her mouth reaches out to join the one grasping his.
"Oh," she gasps, "oh Dexter. I thought you'd never say it."
"Well, I just did." Dexter quips, perhaps inappropriately, with a smile. Rita smiles too, giggling.
"Yeah, you did." Her smile fades, morphing into a frown. "Why only now, though?"
He licks his lips, thinking of how to twist his experience with Arthur Mitchell into a family-friendly, PG-rated version of reality. "I- when I was alone this afternoon, I came across this horrible man who was just- just being completely awful to his family, and I had this thought of, 'I never want to be like him. I love my family', and I realized I never actually said it. Um... sorry."
"No, I- it's okay, Dexter." Rita says, and sitting here at the table, he realizes he has a choice. He could be honest with her right now, truly honest, and see where the truth takes them.
He wants to find out.
"Uh, I um- I'd like to expand on that a bit, but um... what I have to say, it's-" Goddamn, who was going to tell him how difficult it is to articulate honest communication? "-not very, ah, favorable? I dunno if that's the right word... shit, it's like I forgot how to talk, what the hell."
Rita squeezes his hand. "It's okay, just take your time. Why don't you finish your dinner while you think?"
And that's a rather smart idea, so Dexter consumes bite after bite of paella as he mulls over exactly what he wants to say and how he wants to say it. By the time his plate's empty, he's got a near-perfect script of what he wants to say. Of course, as with any anecdote, there's a preface to be stated first.
"Rita, what I have to say will probably upset you, so if you don't want to listen, I'll understand."
"Dexter, don't say that. Of course I want to listen!"
Well, that settles it then. He takes a deep breath and speaks. "My father... he always told me I was incapable of love, so I never learned what it feels like, what it's supposed to feel like, and so today, when I saw that man and thought about how I love you and the kids, that was the first time I ever..."
"Oh, Dexter." His wife says sadly, and he can't bear to look at her, feeling raw and exposed and fucking afraid. She drops his hand, getting up from the table again, and he thinks he's about to shatter into a million pieces - she's leaving, she hates him, she's leaving - but then she's stepping over to pull him into a hug. Rita holds his head, gently pressing it against her stomach, and Dexter brings his arms tight around her, clutching at her like she'll disappear.
"Y'know, even though you've never said it, I could always tell that you love us. You practically glow when you're playing with the kids, and that sparkle in your eyes whenever you look at me is unmistakable." She says, and he's so glad that she never felt unloved the way he'd feared being married to a monster would've made her. "Your father was wrong to tell you that, Dexter."
She's right. He was. He was, he was, he was, and now Dexter will never know how many times, if ever, he's felt it before now.
"I always thought I'd had a pretty happy childhood, all things considered, but now I'm starting to wonder if maybe-" He cuts himself off, unable to finish his sentence, and just holds his wife in his arms. He takes a shuddering breath. "I love you."
Dexter repeats it over and over like a mantra, burying his face in her stomach as she runs gentle fingers through his hair and strokes his skin. He doesn't deserve her, doesn't deserve any of this, but he wants it desperately and won't let go unless she makes him.
"I love you too, Dexter." Rita chokes out, and embarrassingly, he feels a few tears of his own slip out, dampening his wife's shirt. "God, I love you so much."
That little boy inside him, small and scared and yearning for kindness, whoops with joy.