I Am Not Okay (But I’m Polite About It)

by evtea

Summary:

Idk i.ll do the summary later
Story beginns at like season 2 episode 6

Chapter 1

Dexter woke up with the feeling of cotton in his mouth. The first thing he registered was the silence No humming refrigerator in the next room. Just stillness. Plain drywall. A ceiling fan — slow, rhythmic.

It was unfamiliar, not the pocked tiles of his apartment or the sterile white of a kill room. It was plain. Smooth.

The second thing was heat. Real, human heat, radiating from a body beside him. A large one.

He blinked. Then blinked again.

The weight in his skull was worse than a hit to the head, throbbing, nauseating, unclean. His mouth was dry, tongue rough like it had been scrubbed with burlap.

The sheet clung to his legs.

He was only in his boxers.

He turned his head.

And saw Doakes.

Asleep.

On his side, back to Dexter. Bare from the waist up. His shoulder blades moved slightly with each breath. There was a scar along one, small but clean, military. Surgical.

They were in the same bed.

What the fuck.

Dexter’s body jolted, but everything ached. Muscles sore in places he couldn’t remember using. His mouth was dry. There was something sticky at the corner of his lip.

He blinked.

Hard.

Tried to remember anything.

Nothing came. Just fragments. Laughter. A voice, his voice? Hands holding him up. The smell of sweat and gun oil.

His mind tried to rewind, to click back through the night like camera film, frame by frame.

Lila.

Her teeth.

Her loft.

Her voice in the dark — “You don’t have to hide with me.”

And then — static.

Black.

Nothing.

No apartment. No shower. No safe return to ritual.

Just him. Here.

With Doakes.

He sat up too fast.

The room spun. His stomach twisted, and he barely made it to the edge of the bed before he doubled over, hands braced on his knees.

A sound behind him.

Doakes shifted. Didn’t speak. Just existed, like some massive, sleeping judgment.

Dexter scanned the room. White walls, a dresser, window, curtains, nighstand, a desk. Neat. No weapons in reach. A pair of slacks folded over a chair. A glass of water on the nightstand beside him.

And his phone. He grabbed it, fingers slightly trembling.

1 New Voicemail.

Lila.

He pressed play.

“Mmmm… you were wild last night.”

Dexter closed his eyes.

“I didn’t know you had that side in you. I loved it — every. Second.”

He swallowed.

“Don’t be shy, darling. You can lose control with me anytime…”

Beep.

Behind him, Doakes’s voice came out in a rumble.

“You’ve got fantastic taste in women, Morgan.”

The other was still lying down, but his eyes were open now. Watching him.

Dexter turned, slowly. Voice low. Controlled.

“…What happened last night.”

Doakes snorted. “That’s what I’d like to know.”

Dexter blinked.

“I found you slumped behind a dumpster on Biscayne. Shirt soaked. No shoes. You reeked like a liquor store and looked like you were two seconds from choking on your own tongue.”

He paused.

Dexter opened his mouth, but nothing came.

“You passed out before I got you in the car,” he added. “You puked on my floor.”

Dexter’s stomach twisted. “So… you just… took me home?”

Doakes shrugged. “Wasn’t gonna take you to the hospital. And I sure as hell wasn’t dropping you off at your girlfriend’s with that voicemail about to hit.”

Dexter glanced at his phone again. It buzzed — a text from Rita.

“Can we talk?”

He didn’t open it.

Didn’t dare.

Still didn’t move. He just sat there, hollow, and more exposed than he’d felt in months. Doakes finally stood, muscles tight, scarred, alive. He tossed a spare towel toward Dexter’s lap.

“Shower’s down the hall. You smell like vomit.”

He left the room without another word.

Dexter sat there.

Very still.

The towel in his lap. The voicemail echoing in his skull.

_________

Dexter stepped out of the hallway, clean but raw.

He’d used the towel. Scrubbed until his skin turned pink. But the shame clung in places water couldn’t reach, under his ribs, behind his teeth, in the faint throb of his temples.

Doakes stood at the stove.

Cooking.

Dexter hesitated at the edge of the kitchen, a space too normal, too lived-in. He didn’t belong here. Not in this apartment. Not barefoot. Not after—

The pan sizzled.

Doakes didn’t look at him.

“You eat eggs, Morgan?”

Dexter blinked.

“…I do.”

A beat.

“Good.”

He set a plate down at the small kitchen table. No placemat. Just fork, eggs,bacon, toast. Efficient. Unceremonious. The way a man like Doakes did everything ,no frills, no pretense.

Dexter sat.

He didn’t say thank you.

Doakes didn’t seem to expect it.

Silence stretched. Not awkward, just taut. Like piano wire. Every breath felt like it might slice something open.

Doakes sat across from him. Fork in hand. One eye still slightly puffy from sleep. Still shirtless. Still unbothered.

Dexter chewed once.

Twice.

Then stopped.

The eggs were good. He sighed mentaly, it would look weird if he wanted more eggs. This situation already felt to domestic. It unnerved him.

Across the table, Doakes cut into his bacon. Like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t carried Dexter’s drunken body out of an alley, cleaned him up, and put him in his bed.

Dexter cleared his throat. “So… you just brought me here.”

Doakes didn’t look up. “That’s what I said.”

“You could’ve taken me to the station.”

“I could’ve.”

“Or the ER.”

Doakes met his eyes now.

“You were already bleeding,” he said. “Didn’t need more eyes on that.”

Dexter frowned.

“…Bleeding?”

“Your knuckles. Lip. Looked like you picked a fight with a wall.”

Dexter looked down at his hands. The scabs were fresh.

He didn’t remember them.

Didn’t remember anything after Lila.

Doakes took another bite.

Dexter watched him chew. Swallow. Take a sip of black coffee. And he realized, suddenly, how still Doakes had gone. Not relaxed. Not tense. Just… waiting.

Studying.

Like a man who’d finally caught a tiger by the tail and wasn’t sure yet if it would turn and bite.

“You always do that?” Doakes asked.

Dexter blinked.

“…Do what?”

“Spiral. After sex.”

Dexter’s mouth dried and he choked slightly on his eggs.

Doakes didn’t press.

He just leaned back in his chair, mug in one hand, and watched Dexter like he was still that scene behind a dumpster, except now, in better lighting.

Dexter dropped his gaze.

They sat in silence again. Forks idle. Steam curling off coffee.

And then—

Because the other man was already standing. Carrying his plate to the sink. Not turning back. The redhead went into his head.

Dexter planned.

Step one: Find clothes

Step two: Get out without making it a scene.

Step three: Pretend last night never happened.

Easy.

Dexter moved quietly back toward the bedroom, the door still ajar, the bedsheets still tangled like a confession. Clothes were folded on the chair.

He got dressed in silence. Slacks. Shirt. Socks. He moved silently through the open space to get to the front door. Almost out.

Hand on the knob.

“Where you headed?”

Dexter froze.

He didn’t turn around.

“Home,” he said. “I’ve got work. Blood waits for no man.”

Footsteps. Slow. 

Doakes stopped behind him, not close, but close enough to radiate heat.

“I’ll drive.”

Dexter turned, blinking. “That’s not necessary.”

“I didn’t ask if it was.”

There it was, that immovable force. That Doakes-ness. He could be alright when he wanted to be, but now he was back to business. Steel spine. Clipped voice. That subtle thread of suspicion always humming beneath.

Dexter tried for something nice. A smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I don’t want to make you late for—”

“Already called in.”

Dexter’s mask cracked slightly.

Doakes smirked just barely.

“You think I’d let you walk out of here lookin’ like roadkill?”

Dexter looked down at himself. His shirt was wrinkled. His skin was still a bit too pink from scrubbing. And something in his expression, in his vibe was off. Even he could feel it. Too raw. Too frayed.

He tried again. “I can call a cab—”

“You’re not calling shit.”

Dexter hesitated.

He could fight this.

He could make a scene. Storm out. Demand space.

“Okay.”

____________

The drive was silent.

Radio off.

City creeping past the window in slow motion. Early sun slicing through palm trees. Miami waking up — traffic, joggers, filtered gold heat — and none of it touched Dexter.

He sat stiff in the passenger seat. Hands in his lap. Legs drawn in like he was trying to take up less space.

Doakes drove with one hand on the wheel. The other rested on the gearshift, casual. Calm.

Except Dexter could feel it, the way his jaw tensed when he thought Dexter wasn’t looking. The sideways glances. The question that was almost asked and then swallowed down again.

“You gonna tell her?” Doakes finally said.

Dexter blinked. “Tell who what?”

“Rita. That you crashed and burned last night. That some other man had to drag your sorry ass outta the gutter.”

Dexter’s stomach curled.

“I’ll tell her I drank too much. That’s enough.”

Doakes snorted.

“Is it.”

It wasn’t a question.

Dexter stared out the window.

His apartment was coming up.

He could feel the edges of the mask starting to click back into place. The version of him Rita loved. The version he knew how to be. Neat. Smiling. Wounded, but controlled.

Normal.

As Doakes pulled up to the curb, he didn’t kill the engine.

Just sat there.

Dexter hesitated. Hand on the door.

Then —

“Thanks,” he said. It came out flat, but it was the best he could do.

Doakes looked at him.

“Don’t make me scrape you off the sidewalk again, Morgan.”

Dexter nodded once.

Then got out.

Back into the daylight. Back into the mask.

_______

I am home.
I am safe.
I am… fine.

A lie.

But an organized lie.

I close the door quietly behind me. The smell of coffee and regret still lingers from yesterday or maybe that’s just me.

My shirt clings to the sweat I haven't acknowledged yet. I make a beeline for the bathroom.

Step one: shower.

Hot water. Soap. The illusion of rebirth.

I stand under the stream and try to pretend it’s washing away more than just Doakes’s disapproving scent and last night’s well-earned shame. It doesn’t work, but at least I smell like lavender eucalyptus now. That’s something.

Step two: hair.

I gel it with slightly more aggression than usual. It spikes defiantly.

Step three: Shirt

I go with blue.

Calm. Cool. Professional.

Not “I got dragged out of an alley by the coworker who wants to arrest me.”

I stare at myself in the mirror. My reflection is doing its best, but my eyes… they look like someone crammed a soul into a department store mannequin.

I blink once.

Twice.

The mannequin doesn’t blink back.

Good.

We’re synced.

I step into the kitchen. A Mug is still in the sink. A reminder of my normal life. One I didn’t earn but somehow got anyway.

The phone buzzes on the counter.

Voicemail. From Lila.

I don't press play. I consider drop-kicking it out the window.

Instead, I pour coffee.

Black. No sugar. Like I deserve.

Doakes’s voice is still in my head.

“You were already bleeding.”

Very helpful. Thank you, James. Nothing like being emotionally dissected by the human embodiment of a military-grade pressure cooker.

I take a sip.

It tastes like impending consequences.

I grab my bag. My keys. 

And I step outside.

Ready to go back to work.

Back to my blood slides. My rituals. My tiny, air-conditioned morgue where no one expects me to be vulnerable or human or complicated.

Just Dexter Morgan.

Forensic Analyst.

Stable. Predictable. Not unraveling at the seams.

I lock the door behind me.

The mask is on.

It fits a little worse today.

______________

The parking lot is half full when I arrive.

Late enough to avoid the caffeine-hyped morning chatter. Early enough to pretend I care about punctuality. The Florida sun glares off the hood of a patrol car, and I squint through it like it's trying to blind me into accountability. I swipe my laminate, not a badge. The door clicks open.

And just like that—
I’m back.

Back in the land of cubicles and coffee-stained reports. A building that smells like floor wax, printer toner, and underlying dysfunction. My church. My hidingplace in this holy thing even though i am the sin they want to find.

I nod to the uniforms. Smile at the front desk. Say “Morning” to someone I don’t actually like but don’t actively plan to kill. It’s all very civilized.

Inside the lab, the lights hum softly.

Ah.

Sanctuary.

Cool, sterile air. Stainless steel counters. Test tubes arranged just how I left them. My blood spatter photos still waiting patiently, like loyal pets. No judgment here. Just patterns and plasma and silence.

I pull on gloves with practiced ease.

Snap.

Snap.

Back to business.

There’s a fresh tray of slides on my desk. Courtesy of the overnight shift. A stabbing downtown, two carjackings, and someone who mistook a nail gun for a toy. Miami’s finest, as always.

I lean over the first sample.

O-positive. Clean drop. Beautiful arterial burst.

Science.

Truth.

Order.

It’s soothing. No voices. No emotional outbursts. Just the blood. Predictable. Honest.

I even hum a little.

Nothing fancy—just a quiet tune under my breath, like a forensic monk returning to his vows.

I forget myself for a while.

Until I hear footsteps.

Boots.

Doakes walks past the lab window.

Doesn’t look in.

Doesn’t slow down b ut I feel it. The way a prey animal senses a predator through thick brush.

My humming dies.

I turn back to the tray.

Focus.

Work.

This is normal. This is what I do. I analyze the messes other people make. I stay out of view. I leave no fingerprints. I don’t feel anything.

I’m fine.

I’m back at work.

And everything is normal.

Almost.

Dexter was leaned over the microscope, still as a statue. His gloves were on, a half-labeled slide in one hand, the other hovering over the Sharpie like he’d forgotten what it was for.

Masuka peeked around the lab doorway with a Styrofoam coffee cup in hand and his usual goblin grin.

“Hey, Morg-man. You look like someone microwaved your brain.”

Dexter didn’t look up.

“Just focused.”

Masuka stepped inside, sipping loudly.

“Nah, man. Focused looks like this.” He made a mock-squinty face and pantomimed intense science with jazz hands.

Dexter capped the Sharpie. “What do you want, Vince?”

Masuka raised his eyebrows. “Whoa. Okay. Calm down, prissy panst.”

Dexter sighed through his nose. “Sorry.”

Masuka took a seat on the edge of the table, swinging one leg like a kid waiting for lunch.

“I mean… seriously. You’re off today. You didn’t complain about the AC. You haven’t smirked once.”

Dexter offered the closest thing to a smirk he could manage. It came out more like a grimace.

Masuka stared. Then his voice dropped, unusually sincere.

“You okay?”

Dexter hesitated. Blinked. “Yes?”

Masuka squinted.

“Like… actually okay? Not ‘Dexter okay’ where you’re like, smiling on the outside and emotionally constipated on the inside?”

Dexter looked at him. Really looked.

Masuka, of all people, was watching him with… concern. The real kind. No punchline. No elbow-nudging joke about his sex life. Just quiet, surprising worry.

“I’m fine, Vince,” Dexter said. “Thanks.”

Masuka held his gaze a second longer. Then nodded slowly.

“Alright. But if you need to, like… talk or whatever…” He made a vague gesture toward his face. “I’ve seen stuff too. I get it.”

Dexter didn’t respond.

Masuka hopped off the table. “Anyway. If you go full Joker, just give me a heads up so I can grab my biohazard suit.”

He left with a wink and a slurp of coffee.

Dexter turned aroung to his work. A blood sample, pipette in hand, posture calm. Professional. Steady hands. Blank expression. All exactly as it should be.

The centrifuge hummed in the background.

A tray of samples to the left. A clean lab notebook to the right. Every variable accounted for.

Except one.

The Bay Harbor Butcher.

The phrase rolled around in his skull like a loose marble in a glass jar.

He was the variable. The anomaly. The data point that shouldn’t exist.

And yet here he was.

Wearing gloves. Analyzing someone else’s crime. Pretending he wasn’t the most dangerous man in the building.

He clicked a slide into the microscope.

A smear of blood. A single drop. A quiet little scream in red.

But it couldn’t drown out Lundy.

Special Agent Frank Lundy. Slow-talking. Sharp-eyed. Courteous. Thorough.

Too thorough.

He wasn’t just hunting some ghost story. He was looking under floorboards, prying up masks, shining his big federal flashlight into dark corners Dexter had spent his whole life perfecting.

Worst-case scenario?

They link one of the slides to a victim. One drop of blood. One improperly cleaned kill room. One thread he missed. And that thread leads to him. Lundy puts it together. Deb gets pulled in. And suddenly, Dexter isn’t the lab tech anymore—he’s the subject.

Evidence. Motive. Pattern.

Monster.

He adjusted the focus knob, eyes on the sample, but his thoughts were somewhere else.

Deb.

She’d never recover from that. Her brother. Her only real family. Liar. Killer. It would shatter her. Maybe kill her.

Rita…

God.

Rita would be crushed under the weight of it. She clung to him like a lifeline after Paul. Believed in him. Trusted him with her children. Her voice, her softness, her quiet routines they were the closest thing he’d ever felt to a real life. He already closed that chapter after yesterday. 

Astor and Cody… they didn’t deserve this. Not to be a footnote in the biography of a serial killer.

He blinked hard, dragging himself back to the blood.

Focus.

Work.

Control.

He labeled the slide and clicked the pen shut. Neat, sharp handwriting.

The name didn’t matter. They all bled the same. The pipette trembled in his hand for just a second.

Not from guilt.

From fear.

A word he hated. A word he’d pretended didn’t apply to him. But it was here now, pressing into his ribs like a dull knife.

And the worst part?

He didn’t know how to kill it.

The blood on the slide had dried. Dexter stared at it, unmoving. His eyes tracked the lines of it like they were roads, a red map he’d memorized but could no longer read. He wasn't thinking in words anymore. Just shapes. Possibilities. Exit strategies. Mistakes.

Every thought was loud.

Lundy’s voice in his head: “Serial killers often create rituals, not unlike religion.”

Deb’s voice: “You okay, Dex?”

Rita’s voice, soft: “You’re the only man I can count on.”

His own voice, saying nothing. His fingers rested lightly on the counter, one still stained faintly with a chemical tint. His jaw was tight. He didn’t blink.

Someone walked into the lab.

“Dex. Hey. Dexter.”

Nothing.

A closer footstep. A coffee cup set down hard.

“Hello? Earth to blood geek.”

Still nothing.

Deb leaned in, waving a hand in front of his face. “What the actual fuck, Dexter?”

That broke it.

He flinched, just slightly, like a person waking from a dream where they forgot their name.

He blinked and looked at her.

“What?”

“You didn’t hear a goddamn word I just said,” Deb said, frowning. “I asked if you were coming to the meeting with Lundy and LaGuerta. That was five minutes ago.”

“Oh.” He looked at the clock. “Right. I—sorry. I was analyzing.”

Deb squinted at him. “Analyzing your own funeral?”

He tried to smile. It didn’t quite make it to his eyes.

She stepped back, arms crossed. “Are you okay? Like—actually okay?”

Dexter hesitated. Then nodded. “Just tired.”

Deb looked at him another moment, like she was trying to solve a puzzle that had one too many missing pieces.

Finally, she grabbed the coffee. “Well, tired or not, let’s go. Lundy’s already in full polite-serial-killer-hunter mode, and it’s creeping everyone out.”

She turned and walked off.

Dexter followed.

Behind her, his smile faded completely.

_______________

The blinds were drawn. The lights were bright. 

Agent Frank Lundy stood at the head of the table like a man delivering a eulogy no one had realized was about them. Calm. Focused. Mildly terrifying in a cardigan.

LaGuerta sat beside him, tapping a pen. Doakes leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes flicking toward Dexter every few seconds like a dog smelling a gas leak.

Deb looked... weirdly attentive. And proud. Like she was trying not to bounce in her seat.

Dexter sat at the far end, hands folded, outwardly composed.

Inwardly—

Ah, yes. A task force meeting. The sacred ritual of slides and caffeinated suspicion.

There’s Agent Frank Lundy, our guest executioner from the FBI, talking calmly about my alter ego like he’s discussing traffic patterns. He even brought charts. Look at him go.

“The Bay Harbor Butcher,” he says. So clinical. So professional. He makes it sound like I’m a kitchen appliance malfunction. Just a little mess in the system. A recall.

If only he knew the warranty was still very much active.

LaGuerta’s nodding. Doakes is pretending he doesn’t want to strangle me with the power cord under the table. I give him a half-smile. He narrows his eyes.

Dexter keeps the smile and looks away.

…..Good talk.

And Deb...

Deb looks like she’s going to cry if Lundy gives her a gold star. She’s trying so hard to impress him. Which is adorable. And deeply inconvenient. Because the closer Deb gets to Lundy, the closer Lundy gets to... well, me.

Agent Cardigan is saying something about pattern recognition now. Victimology. “This killer only targets other criminals,” he says.

Technically true. Give the man a sticker.

He clicks the remote and a new image appears: a satellite map of the marina.

Ah.

Now we’re flirting with proximity.

“You’ll all be getting individual assignments,” Lundy says, voice calm and grandfatherly. “We want to re-interview people from the original investigations. Anyone with access to blood evidence, disposal records, crime scene control.”

My smile stays frozen.

Is it hot in here?

No. Just me and my steadily rising internal temperature as the FBI gently reverse-engineers my life.

“Dexter Morgan,” Lundy says, finally looking at him.

My spine smiles before my mouth does.

“Yes?”

“I’d like to speak with you directly this week. Privately. You’ve worked the most scenes involving these victims. Your input could be invaluable.”

Invaluable. That’s me. A treasured asset. A precious little blood elf with just the right perspective on dismemberment.

“Of course,” He say, with a nod. Lundy smiles, kind. Like a man who already knows the punchline.

___________

The meeting dissolved like fog slow, uneven, full of whispers and shifting glances. Dexter slipped out first, his steps brisk and controlled. He didn’t look back. Didn’t need to.

The hallway was long and sterile. His fingers twitched near the ID clipped to his lanyard. A normal thing. A mask. He turned the corner toward the elevator—and stopped when he heard it.

“Mr. Morgan.”

Not loud.

Not sharp.

Just… there.

Dexter turned, already wearing his civilian smile.

Lundy approached alone. No clipboard, no folder. Just that calm walk of a man who always got to the scene early and left late.

“Agent Lundy,” Dexter said, lightly. “Something else from the meeting?”

Lundy looked at him for a moment. Really looked. As if he were trying to measure Dexter’s temperature without touching him.

“No,” he said. “Just wanted to introduce myself more properly. Since we’ll be speaking soon.”

“Of course.” Dexter nodded once. “I’m happy to help however I can.”

“I believe you.” Lundy’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ve got a very clean record, Dexter. No disciplinary action. Strong lab notes. High praise from just about everyone.”

“Just doing my job.”

“That’s what the good ones always say.”

A beat of silence.

Then Lundy stepped just slightly closer enough to drop his voice.

“I read through some of the old reports. A lot of the Bay Harbor victims were processed through your lab.”

Dexter’s jaw didn’t clench. But his spine felt like piano wire.

“We rotate cases often,” he said smoothly. “It’s not uncommon.”

“Of course,” Lundy said. “Still. You’ve seen a lot of their blood. Probably more than anyone else.”

Dexter smiled. “That tends to happen when you work in blood.”

Another pause.

Then Lundy tilted his head, just slightly. “Tell me, Dexter… when you look at it—really look at it—do you ever feel like the blood is trying to tell you something?”

The air in the hallway grew thinner somehow.

Dexter blinked once. “Is that a forensic question?”

Lundy’s smile widened, just barely. “Sure. Let’s call it that.”

Then he clapped Dexter lightly on the shoulder—one tap, too casual to protest, too firm to ignore.

“I look forward to our chat.”

And just like that, he walked away. Dexter didn’t breathe until Lundy disapeared.

I used to be good at compartmentalizing.

Work. Murder. Girlfriend. Sister. Fake emotions. Real knives.

A little blood in each box. Neat. Contained.

But now?

Now it’s like someone set all the boxes on fire and replaced the labels with sarcastic question marks.

Let’s start with the federal cardigan in the room Frank Lundy.

Soft voice. Sensible shoes. Creepy omniscience. The man has the energy of a high school guidance counselor who also moonlights as a sniper.

He looks at me like I’m a puzzle. A fun weekend project. “Oh, I’ll just pop the serial killer pieces into place while I sip chamomile and ruin lives.”

Worse, Debra is sleeping with him.

Deb. My sister. Debra “F-bomb in every sentence” Morgan. She’s screwing the human embodiment of a PBS documentary. And I have to pretend I’m supportive.

Doakes is still on my tail like I’m a raccoon who owes him money. He’s circling, growling, glaring. Every time I so much as sneeze, he looks like he’s ready to slap cuffs on me and shout “SURPRISE, MOTHERFUCKER!”

Dexter nodded politly as he passed some Agents on his way to his lab. Eyes scanned the area and there was no angry sergeant in sight.

And then there’s Lila.

Oh, Lila.

My sponsor. My artistic sponsor. A woman who believes arson is a valid coping mechanism and thinks boundaries are a fascist concept. One night with her and now I’m apparently co-starring in her erotic noir interpretation of “Attachment Disorders: A Tragedy in Twelve Screams.”

Rita doesn’t know. Deb doesn’t know.

But they’ll find out. They always find out.

Meanwhile, I’m standing here in a button-down shirt, pretending I’m thinking about blood spatter trajectories instead of how many floors I’d have to fall to make all this stop.

Probably not enough.

Focus, Dexter.

You are calm. You are collected. You are absolutely not going to lose it in the lab.

This is fine.

Everything’s fine.

Now excuse me while I go scream internally into a centrifuge.

Dexter was minding his own business.

Which, for Dexter, meant cataloging post-mortem lividity and wondering whether the Bay Harbor Butcher Task Force was inching closer to his face.

He was peacefully floating in that safe mental fog of blood slides and crisis planning when—

“Hey, Dex. Got a second?”

Batista.

Dexter glanced up. Too late to pretend he didn’t hear.

“Sure,” Dexter said, because he was too practiced at pretending to say yes when his soul was screaming no.

Batista leaned on the table, already sighing. “Okay, so… remember how I told you about that girl from the Coral Gables dive bar? With the ankle tattoo of a koala holding a margarita?”

Oh no.
It’s happening again.

“I think she might be ghosting me,” Batista continued, rubbing his forehead. “Like, I texted her twice. Only twice. And now it’s radio silence.”

Dexter nodded, face neutral. Internally—

Why.

Why am I the designated vault for Batista’s romantic failings?

Is it the calm demeanor? The reliable khakis? Did I accidentally exude therapist energy while blood typing a torso?

I am a serial killer. My hobbies include stabbing people who fail my code.

“She sent a winky face,” Batista adds. “But it didn’t feel like a flirty wink. More like a ‘don’t call me again’ wink, you know?”

No.
No, I do not know.
I have stalked people with a tranquilizer, but this? This is horror.

But of course I nod b ecause I am Dexter Morgan: Forensic Analyst and Reluctant Gossip Dumpster.

“So, should I text her again?” Batista asked. “Or just, like, move on?”

Dexter smiled, tight. “I think… if she’s not responding, maybe give it some space.”

Batista’s eyes lit up. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. You always have good instincts, man. You’re like… zen. Blood zen.”

Dexter internally choked on that phrase.

“Cool, cool. I’ll let you know how it goes,” Batista added, already walking away.

Please don’t.

Dexter turned back to the evidence tray, staring at a smudge of dried blood with longing.

That corpse had boundaries. That corpse was quiet.

------

Dexter was halfway through analyzing a blood sample when he saw it

Batista. Approaching. Again.

This time with purpose.

“Dex,” he said, already sighing as he leaned on the lab counter like it was a bar and Dexter was pouring him emotional tequila. “So I took your advice, didn’t text her again.”

“Great,” Dexter replied, scanning the centrifuge. “Glad that worked out.”

“Yeah, except now I saw she’s posting with some other guy on Instagram. This DJ from Kendall. Full sleeve tattoos. I mean—do I look like I don’t have tattoos because I’m boring?”

Dexter blinked. “Um—”

Enter Masuka, stage left.

“Ohh, this story again,” Masuka grinned. “The Koala Chick. Ankle tattoo girl. I told you, she wasn’t ghosting you. She was just done with missionary.”

Batista groaned. “That’s not—dude, no—”

“She upgraded to DJ Full Sleeve,” Masuka continued, elbowing Dexter. “You know what that means.”

Dexter didn’t answer. Because he did not want to know and honestly he didnt know what Masuka meant.

Masuka leaned closer. “It means she’s getting wrecked to a Tiësto remix.”

I am surrounded by adult children.
No, worse—horny adult children with no filter and terrible taste in women.
I have dissected torsos with more dignity than this conversation.

“She said she liked my eyes,” Batista muttered.

“She liked your eyes in the dark, man. But DJ Dude probably has a tongue ring. That’s what we’re working with.”

Dexter nodded slowly. Not to agree. Just to simulate life.

I could be anywhere else right now.
Out on a kill. Under a tarp.
But no, I am here, listening to Masuka discuss DJ tongue agility like it’s a TED Talk.

Batista looked up. “Dex, do you think I should get a tattoo? Like, something meaningful. Maybe a koi fish... or a wolf.”

Masuka clapped him on the back. “You should get a phoenix. Rising from the ashes... of your sex life.”

Batista glared at him.

Dexter smiled faintly. “You’re welcome, as always.”

“I’ll let you know what the artist says,” Batista added, walking off. “Maybe you should come with me, Dex. Get one too.” Masuka smirked. “Yeah, Dexter. I bet you’ve got a wild side under all that beige. Maybe a little... tribal action on the lower back?”

Dexter turned back to his microscope. “Only if it comes with a lobotomy.”

Masuka snorted, heading for the door.

Dexter was finally alone again.

With his blood samples.

And silence.

Blessed, sterile silence.

The lab was perfect.

Quiet.

Sterile.

Predictable.

Dexter was 3 hours elbow-deep in a sequence of photos from a particularly messy home invasion — blood spatter fanned across drywall like a warped Jackson Pollock, and he was zoning in on it. Lost in the angles, the arcs, the delicate little droplets that didn’t judge or flirt or text at 2 a.m. with burning questions about tattoo regret.

It was peaceful.

Until—

“Hey, lab geek.”

Deb.

Boots stomping, arms swinging, voice already too loud for any space smaller than a football field.

Dexter looked up, expression neutral. “Deb. Shouldn’t you be yelling at suspects right now?”

“I was,” she said. “Now I’m yelling at you. We’re getting lunch.”

“I already have lunch.” He gestured vaguely to the sad, half-eaten sandwich on his desk. Turkey, no condiments. The food equivalent of white noise.

Deb looked at it like it was a medical crisis. “That’s not lunch. That’s depression between bread.”

“I like it.”

“Well, I don’t, and I’m your sister, and I know when you’re spiraling because you get all stiff and your shirts get tucked in extra tight.”

Dexter blinked.

“That doesn’t make sense,” he said.

“It doesn’t have to. Get up. I’m buying.”

“I don’t want—”

“Up. Now. Or I’ll tell Batista you’re ‘such a good listener’ again and you’ll be back on the gossip circuit by 3:30.”

Dexter stood up.

There’s no winning against Debra. She’s like a bloodhound. If you resist, she only digs deeper. If you agree, she calls you weirdly passive. If you ignore her, she threatens to sign you up for yoga with Masuka.

So here I am.
Dragged into sunlight.
Surrounded by clinking silverware and the scent of emotional vulnerability. All because my sister wants to “check in.”

They ended up at some beachside taco place that smelled like limes and cigarette regret. Deb ordered two margaritas and a pile of nachos for her that could legally qualify as a landslide. Dexter got a Taco.

Dexter chewed politely. She stared at him like he was a ticking bomb.

“You haven’t smiled once,” she said.

“I’m smiling on the inside.”

She squinted. “Your inside needs therapy.”

Dexter took another bite of taco. “So does yours.”

“Fair.”

Deb sipped her second margarita with the determination of someone trying to drown emotions and shame at the same time.

Dexter chewed his taco like it was a tactical decision.

“So…” Deb started, tapping her straw against the rim of her glass. “This is gonna sound… I don’t know. Weird.”

“Everything you say sounds weird,” Dexter said, politely.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m sleeping with Lundy.”

Dexter blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Nodded.

"Oh."

Ah. There it is.

The moment when you realize your sister is sleeping with the man investigating the Bay Harbor Butcher, who is—you guessed it—me. Harry would be spinning in his grave. No, actually, he’d climb out of it, slap me across the face, and then die all over again just out of spite.

Deb looked at him, waiting. “You’re not gonna freak out?”

“I think I used up all my freak-out energy in 1984.”

She smirked. “Jesus, you’re weird. But seriously… it’s kinda good. Like, really good. He listens. He gets me. He makes me feel… safe, I guess.”

Dexter took a sip of water, because everything in his mouth had turned to cotton.

Safe. She feels safe with the man whose job it is to catch me, dismember me emotionally, and throw my code into a wood chipper. Excellent. Debra is dating an apex predator for serial killers and somehow I’m supposed to smile and nod and give her dating advice like I’m not one uncomfortable dinner away from life in prison.

“I don’t know what this is yet,” she continued. “But it feels... less like a mistake than the usual disasters. He’s not a loser. He’s not a psycho. He’s not into weird choking stuff—”

Dexter held up a hand. “Nope. That’s enough.”

“Whatever. I just wanted to say it out loud. You’re like... my person.”

Great. I’m her person. Her anchor. Her sounding board. The confidant for her romantic relationship with my hunter. This is what I get for not faking more social incompetence in childhood.

Deb smiled at him and dipped a nacho in something aggressively orange. “You’re a good brother, you know that?”

Dexter smiled back.

Harry would absolutely kill me for this.

______________________

8:45 p.m.

Dexter shut off the lab lights and slid his bag over his shoulder with the same energy as a man quietly walking away from a crime scene. His eyes were dry. His spine hurt. He had listened to Masuka overshare, Deb emotionally offload, and Batista pitch a koi fish tattoo in the breakroom.

He deserved silence. Darkness. Maybe some classical music and a deeply repressed cry in the shower.

The elevator dinged open.

Dexter stepped in.

A beat later—

Doakes.

Doakes stepped in without a word, hit the ground floor button, and then turned to stare directly ahead. The doors slid shut.

Of course. Of course it’s Doakes. Why wouldn’t I end this emotionally traumatic day with a vertical coffin ride next to the one man on Earth who looks at me like he’s imagining all the ways to strangle me with a phone charger?

The silence was oppressive.

Dexter didn’t move.

Doakes didn’t either.

The elevator began its slow descent.

Somewhere around Floor 5, Doakes cleared his throat. “You look like shit.”

Dexter smiled faintly. “Thank you. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Doakes grunted. “You been sleeping?”

Dexter blinked. “Yes.”

No.

Maybe?

Did passing out in Doakes’ bed count?

There was a pause. The kind of pause, thick with tension, unsaid things, a shared memory neither of them were talking about.

Doakes shifted his weight. “You remember anything from that night?”

Dexter didn’t answer right away.

I remember being face down, ruined, foggy-brained and shaking while you wiped me down like I was a broken thing you weren’t done fixing. I remember how still it got.

“I remember... enough,” Dexter said flatly.

Another silence.

Doakes’ jaw tensed.

The elevator chimed. Ground floor.

Doors opened.

Dexter stepped out first. He could feel Doakes’ gaze between his shoulder blades.

The Miami night was thick with humidity and the scent of street food and unresolved personal crises. Dexter made it halfway across the parking lot before he heard the heavy, purposeful clomp of Doakes’ boots behind him.

He turned.

Doakes stood by the station doors, arms crossed, gaze unreadable. His silhouette looked like it had been carved from salt and distrust.

Dexter blinked.

There was a moment.

A silence.

Then—God knows why—Dexter gave him…

Two thumbs up.

Both hands.

Full extension.

Smiling like a man who had read about emotions in a PDF once.

I don’t know why I did that. It felt… appropriate. Friendly. Harmless. Human. But judging by the way Doakes is staring at me like I just threw a squirrel at his feet, I may have miscalculated. Again.

Doakes tilted his head, slow.

“I swear to God, Morgan,” he muttered, “you are the weirdest motherfucker I’ve ever met.”

Then he walked off.

Just a statement of cosmic fact.

Dexter stood alone in the parking lot, arms still half-raised like a malfunctioning animatronic.

Then slowly… lowered them.

There are worse things than being weird.

Like being understood.

And if Doakes doesn’t know what to do with me?

Good.

That makes two of us.

Chapter 2

Notes:

A timeline? Never heard of her.
This fic is just a jumpled mess of things :´)

The key clicked in the lock. Dexter opened the door and stepped into his apartment, the comforting scent of bleach, Pine-Sol, and structured loneliness greeting him like a weighted blanket made of silence.

He closed the door behind him.

Locked it. Checked it twice.

Then turned and scanned the room. Still clean. Still quiet. Still his.

Home.

The only place where no one’s trying confess trauma to me, or decode my soul via sandwich selection.

Here, everything has its place.

Knife block: aligned.
Blood slide box: hidden.
Lila’s existence: temporarily forgotten.

Just how I like it.

 

He peeled off his shirt, dropped it neatly into the hamper. Opened the fridge. Took out a single beer—just one—and popped the cap with the same precision he used on a ribcage.

Sat. Sipped. Silence.

The glow of the lamp in the corner. The buzz of the AC. The faint echo of distant Miami traffic and someone shouting about empanadas.

Dexter stood up again. Walked to the air vent. Checked the inside.

The slides were there. All of them. Still perfect. Still in order.

He counted them anyway. Just to be sure.

Harry said the ritual is what keeps the Dark Passenger contained.

But I think it’s the checking.

The repetition. The knowing that something in my life will always make sense, even if everything else starts unraveling like a poorly-knotted ligature.

Which… it is.

Deb is sleeping with Lundy.
Doakes is practically breathing in my hair.
Lila is... Lila.

I don’t even remember the last 12 hours, and somehow I woke up in the one place more dangerous than a crime scene: Doakes’ bed.

 

Dexter opened a drawer. Pulled out his latex gloves. Not to use. Just to hold.

He breathed.

One minute. Two.

Let the structure seep back into him. Then he put them away. Walked to the bathroom.

Brushed his teeth like nothing was wrong.

Laid down in bed. Stared at the ceiling.

I’m fine.

I’m fine.

I’m f—

[Phone Ringing]

…Goddammit.

 

The phone buzzed again. A third time. Then a fourth. Dexter stared at it from across the room like it was a ticking bomb made of British chaos and bad decisions.

He sighed. Picked it up.

“Lila.”

“Ooh, there you are,” she said, voice syrupy and smug. “I thought you were ghosting me.”

I was.

Successfully, until now.

 

“I’m tired,” he said flatly, rubbing his eyes. “What do you want?”

There was a dramatic pause on the other end. A breath, as if she was preparing to drop something heavy.

“I ran into Rita today.”

Dexter froze.

Lila continued, as casually as if she were describing a smoothie order. “She asked me what happened the night you stayed over, and—well, I didn’t lie. That’s not what we’re about, is it?”

“You what?”

“I told her the truth,” she said. “Well… sort of. I said we had a night. That you needed comfort. That it was intense.”

“You told Rita we slept together?” he asked, voice low, cold.

“I told her we connected,” Lila purred. “Isn’t that what happened?”

Dexter’s jaw clenched so tight it hurt. “That was private.”

“Oh, come on, Dexter,” she laughed softly. “You can’t keep hiding from your own needs. Maybe this’ll help you be honest with her.”

Oh no.

No, no, no.

Honesty is not my brand. My brand is polite lies, smiling through existential dread, and pretending.

 

“You had no right,” he said.

She made a sound — half scoff, half sigh. “Maybe you should thank me. Now you don’t have to pretend. Rita knows something’s changed.”

“It hasn’t,” he snapped.

Silence.

“Hasn’t it?”

Dexter stared at the floor. His nails dug into his palm. Lila hung up first.

He was buzzing with fury, guilt, and something he refused to name. He didn’t throw the phone. He didn’t scream.

He just walked to the sink, turned on the faucet, and washed his hands like they were covered in blood.

Again and again.

I thought I could compartmentalize.

Lila in one box. Rita in another. Doakes under surveillance. Lundy behind glass.

But people don’t stay in their boxes.

They spill.

They leak.

And now there’s a mess I didn’t plan for.

A mess I can’t clean up with plastic and blood.

_____________

I should’ve called first.

Or maybe I should’ve stayed home and let this fester like everything else I’ve ever tried to bury. But that’s never been Rita’s way. She doesn’t fester. She endures. She waits. She forgives.

Until she doesn’t.

The streetlamps blur past the windshield as I drive, the roads too familiar, the weight in my chest growing heavier with each turn. This is the route I take when I need warmth. Forgiveness. A safe place to land.

Tonight… I’m not so sure I’ll get to stay.

Dexter pulls up to Rita’s house. The porch light is on. He walks up slowly. No mask. No smile. Just exhaustion and dread carved into his face like it belongs there.

He knocks once.

She opens almost immediately.

Her face is… unreadable.

Tired.

Worn.

Not angry.

Just done.

“Hey,” he says, voice quiet.

Rita nods. “Hi.”

No kiss. No hug. Just silence stretching long between them like a crack in the foundation of something that used to be whole.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

She hesitates.

Then steps aside.

The living room smells like laundry detergent. Astor’s schoolbooks are on the table. Cody’s sneakers are by the couch. It feels like home, like always but the air is different. Stale. Thin. Dexter stands awkwardly, hands in his pockets. Rita doesn’t sit.

She just looks at him.

“I talked to Lila,” she says first.

He nods.

“She said you spent the night with her. That you… needed comfort.”

Dexter opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen like that.”

“That’s not a denial,” Rita says, voice flat.

“It was a mistake,” he says, quickly now. “I wasn’t thinking clearly, I—everything was unraveling, and I didn’t know how to stop it.”

“You didn’t know how to stop what, Dexter?” she asks, stepping forward. “Us? Me? The kids?”

“No,” he says, too fast. “No. Not you. I just—Lila’s manipulative, and I was spiraling, and she knew exactly how to push me.”

“You’re not a child,” she says, and her voice finally breaks a little. “You don’t get to act like you had no say in this. You lied to me. Again. And then you let her tell me.”

Dexter swallows.

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“But you did,” she says, and now her eyes are glassy. “You have. Repeatedly.”

This is the part where I’m supposed to cry.
Or beg.
Or say I love her and mean it with all the fragile, fractured pieces of whatever I call a soul.

But I can’t seem to move.

Because I know—deep down—that I’ve already lost her.

“I don’t even know who you are,” Rita says softly, folding her arms like she’s holding herself together. “You show up when you want to, you disappear when you don’t. You keep secrets. You lie. And every time I forgive you, you hurt me a little worse.”

“I want to be better,” Dexter says.

“Then be better,” she snaps, sudden now. “Not for me. Not for the kids. For you. Because I can’t keep fixing you while I’m breaking.”

Dexter’s jaw clenches.

His eyes burn. But he doesn’t cry. Not because he’s strong. Because he doesn’t know how.

“I thought I could trust you again,” she says. “After Paul, after everything—I thought you were safe.”

“I wanted to be.”

“But you’re not,” she says. “Not for me. Not for my kids. And I can’t do this anymore.”

She turns away from him, wiping at her eyes. Not dramatically. Not to punish.

Just to end it.

“I’m not angry,” she adds, voice shaking. “I’m just… tired. I need something real. Something stable. And I don’t think you can give me that.”

Dexter takes a step forward, but something in her posture stops him. He just stands there, in the home he thought he could keep, watching the last thread between them quietly snap.

“I’ll give you time to explain it to the kids,” she says, walking toward the hallway. “But you should go.”

He doesn’t argue. He just nods.

I don’t feel anger or sadness. What I feel is emptier than that.

Hollow.

Like someone turned off the lights inside me and forgot to leave a bulb. I should’ve lied better or loved better or stayed away from Lila altogether.

But I didn’t.

And now I’m walking away from the one thing in my life that was real—and I can’t even tell if I miss it.

All I know is...

Harry would’ve told me to let her go.

And for once, I think he’s right.

 

Dexter steps into the night. The door shuts behind him. He walks to his car. Gets in. And drives away.

Not fast. Not furious.

Just… gone.

___________

I don’t yell.
I don’t break things.
I don’t lose control.

That’s the point of me.

The control. The masks. The perfect balancing act between appearing normal and hiding the thing with blood on its teeth.

But she told Rita. She ruined it.

She spilled over into the one part of my life I kept clean. And now— Now there’s fire in my chest and ringing in my ears and the overwhelming urge to snap something in half.

So I do what any reasonable man does when he wants to suppress a murder impulse.

I drive.

Miami’s streets blur past in streaks of sodium-orange streetlights and wet pavement. Dexter’s knuckles are white around the steering wheel. The car is too quiet. Even the Dark Passenger is silent. Because this isn’t about a kill. This is about rage and Lila has earned it.

He pulls up to her apartment—brick, messy, bohemian chaos—and parks half-on the curb.  Walks to her door with that particular kind of tight, slow fury usually reserved for controlled detonations.

He knocks once. Twice. Hard. The door opens. Lila is there—robe barely tied, one hand holding a wine glass, the other already smirking.

“Well, well,” she says. “Took you long enough.”

“What the hell did you tell Rita.”

Lila just tilts her head. “Exactly what happened. You needed me. You let yourself feel something for once—”

“No,” Dexter growls. “I let myself make a mistake. And you decided to turn it into a confession.”

“You didn’t stop me,” she says, sipping her wine. “You let it happen. You stayed.”

“I didn’t know where I was!” he snaps, louder now. “You got me drunk, I blacked out, and you—”

“Oh please.” Lila laughs, sharp and jagged. “You wanted it. You want me. You just can’t admit it because I don’t fit into your cute little suburban fantasy with Rita and—”

“Don’t say her name.”

Dexter’s voice drops to a deadly whisper.

Lila’s smile flickers, just for a second.

“Why not?” she says. “She’s the reason you’re here. Because she finally saw you, didn’t she? She finally figured out you’re broken. That you need someone who understands you.”

“You don’t understand me.”

She moves closer. “That’s not true. I see you, Dexter. The real you. I love the real you.”

“No,” he says, stepping back. “You love chaos. You love control. And right now, I think you’re trying to make me into the monster you want me to be.”

He pauses. Breathes. His hands are shaking.

“I came here to tell you to stay away from Rita. From the kids. From me.”

“And if I don’t?” Lila says, one brow raised.

Dexter stares at her. No mask. No smile. Just the hollow, flickering thing behind his eyes—the one that doesn’t bluff.

There’s a part of me that wants to end it here.

Not talk. Not threaten. Just plastic sheeting, a bone saw, and silence.

 

“Then you’ll see what I really am,” he says, stepping back into the hall. “And believe me, Lila. You won’t like it.”

She watches him leave.

Still smiling.

But this time, it doesn’t reach her eyes.

___________

The tires hum against the road. A red light blinks ahead. Miami glows around him — too loud, too bright, too full of life.

Dexter grips the wheel. His eyes are fixed forward, but his shoulders are tight, jaw clenched. His hands twitch.

The passenger seat is empty. Then it isn’t.

Harry appears, just there like he’s always been. Arms folded. Silent. Judging. Dexter doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look. Harry doesn't speak, he doesn't have to. He just stares at his son. Expression tight, mouth a line, eyes hard and disappointed. Like he’s watching a car crash he taught how to drive. Dexter exhales through his nose. A muscle jumps in his cheek. He turns right, slowly. A quiet neighborhood. Almost home.

Harry’s head tilts.  Still watching him. Still measuring.

Dexter’s hands tighten around the wheel until his knuckles go white. The car glides to a stop in front of his building. He kills the engine. The silence is thick.

Harry finally speaks.Flat. Unforgiving.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

Dexter doesn’t answer. He gets out of the car. Slams the door. Leaves Harry sitting there in the dark.

Alone.

Exactly the way Dexter feels.

____

The apartment is quiet. Just the low, dull hum of the fridge and the sound of his own breath, shallow and too loud. Dexter walks straight to the bathroom. He doesn’t turn on the lights. Only the glow from the hallway spills in, dim and fractured.

He strips.
Jacket. Shirt. Undershirt. Pants. Belt.
One after the other. A methodical dismantling.

His clothes hit the floor in a heap. He turns the faucet to hot.

Too hot.

Steam curls upward immediately, fogging the mirror, the tiles, his reflection, blurring it like it’s someone else’s body. Dexter steps into the shower. Doesn’t wait for the water to adjust. Lets it scald.

He grabs the bar of soap.
Rub.
Rub again. Too hard. He doesn’t lather. He scrubs. Shoulders. Arms. Chest. Neck. His skin goes red. He switches to his nails. Scratches down his own forearm until pink lines rise. He leans into the water. Lets it burn. His jaw is clenched so tight it aches. Water hits his face — hot, sharp needles.He doesn’t blink.

He keeps scrubbing.

Like if he just tries hard enough, he can erase. Erase the part where Rita looked through him.
Erase the part where Harry stared from the passenger seat and didn’t say, “I’m proud of you,” but instead—

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Dexter drops the soap.

His hands shake.

____

The lights are too bright. He turns one off. Then another. Then stands in the living room, half-wet in a towel, watching shadows crawl up the walls.

Normal. I just need to be normal. Do the routine. Tidy up. Dry off. Eat something.

People eat, Dexter. Even soulless husks like you. Just chew and swallow ,it’s not complicated.

He opens the fridge. Closes it.

There’s nothing in there but mustard and two day old take out..

Of course. Of course.
Because why would I ever remember to take care of a body I don’t live in?

He stares at the counter. There’s a crack in the laminate he never noticed before. That feels important. He presses his thumb into it. Watches it widen.

It’s fine.

You lost Rita. You’ll recover. She was too good. You knew that. Deb’s sleeping with the FBI. That’s not a red flag at all. Lila’s a match with legs and you let her crawl inside your head and light the curtains on fire.

Doakes—

Doakes.

He saw you. He sees you and you let him. You let someone in and now everything is falling apart.

He presses both hands to the counter now, breathing hard. Shoulders hunched.

This is fine. This is containment. This is recovery. The Code says adapt. Adjust. Maintain the illusion but the illusion is bleeding out in the corner and I don’t think I have enough towels.

I can’t kill the Bay Harbor Butcher.
I am the Bay Harbor Butcher.

I can’t kill Lila. She’ll come back like fungus. Like mold. Like regret.

I can’t kill Doakes. Not yet.

I can’t kill Deb.
I can’t kill Deb.
I can’t kill Deb.

I can’t—

He grabs the nearest object, a coffee mug, and hurls it across the room. It explodes against the wall. Ceramics scatter across the tile like shrapnel.

Silence. Dexter stands there, chest heaving. Sweat on his temple. Eyes wide.

“Get a grip.”

He swallows. Tastes bile. The room doesn’t move. But it feels like it wants to. He doesn’t bother turning the lights off when he walks to his bedroom. Just pulls back the blanket and drops onto the bed like a man trying to sink out of existence. His muscles ache. His chest feels hollow. The ceiling is blank. The room is quiet.

Finally.

Almost peaceful.

“You let her in.”

Dexter doesn’t move.

“You let all of them in,  letting them shape you. And you’re losing the Code because of it.”

Dexter closes his eyes. He doesn’t answer.

“There’s a reason I kept you isolated. A reason we followed rules. You’re built for order. But now you’re chasing women. Crumbling in showers. You’re getting sloppy.”

Dexter snaps up. Sits upright in bed. Eyes wide. Voice rough and low and furious, “Shut. Up.”

The room is still.

“You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t heard your little lectures a hundred times already, every time I close my eyes? Every time I mess up, you’re there. Pacing. Judging. Scowling.”

He stands now, paces the edge of the bed, talking to air, to memory, to projection.

“I know I broke the Code. I know I screwed up. But you made me like this. You raised me on blood and bedtime stories about murder ethics — and now I’m the one who’s broken?”

He points at nothing. At Harry.

“You’re dead. You left. You don’t get to judge me from the grave just because your neat little monster turned out messy.”

A beat. Breathing hard.

And then, softer — bitter — almost like a laugh:
“Christ. You didn’t even stick around for Deb.”

He drops back onto the bed. Covers his face with both hands. No monologue. No metaphor. Just breathing.

The silence stretches.

No more ghosts.

No more Code.

Just Dexter, in the dark, finally saying the thing no one’s ever heard him say.

“…I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

Chapter 3

Miami Metro Homicide, 7:54 AM.

The sun outside is already blistering, and the inside is worse, air thick with overused coffee grounds and copier toner. The fluorescent lights hum like a warning. Dexter walks in like a ghost that forgot how to haunt.

His shirt is wrinkled.
His hair? Still damp at the roots—washed, maybe, but not clean.
And his eyes…

His eyes are flat.

Not his usual blank mask, either. That mask had polish. Shine. Something almost performative.

This is different.

This is… raw.

He drags his feet all the way to his lab, sets down his bag like it’s heavier than it should be, and stares at the filing cabinet for a solid thirty seconds without moving. The hum of the AC swells.

Sleep didn’t come.
Not even in pieces.
I laid there. I listened to the ceiling. I listened to myself.

It didn’t help.

The chair squeaks as he lowers himself into it. He pulls out a report. Tries to read it. His eyes flick across the lines like water over glass. Nothing sticks. From across the bullpen, Batista pokes his head in.

“Yo, Dex. You good, hermano? You look like you fought off a raccoon on the way in.”

Dexter lifts his head slowly. Smiles. (Too slow. Too wrong.) “I lost.”

Batista laughs. “You need a coffee.”

Dexter stares at him.
Then nods, like that’s a logical answer. “Sure.”

Coffee won’t help.
But at least it’s warm.
Warm things trick the body into thinking it’s alive.

He stands. Shuffles toward the break room. Walks past Deb without registering her until
“Jesus, Dexter. Did you sleep in a dumpster?”

He stops. Turns. “No.”, then adds, without blinking, “I didn’t sleep.”

She watches him a beat longer, narrowing her eyes. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

I don’t even have the energy to lie properly. Which is fine. People see what they want.
No one wants to believe the guy holding the blood samples is a twitch away from screaming.

Dexter continues on. He gets coffee. He sits back down. The world moves around him—paperwork shuffling, phones ringing, Masuka snickering somewhere in the distance.

And Dexter? Dexter just watches his hands. They’re steady.

I need to kill someone.
Not out of hunger.
Out of gravity.

Or I need to sleep.

_____________

Residential alleyway. Late morning.

Another body. Another scene taped off with yellow ribbons and cheap gloves. The Miami sun is a cruel thing today, baking garbage, asphalt, and human remains into one noxious cocktail. A bloated man lies face-down in the dirt behind a row of trash bins, his back shredded with erratic knife wounds.

“Guy’s marinating in his own juices. Pretty sure that’s a kidney on the curb.”, Masuka said, nose scrunched slightly from the smell.

Dexter hears him but it’s like hearing something from underwater. His gloves are already on. The camera’s around his neck. He kneels beside the body mechanically, like someone pressing play on a memory of what they’re supposed to do. He should be registering spatter angles. Depth of the lacerations.
Pooling patterns.
He should be calculating.

Instead…

He’s just staring. At the blood. The color. Too red.

I’ve seen worse. I’ve seen cleaner. Why is it so loud?

The flies buzz like static in his skull. His eyes blur. Not from grief. Not from disgust. Just… exhaustion. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. His fingers twitch slightly, hovering an inch above the wound without touching it. He zones out. The world dulls at the edges. Everything slows. And then—

“Hey!”

Dexter blinks. Jolts. Looks up.

Doakes is standing over him, arms crossed, eyes hard and narrowed. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Dexter blinks again. Realizes his hand was just hovering there. Not measuring. Not documenting. Just… frozen.

“Sorry. I… spaced out.”

“Yeah, no shit. You’ve been standing there like a goddamn mannequin. You sick or something ?”

Dexter straightens. Tries to put the mask back on. Smiles, that Dexter smile, the one meant to deflect rather than soothe.

“Just tired.”

Doakes squints at him. Like he’s trying to X-ray his soul. “You don’t get tired. You don’t do tired.”

“Well. I’m branching out.”

Doakes doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t move. Just watches him another moment, too long. Then finally steps back with a grunt. “Whatever. Just don’t screw up the evidence. Or I swear to God, Morgan…”, he walks off, muttering.

Dexter exhales slowly. Looks down at the corpse again. The smell hits him fresh. He almost gags.

I need sleep.
Or a kill.
Or maybe just a new body to live in. This one’s giving out.

_____________

Doakes watched him from across the bullpen.

Dexter was at his usual place, microscope lit, gloves on, paperwork spread like a crime scene of its own, but something was off. No idle commentary. Not even that smug little twitch of a smirk he wore when people underestimated him. He was just... still.

Still in that way Doakes hated. That quiet, eerie kind of stillness. Like a house with the lights on but nobody home. Doakes leaned against the doorway, arms crossed.

Morgan hadn’t even looked up when Batista cracked a joke ten minutes ago. Didn’t roll his eyes. Didn’t give one of those plastic grins. Just kept staring through a slide like he was trying to drill through it with his brain.

Doakes glanced toward the others. Everything was moving, loud, alive. Except Dexter.

Doakes narrowed his eyes. He walked across the floor with slow, measured steps. Dexter didn’t move. Didn’t flinch when Doakes stopped right behind him.

“Morgan.”

Dexter blinked. Once. Then again, like coming up for air. He turned slightly, looked at Doakes with an expression somewhere between “Did you say something?” and “Where am I?”

Doakes didn’t like it. Not one bit.

“You back with us now, freak?”

Dexter offered him a slow, thin smile. “Just focused.”

Doakes studied him. Close. His collar was wrinkled. Hair was off. Eyes bloodshot, not the usual bright kind of red from lack of sleep, but dull. Dull like rot. Like something sour under the surface.

“Yeah?” Doakes said. “You seemed real ‘focused’ earlier. Spaced out next to a body like you forgot where you were.”

Dexter didn’t answer. Didn’t offer a joke. Didn’t brush it off. He just turned back to the microscope.

“You using something?”

That made Dexter freeze for half a second. Not long. But enough.

He turned back, smile flat. “No.”

“Because you look like hell.”

“I didn’t sleep.”

“Yeah, I got that part.”

Doakes waited. Expected some weird excuse. Some off-kilter Dexterism about late-night lab work or stress or oatmeal.

But Dexter just nodded. Quiet. “I’ll get some sleep tonight.”

Doakes didn’t buy it. Not for a second.

“Maybe you should take a day,” he said. “You’re not all there, you weirdo.”

Dexter looked up. And for a flicker of a second, something flashed in his eyes. Not tired. Not weird. Just… sharp. Like a blade half-drawn.

“I’m fine, Sergeant,” Dexter said. Polite. Perfect. Measured.

Doakes didn’t move. He stared at him for another beat, letting the silence stretch.

“You slip up, Morgan... I’ll be there.” Dexter gave the faintest nod, like it was a promise. Doakes walked away. But he didn’t stop watching. From across the bullpen. From the corners of mirrors.
From the gaps in the noise.

____

The coffee was burnt. Again. Doakes stood by the pot, staring at the weak stream pouring into his cup. He didn’t even like the stuff. But he needed somewhere quiet to think, and the break room had walls. Behind him, footsteps. Light. Fast.

“Who the hell made this garbage?” he muttered, just loud enough.

“Probably Vince,” Debra said, stepping in and reaching past him for the sugar. “He thinks powdered creamer is ‘a palate cleanser.’”

Doakes snorted once, grudging.

Debra poured herself a cup. Looked tired. She always did lately. Something was pulling at her, and she didn’t hide it well. Didn’t hide it like Morgan. Both of them are weird in their own fucking way.

He sipped his coffee. Made a face. Then set the cup down and leaned against the counter.

“Your brother’s been acting weird.”

Debra didn’t even blink.

“When isn’t he acting weird?”

Doakes tilted his head. “No. Not ‘Dexter weird.’ I mean off. Like maybe he’s using.”

That got her attention. She paused, spoon hanging in mid-air.

“You think he’s on something?”

“Maybe,” Doakes said. “He’s pale. Sweating. Zoned out in front of a body this morning like he didn’t even know where he was. Snapped at me when I asked.”

Debra frowned.  She leaned back against the fridge, expression tightening.

“Look,” she said, voice low now, “he’s… been going through it lately. Personal stuff. And now Lundy’s on the Bay Harbor case, and that’s got everyone on edge.”

Doakes watched her carefully.

“You think that’s enough to mess him up like that?”

She shrugged. “He’s not a robot.”

Doakes didn’t reply.

Because he wasn’t sure that was true. After a second, she softened. “But he wouldn’t go that far. Harry always made him be away from that stuff.”

“You ever see him drink?”

“Only once. After that bowling party last year. One beer, and he looked like someone had shot his dog.”

That tracked but Doakes couldn’t shake the feeling. Deb sipped her coffee, eyes narrowing.

“You think something’s wrong?”

Doakes looked through the break room window, out at Dexter, hunched over his workbench, too still.

“I think your brother’s a damn good liar.”

He finished his coffee. Set the cup down hard, gave her a long, tired look.

Deb blinked. “Jesus, tell me how you really feel.”

Doakes didn’t smile.

“I’m serious. You ever think maybe he’s an alcoholic?”

She choked on her coffee.

“Dexter? You’re kidding.”

Doakes crossed his arms. “Nope. Found him last week. Downtown. Passed out. Blackout, Morgan. Puke on his shirt. No wallet. Didn’t know where the hell he was.”

Debra stared. “You’re lying.”

He shrugged. “Wish I was. Had to drag his ass back to my place. Guy smelled like a liquor store dumpster. He doesn’t remember any of it.”

Deb’s jaw tightened. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I don’t care, Morgan. I’m not his priest. I’m just trying to figure out why your brother keeps acting like he’s five seconds away from snapping.”

Debra looked toward the window again. Dexter was still at his station, unmoving. Doakes followed her gaze. Then added, “And I’ll tell you another thing.”

She turned back to him.

“He’s got commitment issues.”

Deb made a noise in the back of her throat. “You think?”

Doakes ignored her sarcasm. “Rita’s a goddamn saint. He screws that up for what? That British chaos muppet with a fire fetish?”

“Lila.”

“Yeah, the one who leaves voicemails that sound like an after-dark cooking show. ‘Dexter, darling, your hands were so raw last night.’”

Deb cringed. “Okay. Ew.”

Doakes leveled her with a look.

“I’m just saying. The man’s spiraling. He drinks. He lies. He stares at corpses like he’s somewhere else. That ain’t just stress. That’s a pattern.”

Debra looked conflicted. Defensive. But also… worried. Really worried.

“I’ll talk to him.”

Doakes raised an eyebrow. “You think he’s gonna tell you the truth?”

She didn’t answer that. Doakes shook his head. “Just keep your eyes open.”

Then he walked out.

_______

There were two things Dexter had mastered at Miami Metro:
Avoiding social entanglements, and pretending to care about break room donuts. Today, both skills were failing him. He was on his way to drop off a sealed blood report, one he’d already triple-checked, mostly just to have an excuse to be alone. Silence was better than thinking. And thinking… thinking was a trap. A voice rang out behind him.

“Hey, asshole.”

He knew that tone. He didn’t slow.

“Deb,” he said, aiming for casual, “charming as always.”

She caught up to him in three quick strides. Didn’t say anything. Just walked beside him. Silent. Which was worse than yelling. Much worse. He glanced over. Her arms were crossed. Her jaw tight.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

Deb didn’t answer until they passed the corner into the quieter evidence hallway, no eyes, no noise. Just dusty fluorescent light and cold cement. Then she stopped. So did he. She stared at him. Hard.

“What the fuck is going on with you?”

Dexter blinked. “That’s a broad category. Can you narrow it down?”

She stepped forward. “Don’t screw around with me, Dexter. I’m not in the mood.”

Ah. So it was this kind of conversation.

“I’m fine, Deb.”

“No, you’re not,” she snapped. “Doakes told me.”

Dexter froze.

His heartbeat didn’t spike, he was too well-trained for that, but something tightened in his chest.

“What did he tell you?” he asked, voice perfectly level.

“That he found you blacked out in an alley,” she said, arms flying up. “Drunk. Covered in puke. Didn’t know your own name.”

He gave a slow, practiced blink. “He’s exaggerating.”

She stepped closer, furious now. “Don’t lie to me, Dexter. You don’t get to do that.”

He looked at the floor. Not because he was guilty, but because he knew how guilt looked.

“I had a bad night.”

“Bullshit. You’ve been having a bad month. You’re spacing out at work, you´re going to a addict rehab , you’re lying to Rita, you’re getting wasted and not telling anyone—”

“I didn’t think it was your business,” he said, sharp now.

That made her go quiet. Just for a second.

“I’m your sister.”

The words hit harder than he expected.

Dexter swallowed. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I called Rita, she started crying,” she said, cutting him off. “You know that? She didn’t want to, but she didn’t know who else to talk to. Said you weren’t answering. Said she thought you were gonna come clean and instead you bailed again.”

Dexter’s jaw clenched. He turned to the wall, like he could will himself out of the conversation. Into some place colder. Simpler.

“She said Lila told her everything,” Debra added.

Dexter’s fingers curled into a fist at his side.

“She didn’t—”

“Oh, don’t act surprised. You think you can just blow up your life and nobody’s gonna talk?”

“I didn’t ask Lila to—”

“Jesus Christ, Dexter!”

Her voice echoed off the walls.

He looked back. Saw her face, furious, yes. But hurt, too.

Really hurt.

“You think you can just shut down and disappear, and no one’s gonna notice? I’m not a fucking idiot. I’ve seen you.”

Dexter felt his composure slipping. Just a hair. But it was enough.

“Then what do you want from me?” he asked, voice low, flat.

She stared at him.

“I want you to be honest.”

He didn’t answer.

She laughed once. Bitter.

“Right. That’s what I get for trying.”

She turned and walked off, shoulders loud on the concrete, shoulders tight, not looking back.

Dexter stood there a moment longer. Then turned toward the evidence room. Still had a report to file. Still had a mask to wear. But it was cracking at the edges.

___________________

Debra leaned back in the folding chair, rubbing both hands down her face.

Lundy watched her from behind the desk, calm, unreadable, hands folded neatly on the file he wasn’t reading.

“He’s a fucking mess,” she said finally.

Lundy didn’t respond right away. He just tilted his head slightly. “Dexter?”

She gave him a look.

“No, fuckin’ Masuka. Of course Dexter.”

He waited.

Deb sighed. “I don’t know what to do. He won’t talk. He won’t admit anything. And if Doakes is telling the truth, then my brother’s blacking out in alleys and waking up in other people’s beds.”

Lundy raised an eyebrow at that.

She rubbed her forehead. “I mean metaphorically. I think. I hope. Jesus.”

There was a pause. Then Lundy said, very evenly, “Maybe we keep him close.”

Deb looked up. “What?”

“If he’s spiraling, it’s better we don’t let him isolate. Isolation feeds secrecy. Secrecy feeds bad decisions.”

“Yeah, but Dexter’s like... ninja good at avoiding people. He’ll find a goddamn  way to disappear.”

Lundy nodded. Thoughtful. Then he said it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Then we assign him a partner.”

Deb squinted. “A what?”

“Someone to work cases with him. Keep him in the light, so to speak. Close enough to notice if he gets worse.”

She blinked.

Then slowly shook her head.

“You don’t mean—”

“Sergeant Doakes,” Lundy said smoothly.

Debra let out a full-body groan. “You can’t be serious.”

“They already have history. Doakes found him. That gives us leverage.”

“They also hate each other.”

Lundy’s mouth twitched into something just shy of a smirk. “Exactly. Doakes will notice everything.”

Deb gawked at him.

“You want to force two grown-ass men with unresolved murder-boner tension into working side by side, because it’ll stress them out so bad they start telling the truth?”

He shrugged. “It works with suspects.”

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered. “You’re scary.”

Lundy leaned back. “I prefer effective.”

She stared at him another second.

Then exhaled and muttered, “They’re gonna kill each other.”

Lundy just smiled.

____________________________________

Dexter was used to mornings being quiet. The light came in through his blinds at exactly 7:02 a.m., pale and soft. His coffee brewed in the same corner, every bubble and hiss like clockwork. His shoelaces were tied in the same order, left then right. Ritual brought peace. So of course, it was suspicious when Lundy sent him an email with just the words

“Meeting. 8:40 a.m. My office.”

No context.
No details.
No pleasantries.

Dexter almost ignored it. But he’d seen the way Debra had been watching him lately, all furrowed eyebrows and barely restrained emotional vomiting.

She knew something. Worse, she might’ve told something.

So he showed up, knocked once before stepping inside. Lundy looked up from his folder and gestured to the seat. Doakes was already there. Sitting. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Not speaking.

Dexter blinked once. Then twice. Then sat down.

Whatever this was, it couldn’t be good.

“Thanks for coming,” Lundy said smoothly, closing the file. “This won’t take long.”

Dexter offered a noncommittal smile. Doakes grunted.

Wonderful start

“I’ve been looking over our departmental workflows,” Lundy continued. “And I’ve noticed some… inconsistencies.”

Dexter’s eye twitched. “I wasn’t aware I’d made any.”

“You haven’t,” Lundy said easily. “But it seems you’re working in isolation more than most. Given your role, that’s unusual. And unhelpful.”

Dexter’s pulse ticked upward. He hated where this was going.

“Okay,” he said slowly, “but I prefer working alone. Efficiency, clarity—”

“You also recently experienced a… personal crisis,” Lundy interrupted, his voice still maddeningly calm.

Doakes made a snorting sound like a truck downshifting. Dexter’s stomach tightened.

“I’m fine,” he said too quickly.

Lundy nodded. “Good. Then this will be a smooth transition.”

“What transition?”

He ignored him. “And Sergeant, you have an eye for accountability.”

Doakes narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like where this is going.”

Neither do I, Dexter thought. His spine tensed like he was mid-kill-prep. Except there were no plastic sheets. Only fluorescent lights and social anxiety.

Lundy leaned forward slightly. “Given the current pressure on this department and the looming presence of the Bay Harbor Butcher investigation. I'd like to see more transparency and collaboration across teams.”

Dexter stared. Doakes sat straighter, somehow becoming even more aggressively upright.

“I’m pairing you two,” Lundy said simply. “Effective immediately. Two-week rotation.”

Dexter’s ears rang.

Oh. Oh, you have to be kidding me.

The silence that followed could have cracked concrete. Dexter blinked once. Doakes turned his head toward Lundy so slowly it was almost theatrical.

“I’m sorry,” Doakes said, voice low. “You want me to what?”

“You’ll partner up,” Lundy repeated. “On crime scene response and analysis.” He smiled. “Think of it as cross-disciplinary collaboration. LaGuerta already agreed on these terms.”

Doakes looked ready to bite through the edge of the desk.

Dexter turned to him. “I’m not thrilled either.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Doakes snapped.

Lundy stood. “You’ll start this morning. Debra has a new scene downtown. You’ll both report there, together.”

Dexter opened his mouth to object again, then saw the look on Lundy’s face.

This wasn’t a suggestion. This was a command. And, to his horror, part of him registered the strategic brilliance. If he was spiraling, this was a very Lundy way of handcuffing him to reality.

Or worse — to Doakes.

He stood slowly. So did Doakes. They stared at each other.

Dexter forced the fakest smile he could manage. “Looking forward to it.”

Doakes didn’t blink.

He just muttered, “I already feel like killing someone.”

Lundy, already flipping open another folder, didn’t look up.

“Great. You’re bonded already.”

They walked out together in silence. Every footstep echoed louder than it should’ve. The air between them was humid with hatred. Dexter’s brain buzzed like a wasp trapped in a lunchbox.

Ride together. Submit joint reports. Grounded. Collaboration.

Words that made him want to sleep under a morgue table forever.

“Car’s out back,” Doakes said flatly.

Dexter blinked. “I have my own—”

Doakes cut him off with a look so sharp it might’ve shaved five years off Dexter’s life.

“…Cool. Riding together. Love that.”

"Harry warned me about order. He never warned me about paperwork partnerships and hostile carpooling."

Dexter slid into the passenger seat like a man accepting his own funeral. The door shut with a soft, final thunk. Doakes didn’t say anything. He just started the car. Shifted into drive. Pulled out of the lot like he was trying not to hit the gas too hard.

The silence was immediate and thick.

Like being trapped inside a church with a lit stick of dynamite.

Dexter stared out the window.

This is fine. Everything is fine. I’ve killed people in quieter rooms.

“You breathe loud,” Doakes muttered.

Dexter blinked. “I have lungs. I use them.”

“Use them quieter.”

Dexter didn’t respond.

Ah, yes. Lung crime. My worst offense yet. Book me, Sergeant. Maybe I can be sent to the Department of Not Existing At All. I hear they don’t require partnerships there.

The traffic light turned red. Doakes tapped the wheel once. Dexter stared straight ahead. Somewhere in the distance, a pigeon tried to steal fries from a kid. It made more conversation than either of them had so far.

“What’s your deal, anyway?” Doakes asked suddenly, eyes still on the road.

Dexter’s spine stiffened. “My deal?”

Doakes didn’t look at him. “Last week you were a ghost. Then you turned into a train wreck. Now you’re what—zen monk mode?”

Dexter smiled, teeth too neat. “I’m adaptable.”

Doakes gave a short, joyless laugh.

Adaptable. Yes. Like a fungus. Or a parasitic eel. I adapt to stay alive, hide the mess, and occasionally enjoy a beautifully sharpened knife in the moonlight..

Dexter shifted in his seat. The upholstery made a faint squeak. Doakes looked like he might rip the steering wheel off.

This is torture. Actual torture. I’d rather be tied to my own kill table and lectured by Deb on my stupid love life than sit through another twenty minutes of this emotionally stunted road trip.

They drove. Past billboards. Fast food joints. A palm tree that had definitely seen at least one murder. Dexter tried not to breathe too loudly. Doakes cracked his knuckles on the steering wheel. Dexter imagined thirty-seven ways to jump from the moving vehicle and frame it as an accident.

“You ever drink like that a lot?” Doakes asked, too casually.

Dexter froze.

“Drink like what?”

“Like blackout in an alley and almost get arrested.”

Dexter smiled. Tense. Controlled. A millimeter too wide.

Oh great. Here we are. Back to The Incident. The Emotional After-School Special that just won’t die. Next, he’ll ask me if I’m ‘okay’ or if I’ve ‘talked to someone.’ Can’t wait for that sitcom spin-off “Drunk and the Damned.”

“No,” Dexter said aloud. “That was… out of character.”

“You got characters now?”

Dexter exhaled slowly. “I meant it was unusual.”

Doakes gave him another long, unreadable look. Then turned on the turn signal like it was a personal insult. They were close now, the crime scene just a few streets away. Dexter could already see the familiar uniforms, yellow tape, and a tall detective waving his clipboard like a misplaced traffic conductor. Doakes pulled up to the curb. Shifted into park. Didn’t look at him.

“You screw this up,” he said finally, “I’m not covering for you.”

Dexter unbuckled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They stepped out of the car in silence.

Dexter’s inner monologue, as his shoes hit the pavement

First rule of working with Doakes: Don’t die.
Second rule: Don’t get arrested.
Third rule: Learn to breathe silently or be murdered with a steering wheel.

He stepped under the crime scene tape like he always did smooth, practiced, unseen. A shadow among the lights and voices.

Doakes followed behind him like a boulder with a badge.

“Stay close, Morgan.”

Dexter didn’t respond.

He didn’t have to.
Doakes was already doing that for both of them.

Ah yes. The majestic alpha gorilla grunts again. Stay close. Don’t wander.

Dexter crouched beside the body.
Female, mid-thirties, neck at a sharp unnatural angle. Blood sprayed across the cream rug in that beautiful radial burst that only a high-velocity impact could achieve.

Dexter reached for his camera.

“Nope,” Doakes barked. “Don’t touch that yet.”

Dexter looked up. His smile was tight, dead behind the eyes. “Sorry. Didn’t realize forensics now requires your approval.”

Doakes loomed. “You wanna keep that tone, Morgan?”

God, I forgot how fun this is. Like a hostage situation but instead of a ransom, it’s just my sanity being held at gunpoint.

Dexter stood. Let Doakes puff around the room like a territorial lion. He examined the windows. The door. Meanwhile, Dexter drifted toward the blood. His blood.

His real partner.

He crouched again, pulling out a swab.

“I said wait,” Doakes snapped.

Dexter froze mid-swab.

I’m going to kill him. No jury would convict me. In fact, the judge would probably shake my hand. Maybe give me a medal. “For services to workplace wellness.”

But he backed off. Because he was Dexter Morgan. And this wasn’t the moment.

Yet.

He stood again, hands up like he was being arrested. “You take the lead, Sergeant. I’ll just admire the upholstery.”

Doakes narrowed his eyes. “Don’t get cute.”

Dexter smiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I want to mount his skull like a trophy. Just polish it every Sunday. Keep it next to my microscope. Call it Sergeant Passive-Aggressive.

The detectives started to murmur among themselves. Batista wandered over with a bagel in one hand and absolutely zero shame in his heart.

“Yo, Dex. You two working together now? That’s wild.”

Dexter smiled thinly. “It’s like being on vacation in a volcano.”

Doakes glared.

Batista nodded slowly. “Right… vibes are tense. Want half my bagel?”

Dexter looked at the bagel.
Looked at the body.
Looked at Doakes.

Honestly, chew it up and shove it directly into my eye socket. It’d be less painful than this day.

He took the bagel.

“Thanks.”

______

Dexter crouched by the spatter again, this time with a little more determination, a little less permission-seeking. He had his gloves on, swab in hand, camera over one shoulder. The light from the sliding glass doors slanted just right across the creamy rug, illuminating the masterpiece of arterial spray in delicate, fan-shaped arcs.

Ah. Finally. A quiet moment with the only thing in this room that doesn’t hate me — blood. Beautiful, honest, uncomplicated blood. Unlike Sergeant Glare-and-Grunt over there, blood doesn’t ask me about my feelings or accuse me of hiding vodka in my cereal.

He clicked the camera once. Twice. Adjusted the aperture.
Each spatter told a story — medium-velocity cast-off from a blunt force trauma, one clean arterial arc, no signs of hesitation wounds.
Single kill strike. Surprise blow.

Someone she knew?
Or someone very, very good at ambushes?

Dexter swabbed along the outer edge of the largest fan of blood, labeling it in his methodical, silent rhythm.

Behind him — Doakes prowled. He was by the entry now, checking for forced access.
Flashlight in one hand, jaw clenched, muttering into a recorder.

“Front door locked. No pry marks. No damage. Entry likely consensual.”

Dexter could feel Doakes watching him between notes, like he expected him to suddenly take off a latex glove and start touching the blood.

“Why is there blood on the blinds?” Doakes called out.

Dexter didn’t even flinch. “Backswing.”

“What?”

He stood and gestured to the spray arc. “The victim fell here. The killer stood over her and struck down, blood flung backward, caught the blinds.”

Doakes narrowed his eyes. “…You sure?”

Dexter raised an eyebrow. “Well, unless she was juggling butcher knives and the ceiling fan at the same time, I’d say yes.”

Doakes grunted. Not agreement. Not disagreement. Just… Doakes.

He hates that I know things. That I don’t flinch around blood. That I talk like I’ve seen a murder from both ends. He’s right, of course. But he doesn’t know why, and that drives him insane. Which, frankly, is the only joy I get out of this arrangement.

A tech came in behind them, bagging the body. Doakes turned to the bedroom.

“Check the rest of the place,” he ordered Dexter, like Dexter worked for him. “Make sure there’s nothing you missed.”

Dexter smiled. “Yes, sir.”

Right away, sir. Would you like me to mop too? File your taxes?

He moved into the bedroom — clean, modern, boring. A real estate agent’s bedroom. No signs of a struggle. Purse untouched. Laptop still charging. He opened the closet. Nothing but clothes and a faint scent of expensive perfume and stale ambition. Behind him, Doakes barked at someone for stepping too close to the front entry without booties on. Dexter knelt by the bed, scanning the carpet.  Something about this felt... staged.
Too clean.
Too placed.

He stood again. Behind him, Doakes entered, looking suspicious just because he could.

“What are you doing?”

Dexter turned slowly. “Existing.”

Doakes grunted again. “You’re lucky I’m watching you.”

Dexter smiled.

No, Sergeant. You’re lucky I haven’t wrapped you in plastic and taught you the meaning of silence.

___________________________

Location: Miami Metro, Late Afternoon — The Fluorescent Graveyard of Sanity

Dexter stared at the blinking cursor on his desktop.

One paragraph in. Eighteen more to go. The blood spatter pattern was easy, it told the truth. It didn’t talk back. It didn’t curse at him. It didn’t shout over the clatter of a broken keyboard.

Unlike…

“You call this a fucking observation?!” Doakes snapped, shoving a paper into Batista’s hand. “She had a goddamn doorbell camera, and you didn’t even check the app history?”

Batista blinked. “We’re still waiting on tech—”

“I’m surrounded by grown-ass men who can’t fill out a goddamn field log!”

Dexter kept typing.

The screaming is new. The smell of burnt coffee, not so much. I’m starting to wonder if being assigned to Doakes is actually a psychological experiment like one of those lab rats they slowly deprive of joy to see how long it takes before it eats its roommate.

Doakes rounded on him.

“You almost done with that analysis?”

Dexter didn’t look up. “Almost.”

“‘Almost’ doesn’t cut it. You think this is some game? We’ve got a fucking serial killer running around, and half this precinct still uses paper reports like it’s 1996.”

Dexter calmly saved his file.

I miss 1996. It was a simpler time. I’d only killed three people. My blood slides were alphabetized.

Doakes dropped into the chair across from him with all the grace of a controlled explosion. He opened a folder, looked at it like it had insulted his mother, and started scribbling in the margins like he was editing the Constitution with a Sharpie. Dexter’s fingers hovered over his keyboard. He stared at Doakes. Doakes glared at his paper. A tense silence, broken only by the furious squeak of Doakes’ pen and the occasional muttered “Unbelievable” or “This precinct’s a zoo.”

Dexter cleared his throat. “Would you prefer I print the blood analysis now, or wait until you’ve finished threatening the furniture?”

Doakes looked up slowly. “Print it.”

Dexter printed it.

_____

The precinct hummed with the final drag of a dying shift — keyboards clacking, vending machines buzzing, the occasional curse muttered over a missed comma in a report.

Dexter walked beside Doakes down the hallway, steps slightly out of sync, on purpose. He’d figured out Doakes’ walking rhythm and made sure to never match it. One small act of rebellion. It helped him stay sane.

Doakes, of course, was muttering under his breath. Loud enough to be heard. Just quiet enough to be plausible deniability. “Piece of shit killer’s probably sittin’ on a goddamn boat somewhere, laughing his ass off,” he growled. “And we’re stuck here babysitting filing cabinets.”

Dexter kept walking.

No, Sergeant. You’re mistaken.
The killer isn’t on a boat. He’s right here, walking next to you, daydreaming about how many ways he could shove you in one of those filing cabinets.

There are so many things I want to say to you, Doakes. Like, please stop breathing like a rhinoceros.

Doakes jabbed the elevator button like it owed him money. Dexter glanced at the reflective metal of the elevator door. His own expression stared back. Blank. Bored. Doakes, beside him, was a stormcloud.

You ever try to go on a walk and someone just… ruins it by existing? That’s what this is. Except the walk is my life, and the someone is a sentient threat detector fueled by raw suspicion and protein shakes.

Doakes grumbled again. “The guy was smart. Staged the scene. No forced entry. No witnesses. Not a trace of DNA.”

He looked at Dexter like that last part was a personal attack. Dexter smiled politely.

Oh, thank you but that wasn’t me.

The elevator dinged. They stepped in. Doakes hit the lobby button. Hard. Dexter folded his hands in front of him, quiet, calm, collected.

He’s right about one thing. The killer is still out there. He’s absolutely correct.

I’ve always been able to keep myself in check. Order. Routine. Blood, in vials. Bodies, in bags. But lately? Things are… louder. Lila, Rita, Debra, Lundy, even you, Doakes,  you’re all poking at me from different angles like rats chewing on a pressure valve.

I miss silence. I miss planning. I miss... control.

Doakes side-eyed him. “You get quiet like this, it’s weird.”

Dexter blinked. “Sorry. Just tired.”

Not a lie.

Doakes grunted. “Tired. Yeah, me too. Tired of circling this thing with our dicks in our hands while some psycho racks up a body count.”

We? No. You’re chasing ghosts. I’m cleaning up their edges. But go off, Sergeant Suspicion. Keep shouting at shadows. Meanwhile, I’ll be doing what I’ve always done: fixing the problems your precious justice system can’t. Only now… I'm doing it on no sleep, with a ghost dad haunting me, a deranged ex-sponsor stalking my voicemail, and a sister who’s dating the man investigating me for being myself. So yes, I’m quiet. Because if I start talking, I might not stop until I confess or combust.

The elevator opened.

Doakes stepped out. “See you tomorrow, Morgan.”

Dexter gave a slight wave.
Let the doors close.

No, Sergeant.
You’ll see me. But you’ll never really see me.

Notes:

Dun dun dun
We have now reached chapter 3 *looks at my now empty word document* and it was the last chapter that my past self wrote 😔. I will try to build up the story as much as i can in my Sommer holiday.
Also if you maybe noticed (dont think anyone noticed tho), a cat will appear, but for who 👀✨️🐈
Hope you all enjoyed the chapter
-> sidetrack: PLS TELL ME SOMEONE WATCHED DEXTEE RESURRECTION 1. EPISODE. DEXTER MY SHAYLA, HARRISON, DOAKESSSSSS😭🥹🩷

Chapter 4

The hum of the road should’ve been soothing. The air conditioning, slightly too cold. The night, unremarkable but Dexter’s hands were clenched on the steering wheel like he could throttle the entire city through it. His jaw ached. His foot pressed a little too hard on the gas, like he was daring the world to give him a reason.

It’s one thing to have a nemesis. That’s classic. Poetic, even. But this? A copycat? A tribute act with no rhythm? It’s like watching someone butcher Mozart with a kazoo.

The crime scene photos that he got had been a mess. Wrong angle. Wrong tools. Blood spatter like a Jackson Pollock tantrum. No cleanup, no care, no... code.

He changed lanes aggressively. Miami glared back at him with neon signs and heat haze. The traffic lights felt accusatory.

Clean kills. Vanishing acts. I earned that. And now? Some vigilante amateur is doing something like that but without a code.

He took a turn too sharp. His coffee cup fell from the holder and hit the passenger floorboard with a sad thunk.

“Great,” he muttered.

The universe doesn’t want me to have caffeine. Fantastic. All I want is one clean kill. One silent night. One murder, done right. But no. He had a target now. A messy one. A reckless one. And the worst part? He’s not even good enough to catch. He’s not taunting me. He’s not playing a game. He’s just… bad.

Dexter turned into his neighborhood. Slowed down.

I can't even respect him as an opponent. It's like if a child scribbled the Mona Lisa and said, "I helped."

He pulled into his spot. The engine clicked as it cooled. He sat there, staring at the quiet apartment building, keys still in the ignition.

I have to find him. Before the police do. Before he kills again. Before he makes me look like someone who doesn’t even know how to properly dismember a torso.

He yanked the keys out. Got out of the car. Slammed the door harder than usual.

__________

The door clicked shut behind him with a hollow finality. No Rita waiting. No fake normalcy to cling to.

Just Dexter. And the dark. And—

“Fuck.”

He jumped. Harry was sitting on the couch. Legs crossed, arms folded. Looking like he’d been waiting there for hours.

“Do you live here now?” Dexter muttered, kicking his shoes off harder than necessary. “Should I start buying ghost groceries?”

Harry didn’t answer. Just gave him that look. The one where the corners of his mouth twitched in disappointment, like he wanted to sigh but had already given up on breathing entirely. Dexter walked past him into the kitchen. Opened the fridge. Closed it. Opened it again. Nothing had changed in the two seconds since.

“You’re not real,” Dexter said. “I know that. Just… making sure we’re on the same page.”

Harry tilted his head.

“I’m not the one talking to an empty room,” he finally said.

Dexter turned to glare at him.

“I’ve had a day,” he said, pulling a beer from the fridge and cracking it open. “Doakes yelled at me. Deb yelled at me. Then some killer left a crime scene so staged it felt unusual. I deserve this.”

“You deserve prison,” Harry said quietly.

Dexter stopped mid-sip. There it was. The sentence that never changed its meaning. That always came eventually. The one Harry had said in some form since Dexter was fifteen, since he realized his son didn’t dream of being a firefighter, he dreamt of blood.

Dexter set the beer down without drinking.

“What do you want from me?” he asked, dragging both hands through his hair. “You want me to feel bad? Fine. I feel awful. Happy?”

Harry stood now. Slow. Calm.

“I want you to fix it,” he said.

Dexter laughed, sharp and bitter. “Fix what? The killer? Lila? Rita? Debra sleeping with the one guy investigating me for being a killer? My entire life is a dumpster fire, and I’m the one who lit the match!”

Harry didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink, “You stopped following the Code.”

Dexter flinched instead. The words hit harder than he expected. Like they still mattered.

“I didn’t mean to,” he muttered.

“You slipped.”

“I’m under pressure.”

“You lied to Rita.”

“I always lie to Rita.”

Harry stepped closer.

“You’re spiraling,” he said, “You think killing this one person will make you feel normal again. But it won’t. It won’t stop the noise.”

Dexter swallowed.

No. But it might help me remember what silence used to sound like.

He turned away. To the window. The ocean stretched out beyond it, dark and deep, swallowing itself into the sky after some distance until everything is just one black painting.

When he turned back, Harry was gone. Just the couch. Just the beer. Just Dexter.

Alone.

Again.

______

There’s something oddly soothing about digging through bloodstained files at 12 PM. Just silence.

If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then I’m currently being flattered by an idiot with poor spatial awareness and a total disregard for tarp management.

The copycat had struck…well Dexter only knew that it was the copycat.  Same body positioning. Same plastic wrap technique. And… rope? Dexter cringed. He clicked through the latest forensics photos. The victim, a known abuser, recently released on a plea deal. Exactly the kind of person Dexter might’ve chosen if it wasn’t such a petty crime. Dexter couldn’t take out every trash from the world but he could take out the biggest ones.  He dug deeper. Cross-referenced people and recently released inmates or people with a warning. It led him back to one name.

Ken Olson.

I should’ve noticed. But I was too busy spiraling about Lila and Rita and the ghost of my judgmental father haunting my couch like some morally upright poltergeist.

He was building his own ritual. Copying Dexter’s. But with one major difference. Ken wasn’t killing because of the Code. He was killing to feel powerful.

Dexter’s lips curled.

You want to be me? Then you’ll die like the others. Strapped down. Silent. With a single, clean cut. You’ll get a front-row seat to the performance you tried to plagiarize.

Dexter shut the laptop.

Time to plan a Kill.

____________________________

Morning – Miami Precinct

The light in Miami Metro had a way of being too bright when you hadn’t slept. Dexter blinked against the fluorescent hum, eyes grainy, fingers twitching slightly as they hovered over his microscope. He stared at the blood slide under the scope and saw…

Nothing.

Not because it wasn’t interesting—arterial spray should have thrilled him—but because he was too distracted by rage.

A copycat. A bad one. With shaky hands and sloppy tape work and—rope?  I’m not just angry. I’m offended. If you're going to impersonate me, at least use decent tools. Or geometry.

“Morning, Dexter,” Masuka said, walking by , Dexter hummed in greeting. Behind him, Deb’s heels clicked across the floor. He could feel her eyes before she said anything.

She didn’t say anything. That was the problem.

She’s watching me. Like I’m a mouse and she’s a really concerned hawk with emotional issues.

Another glance. Dexter kept his posture rigid, sipped his coffee again. Bitter. Useless. Like drinking warm regret.

“Did you sleep?” Debra asked suddenly, behind him.

He didn’t turn.

Don’t lie, Dexter. Just… selectively avoid the truth.

“Eventually,” he said. Which was true. “Morning.”

“Uh-huh.”

She didn’t buy it. Her arms were crossed. Her expression a mix of suspicion and sisterly concern, like she couldn’t decide whether to hug him or shake him until answers fell out.

She knows something. Or thinks she knows. Or is making up something in her head that feels true enough to yell about.

“Your eyes look like pissholes in the snow,” she added helpfully, before walking off.

Dexter blinked.

Charming. Sister of the year.

He stood up. He needed to move. Breathe. Plan.

Ken Olson was still out there. Pretending. Slashing. Leaving bodies that looked like Dexter’s but felt like… imitation leather. Cheap. Artificial.

He’s killing without the Code. He’s ruining everything. He’s going to get caught. Or worse—he’s going to get me caught.

Doakes passed by him in the hallway and gave him a look that could curdle milk.

Great. Now it’s a three-course meal of people watching me. Doakes with suspicion, Deb with concern, and Ken Olson with delusion.

Dexter sighed and rubbed his face.

He needed a plan.
He needed sleep.
He needed everyone in this building to stop looking at him like he was about to crack open like a forensic piñata.

_____

He had just managed to get the new slide under the microscope when the door slammed open with the kind of energy that only James Doakes could legally carry.

“Morgan.”

Dexter didn’t flinch. He turned calmly in his chair, face neutral, mind already calculating how many times this week he’d been publicly yanked from a task by his least favorite homicide hurricane.

Is there a record for most Doakes interruptions in a fiscal quarter? Can I report that to HR? Or Guinness?

Doakes looked… annoyed. But to be fair, Doakes always looked like he wanted to strangle someone with a power cord. Behind Dexter, Masuka snorted into his coffee.

“Did you two move in together or something?” he muttered, but loud enough for Dexter to hear. “Not judging, just… noticing the vibes.”

Dexter blinked. Slowly. Dangerously.

That’s right, Masuka. Keep talking. I’ll chloroform your drink next time.

Doakes didn’t even dignify Masuka with a look.

“Scene came in. Lundy wants you on it,” Doakes said, jabbing a finger at Dexter like he was picking someone out of a suspect lineup. “I’m your goddamn babysitter again.”

Dexter sighed, pulled off his gloves, and stood, behind him, Masuka raised both eyebrows.

“That’s, like… the third scene in a row. Lundy really pairing you two up?”

Dexter smiled politely, the way people do when they’re seconds away from committing an OSHA violation.

Yes, Masuka. Because nothing says ‘efficient crime scene protocol’ like assigning me to be a ride-along therapy pet for a man who once threatened to throw me into jail.

“Let’s go,” Doakes barked, already turning and walking like the hallway personally insulted his mother. Dexter followed, brisk, quiet. Behind him, Masuka whispered something like “weird sex energy” to himself, and Dexter’s eye twitched.

I have to kill Ken Olson soon or I’m going to start a kill table right here in the breakroom.

____________

Crime Scene

The body outline was fresh. The blood… not so much. Dexter crouched beside the chalk outline, gloved hands sifting through a smear of coagulated red at the concrete’s edge. Something was wrong with the splatter pattern. No arterial spray. Just impact. Blunt force. Brutal and sloppy.

No flare, no framing. Just pain for pain’s sake.

Doakes was pacing nearby, talking with uniformed officers and a crime scene tech. Everything was going… normally, by Miami standards. Until Debra showed up.

“Dexter!” she snapped, gravel crunching under her as she stormed toward him like a sister-shaped missile.

Oh no.

Before he could stand, she grabbed his arm and yanked him up.

“We’re gonna have a fucking talk,” she hissed through gritted teeth.

He blinked. “Now?”

“Yes, now, dickweed.”

She dragged him behind the coroner’s van, past some cones, and into a semi-private spot beside a pile of old tires. The stench of decay and heat warped the air. Debra crossed her arms, face flushed.

“Are you kidding me?!”

Ah. There it is. The righteous fury of a woman raised by Harry Morgan, now forced to process my dumpster fire of a love life like a human lie detector on meth.

Dexter opened his mouth.

“No—don’t talk yet. I need to scream for a second.”
She took a breath, fists clenched.
“What the actual ever-loving FUCK, Dexter?!”

He stared at her blankly, trying to calculate if now was the right time to fake a seizure.

“I—” he began.

“No,” she cut in, “You don’t get to ‘I’ me right now. She asked me if you were okay. Me. While she was heartbroken. Because you can’t keep your dick in your pants around Crazy McAccent and her fucking candles.”

I didn’t think Deb would be so protective of Rita. I underestimated the Sister Hotline. Mistake.
Add it to the list.

“It was a mistake,” Dexter said quietly.

“Oh, no shit,” Debra snapped. “You think? You think sleeping with your unstable, arson-inclined sponsor while juggling a long-term girlfriend and two kids was a bad call, Dexter?! Jesus tap-dancing Christ!”

Dexter sighed. “I didn’t plan for it to happen.”

“You never plan anything!” she exploded. “You just float through life acting like some weird-ass wallflower with a microscope! And the worst part? You’re not even that sorry.”

Dexter swallowed. “I’m… trying to be.”

That landed like a fart in church. Debra stared at him. Her jaw clenched. Then finally-

“No. You know what? I’m not done.”

Dexter blinked at her, still half-shadowed behind the van, the oppressive Miami heat pressing down like guilt itself.

“I covered for you, Dexter,” she hissed, “Rita asked me what happened and I lied. I lied. Because I figured you’d have the balls to explain yourself.”

Dexter glanced over her shoulder, scanning for anyone watching.

Oh good.
Of course.
There’s Doakes.

Sergeant James Doakes stood about fifteen feet away, by the crime scene tape, watching the entire spectacle unfold with his arms crossed and that suspicious tilt to his head like a lion noticing a zebra limping.

Perfect. Just what I need. Debra screaming about my sex life while doakes watches me wilt like a crime scene tulip.

Debra didn’t notice Doakes. Or maybe she didn’t care.

“You say you're ‘trying’? Try fucking harder! Rita deserved better. The kids deserved better.” Her voice cracked for just a second, and that made Dexter flinch more than any curse she’d hurled so far.

And that’s when Doakes started walking toward them.

Deliberate. Curious. Like a bomb-sniffing dog that just caught a whiff of something chemical.

Debra crossed her arms, still radiating fury.

Dexter stood stiff, hands clenched at his sides. He wasn’t faking guilt right now. It was written all over him—shoulders hunched, head down, throat tight with things he didn’t know how to say. Things he didn’t want to say.

I’m not supposed to feel like this.
I’m supposed to file it away. Put it in the cold box. Let it freeze and fade.
But it won’t. Why wont it go away?

Doakes arrived in their orbit and didn’t even try to play it subtle.

“What the hell’s going on?” he asked. Calm, but with that low rumble of suspicion baked into his tone.

Dexter glanced up—and the moment their eyes met, Doakes saw it.

Guilt.

Not the fake kind Dexter used in his daily performance of humanity. No, this was the raw, sunburned version. The real shit. And it startled them both. Debra looked over her shoulder and finally clocked him.

“Nothing,” she said stiffly, stepping slightly in front of Dexter like a bodyguard who suddenly regretted everything. “Just a sibling disagreement.”

Doakes stared at Dexter.

Hard.

Dexter stared at the ground.

This is bad. This is bad. This is bad. This is bad. This is bad.

Doakes said nothing. Just nodded once and walked off but slower this time. Watching.

Very closely.

Debra let out a breath.

“Christ,” she muttered. “Now he’s going to be up your ass even more.”

Dexter exhaled shakily. “As opposed to before?”

She shot him a look. “Get your shit together, Dexter. Seriously.”

And this time, when she walked off, she didn’t come back.

Dexter stayed behind the van for a long moment.

I used to be good at this.
Keeping it clean. Separated. One box for blood, one box for lies.
But lately? They’re all bleeding together.

He wiped a gloved hand down his face.

Then went back to the body like he was still a man with a job to do.

Even if every pair of eyes—especially Doakes’—was watching for something else entirely.

I’ve looked at hundreds of bodies. Burned. Dismembered. Disposed of in increasingly creative ways. But today, this scene just looks... tired.

Like me.

Blood pooled behind the man’s skull in the soft dirt—classic blunt force trauma. Someone got in close. Personal. Not my style. Sloppy work.

Just focus. Do your job. Cut through the noise.

But my hands feel slow. There’s a mosquito buzzing near my ear, and I let it, because at least it’s a distraction from the way my heart is thudding in the back of my throat. Rita left me. Debra hates me. Doakes is circling like a dog with a scent. And I have a serial killer copycat who doesn’t even respect my aesthetic.

Debra looked at me like I was some pathetic cliché. And she’s not wrong. She yelled at me like I was human. Like I should feel bad for hurting people.

“Cause of death looks consistent with the rest,” I murmur into the recorder, my voice hoarse. “But we’ll confirm with tox and postmortem.”

I don't sound like myself. I sound like I’m narrating a rerun of someone else’s life.

Harry would be ashamed. He’d say I’ve lost discipline.
He’d be right.
He usually is. Was.

I shift my weight. My knee cracks. Everything aches. I didn’t sleep. Again.

Too many feelings.

When did this start? When did it all get so loud inside my head?
I used to be sharp. Cold. Surgical.
Now I’m standing over a body outline and wondering if I should lie down next to it just to take a break.

_____________

The city slips by in a blur of sun-bleached pavement and impatient honks. Doakes drives like he always does. One hand locked at the top, jaw tense. The AC hums, turned up just high enough to keep sweat from collecting under their collars.

Dexter sits in the passenger seat, staring out the window. Eyes half-lidded. Pale. Still looking like he hasn't slept in days. Doakes side-eyes him at a red light.

“You gonna pass out on me, Morgan?”

Dexter doesn't answer right away. He blinks, like waking from a far-off dream.

"No," he mutters. “Just… recalibrating.”

Doakes snorts. “Yeah, well. Try recalibrating with coffee next time. You looked like you were about to keel over there.”

Dexter offers a hollow smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m fine.”

Doakes doesn’t believe him. Not for a second. But he doesn't push. Not yet. He watches the road instead. His fingers drum once against the steering wheel.

“Debra chewed your ass good,” he says casually.

Dexter sighs through his nose. “Thanks for the play-by-play.”

“I’m just saying,” Doakes replies, “when your own sister’s throwing hands at you in front of a goddamn crime scene, maybe you need to start asking what the hell’s wrong with you.”

Dexter leans his head against the window. It’s cool. Unforgiving.

“Good to know.”

Doakes gives him a long, unreadable glance. The light turns green. They don’t talk for a while. The silence stretches, punctuated only by the low hum of the road and a commercial on the radio that neither of them listens to. Dexter closes his eyes. Just for a second.

He hears Doakes exhale.

“You know I didn’t volunteer for this babysitting gig.”

Dexter smirks faintly. Eyes still closed.

“I’m sure the feeling’s mutual.”

“Good.” Doakes nods once. “Just keep your shit together, Morgan. I’m not dragging your passed-out body back to Lundy’s office.”

Dexter opens one eye.

“Noted.”

They ride the rest of the way in silence. Not comfortable, not hostile. Just... worn. Two men who have absolutely nothing in common, sitting in the same car, heading to the same building, both pretending this isn’t as weird as it is. As they pull into the precinct parking lot, Doakes cuts the engine and taps the steering wheel once.

Then glances at Dexter.

“You look like hell.”

Dexter reaches for the door handle. “I feel like recycled hell.”, steps out.

He doesn’t slam the door but he thinks about it.

_____________________________________________

The door clicks shut behind me. I don’t lock it. I don’t even take off my shoes. The city’s noise stays outside, but the noise in my head? Still here. Louder than ever.

My hands ache, from the gloves, from the tension, from everything. I toss my keys onto the kitchen counter. They miss and clatter to the floor. I leave them there. The lights stay off. It’s better that way.

Dark. Unbothered. Safe.

I make it halfway to the bedroom before I stop and lean against the wall. My head is pounding. Like it’s trying to shake me apart from the inside. My eyes sting, and not from sleep deprivation though that’s there too, digging in behind my sockets like tiny nails.

I haven’t slept in... God, I don’t know.

Time’s been bending lately. Hours disappear. Days blur. I keep thinking I’ll catch up, like I’ll hit the right angle and finally breathe again.

But all I do is spiral. I want to scream. Or throw something. Or lie down and melt into the floor. I settle for sitting on the edge of my bed and burying my face in my hands.

I’m so tired. Of pretending I’m okay. Of juggling masks. Of this never-ending guilt trip from the land of the dead.

And worse than Harry’s judging silence, worse than Deb’s disappointment or Rita’s absence, worse than Doakes’ suspicion—

Is Brian.

My brother.
My blood.
The one person who saw me. Understood me. Chose me.
And I killed him.

Because I had to. Because Harry’s code said so. Because it was the “right” thing.

Was it? Was it really?

Would I be spiraling like this if Brian were still here?  Or would I be... free?

I don’t know anymore.

My throat’s tight. I press my palms to my eyes and see flashes. Brian in the shipping container. Brian, smiling even then, like he knew I couldn’t go through with it.

But I did. And now he’s gone. And I’m here.

Sinking. Drowning. Alone.

I miss him. I miss him so much it feels like grief is eating holes through my bones.

I curl sideways into bed without bothering to change. The sheets are cold. Empty. No warmth. No Rita. No Lila. No one. Not even Harry tonight.

Just silence. Tight and bitter.

I close my eyes and wish the world would go quiet.

Or end.

Whichever comes first.

Notes:

Ehhhhh im 50/50 on this chapter, maybe i'll rewrite it

Also we all love doaxter, have some dumm snippets off them
https://www.tumblr.com/erebus-6/789228210434998272/stupid-little-things?source=share

Chapter 5

I open my eyes. It’s still dark but not empty. He’s sitting in the chair across from my bed. Legs crossed. Elbow draped casually over the backrest. Like he belongs here. Like this is just a visit.

Biney.

Not the bloodied version.  This one is calm. Clean. Wearing the same shirt he wore the night I killed him. That shirt haunts me more than the body ever did.

He tilts his head. Smiles. “Hey, little brother.”

I don’t move. My body’s a lead weight. My mouth’s dry. My fingers twitch in the sheets. He’s not real. He’s not real. He’s not real.

“Still trying to lie to yourself?” Brian asks, standing now. Moving. That same eerie, smooth glide. “You don’t sleep. You don’t eat. You try to kill the itch but it won’t go away, will it?”

“You’re not here.”

Brian shrugs, approaching the bed. “Maybe not. But I never really left, did I?”

He sits beside me.

“I did what I had to do.”

“I know,” Brian says. He says it gently. No malice. No sarcasm. Just... sadness. “You followed the Code. You protected Debra. You made Daddy proud.” He pauses, then leans in. “And now you’re unraveling.”

I don’t want to talk about this.
I want to sleep. I want peace.
I want—

“I miss you,” I say, before I can stop it.

Brian smiles again. This time, it hurts.

“I know.”

His hand brushes mine. I don’t flinch. I should.

“You’re lonely,” he says. “Not just the usual Dexter-lonely. Real lonely. You gave up the one person who knew you. For them. For people who’ll never love you for what you are.”

I swallow hard.

“They don’t see you. But I did. I do.”

I close my eyes. Just for a second.

He’s not real. He’s not.

I open them again—

The room is empty. The chair is just a chair. The bed is just a bed.

________________________________________________

Morning – Miami metro

The sun is out. The birds are chirping and Dexter wants to commit a felony just for some silence.

This is what people mean by "a fresh start"? Because I feel like my brain has been microwaved. My head is pounding. Not a dull throb—a sharp, stabbing, someone’s-drilling-through-my-skull kind of pain. Every fluorescent light overhead feels like a personal attack. The sound of the AC vent? A war crime. And I haven’t even made it to my desk yet. I shouldn’t have come in. I should’ve stayed home and slept for fourteen hours.

 I pass by Debra. She gives me a weird look. The kind that’s too knowing. Too sharp.

“Dex,” she starts.

“Can’t talk. Body to process,” Dexter lied, making his steps a bit quicker to disappear.

Nice. Short. Efficient. The less I talk, the fewer lies I have to remember also, my throat is so dry it feels like I swallowed a cactus.

I sit at my computer and stare at the screen for ten full seconds before remembering I didn’t turn it on. I jab the power button with too much force. The screen flickers to life like even it is scared of me. I try to sit still, but I can’t. My leg bounces. My fingers twitch. My jaw hurts from clenching. My eyes are sandpaper.

Masuka walks by, raises an eyebrow as he watches the redhead. “You look like hell, man.”

“Thanks, I had a two way ticket to it” He muttered.

“Just what I needed. A pep talk from a cartoon erection in khakis.”

Masuka laughs.

I didn’t say it out loud, thankfully. Keep it together. You’ve been worse. Remember that time you murdered your own brother? You were fine at work the next day.
... Right?

……….

Maybe not the best comparison.

I tap a few keys. Everything’s too loud. My thoughts are coming in wrong, out of order, too fast. I try to open the case file from yesterday’s crime scene and accidentally click the printer queue instead. Get it together! You’re supposed to be the calm one. The one who doesn’t crack.
The one who doesn’t feel anything.
But I do. I feel like shit.

I reach for my coffee. It’s cold. Of course it is.

Dexter throws it in the trash. Hard. Batista glances over from his office as he heard the cup thunking loudly into the garbage can. Doakes walks past Morgan workplace without looking at him, but he can feel it, the way he slows down just enough.

Great. Now he’s going to file away this moment in his mental Dexter-Is-A-Psycho folder, right next to “blackout drunk in an alley”.

He rubs his temple. No relief. Just pressure. Pressure behind his eyes. Behind his ribs. Like something is swelling inside of him and if he doesn’t let it out—

“Hey, Dex.” Debra again.

I flinch. Not visibly. But I feel it.

“What?”

She holds out a granola bar. “You didn’t eat breakfast, did you?”

I stare at it. I want to throw it across the room. I take it anyway.

“…Thanks.”

Eat the granola bar. Pretend to be human. Pretend your world isn’t cracking down the middle. Pretend you didn’t see your dead brother in a chair last night and wish he’d stayed.

The wrapper crinkles in my hand. I chew. I swallow. It tastes like cardboard. But at least it gives me something to do with my mouth other than scream.

______________

I think I forgot how to blink.

It’s past noon. I know this because I saw the clock. I stared at it for eight minutes and it moved, which proves time still exists. A shame, really.

My legs are sore. My eyes sting.  But no one notices. They don’t ask questions.

I’m Dexter.

Reliable Dexter.

Punctual Dexter.

The human equivalent of low-sodium oatmeal.

I open the file and start inventorying the body.  He sliced the throat all wrong. Not even deep enough to sever the carotid. Sloppy. Obvious. He left bruising. His plastic wrap was industrial grade, not surgical. A rookie move. Amateur hour with blood and duct tape.

I realize I’m gripping the file too tightly and take a breath before someone sees. I smile blandly at a passing tech. She smiles back. I don’t remember her name. Oh well.

In the lab, Masuka jokes about someone asking for latex-free gloves because they’re "too tight around the wrist," and I laugh. I actually laugh. A hollow, barked noise. Everyone seems satisfied with that. No questions. Good. Deb passes me in the hallway later. Doesn’t say anything this time. Just eyes me with the expression of someone who knows a bomb is ticking but doesn’t want to touch it.

You’re right, Deb. I’m dangerous. Just not in the way you think.
I’m not thinking about the copycat anymore. I’m thinking about how I don’t feel real. Like my skin doesn’t fit.
Like I’m a mannequin pretending to be Dexter Morgan, Forensic Analyst, and the paint’s starting to chip.

I grab a coffee. Sip. It tastes like motor oil and acid reflux. I drink the whole thing anyway. By 3pm, I’ve filed two reports, processed one set of prints, and sent a blood panel up to toxicology.

I’m doing everything right.

Technically.

But each motion feels like it’s happening underwater. Distant. Delayed. Like I’m watching myself from the outside.

I want to go home. But I also don’t want to go home because that’s where Harry is.
And Brian.
And Lila’s voice message.
And the part of me I can’t sedate anymore.

I think about Rita.

And then I don’t.

Masuka walks by again. “Hey, you wanna grab a drink later? You look like you could use it.”

“No thanks,” I say, smiling. “I’ve got a report backlog.”

He nods and moves on.

One more lie. Add it to the collection.

Back in my lab, I sit on my stool and click through crime scene photos like I’m watching a screensaver.

I’ve killed men in their final moments of agony and felt more in control than I do right now, wearing khakis and trying not to cry in front of the computer. Fantastic. Really. Good job, Dexter. A+ performance. Very human. Much normal. No one's buying it, though. Doakes knows something. Deb knows something. And Brian—Brian is dead and still knows everything.

The door shuts behind me. I hear it first, the hiss of the seal, the soft click of the lock. A sound I usually associate with control. Security. My territory. But when I turn around and see Doakes standing between me and the only exit, I feel something else.

Cornered.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just stands there, arms crossed, looking like a human battering ram. If he were a shark, I’d already be dead. He’s not hunting. He’s deciding.

I offer him the polite Dexter smile.

"Can I help you with something, Sergeant?"

He doesn't smile back.

“You can stop bullshitting.”

Ah. That kind of visit.

I tilt my head, just enough to look confused, never defensive. “I’m sorry?”

Doakes steps closer. Not aggressive, but not passive either. That tight, steady intensity he carries like a sidearm.

“You’ve been spiraling for days. You look like death. You were blackout drunk a week ago in a parking lot with a bloody shirt and no fucking memory of how you got there.”

I blink slowly. Neutral. Calm.

“That was a... lapse.”

“No shit.”

He doesn’t shout and that’s worse. His voice is quiet, coiled like a snake. Like if he raises it, he’ll lose the thread, and he’s too focused for that.

“You keep showing up on time. You keep filing your reports. You keep acting like nothing’s wrong. But I see it.”

I stay still.

“I saw it when your sister cornered you at the scene. I saw it, when you stood over that body like your brain had left the building. I see it right now.”, he leans in slightly. Just enough to make sure I have to look at him.

“You’re unraveling.”

He’s right. But that doesn’t make this easier.
You don’t feed a wolf honesty and expect it to spare you.

“I’m fine,” I say softly.

Wrong move.

Doakes snorts. “Bullshit. You’re not fine. You’re two skipped meals away from putting your fist through a goddamn wall.”

I glance down. My hands are clenched. He notices. There’s a pause tense, sharp.

“I know something’s going on with you,” he says finally. “I don’t know what the fuck it is—but it’s bigger than you’re letting on.”

I could lie.

Should lie.

But I don’t.

Because for some reason, my mouth moves on its own: “I made a mistake.”

Doakes raises an eyebrow. “You don’t do mistakes, Morgan. You do control. You do precision, you weird neat freak.”

I look at the blood slide on my desk.

And then I look back at him.

“I’m not in control right now.”

Silence. He studies me for a moment longer.

“Is it drugs?”

“No.”

“Alcohol?”

“Not... really.”

He nods like that tracks. Like "not really" is the closest thing to honesty I’ve ever given him. Then, something shifts in his face. A flicker, almost something, almost... curiosity.

“Is it that fucking British woman?”

I say nothing which is saying everything.

He scoffs. “Christ.”

Honestly, I expected more judgment.

But instead, he sighs. Runs a hand down his face. Paces once.

“Look. I don’t care about your drama. I don’t care if your little girlfriend’s got you twisted in knots. I do care that I’m supposed to be working with you and you’re acting like you haven’t slept in a month.”

I almost tell him he’s wrong but he’s not.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” Doakes says. “I need you to be present.”

And there it is. The closest thing to grace I’m gonna get from this man.

Dexter didn’t speak. He sat there, still as ever, hands loose at his sides. Blank-faced. The kind of silence that felt less like stonewalling and more like dissociation.

And Doakes had had it. He stepped back toward him.

“You think this is a joke, Morgan?” His voice was low, sharp, all heat under pressure. “You think you can sit there with that fucking mannequin face and play dumb with me?”

Dexter barely blinked. Looks like insomnia was catching up on him. Doakes grabbed him by the hair, fist curling tight in the back, yanking his head up until their eyes met. The others jaw twitched but otherwise didn’t resist. Doakes' other hand came up, rough fingers digging into Dexter’s cheek, squeezing until the redheads mouth parted just slightly, involuntarily.

“There he is,” he muttered. “You do have some life under there.”

Still, no reaction. No flinch. Just wide, cold eyes locked on his. That calm only made it worse.

“You’re gonna give me something,” Doakes hissed. “Because I’m not dragging your twitchy, burned-out ass through another crime scene while you float six inches off the ground.”

He squeezed a little harder. Dexter let out the faintest sound, barely a breath but his eyes never left Doakes’.

Dexter didn’t move.
Didn’t dare to.

Doakes still stood close, too close. Breathing steady, controlled, but his eyes were locked on Dexter like he was trying to burn through him. One hand still on his jaw, thumb pressing beneath the hinge just hard enough to hold him there. Dexter’s neck was tilted back, mouth slightly open—more from the grip than any willingness.

"You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” Doakes said, voice dark, almost calm. “Every time someone gets close, you disappear. Into your little freak brain. You hide in plain sight, but I see it. Every second.”

 

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” Doakes growled, voice low, hot with restrained violence. “Every time someone gets close, you vanish. Slip behind that dead-eyed stare. Into your little freak brain.”

He shoved Dexter hard against the wall, forearm pressing into his jaw. Not enough to bruise—yet. Just enough to hold him there. Like a pinned insect.

“I see it. Every second. You’re not invisible to me, motherfucker. You never were.”

Dexter blinked once. Deliberately. The pain didn’t register—not like it would for most people. But the pressure? That was data. Leverage. A signal. Dexter didn’t resist. Resistance invites chaos. And chaos is messy. He blinked slowly, cataloguing. Pressure: controlled, but escalating. Location: isolated corner of the precint. No cameras here. Doakes was too careful for that. So was Dexter.

Part of him, the part that wore the human suit, wanted to say something flippant. Something light enough to float the moment back to safety.

But Doakes’s grip said no. Said try it, and I’ll shatter you.

Doakes leaned in, voice dropping to something more dangerous than a shout.

“Let’s see how deep that act goes.”

His thumb moved—traced the corner of Dexter’s mouth like he was drawing a map. Dexter held still. Calculating. Not resisting wasn’t weakness. Not yet. It was input. Pattern. Test response. Observe outcome.

Then Doakes pushed two fingers past Dexter’s lips.

Deliberate. Controlled.

Dexter’s breath caught, involuntary. That surprised him. And Doakes saw it. Noted it. Like tagging a specimen.

Dexter didn’t bite. Too predictable. Too reactive. He held, motionless. Cold. Watching Doakes back. And huh.

The weight of them, solid, rough-skinned, tasting faintly of salt and gun oil, rested heavy against his tongue. Not entirely unpleasant. Not in a sensual way, of course. Dexter wasn’t wired for that. But there was something… oddly grounding about it.

You don’t get many moments like this, he thought mildly. Pinned, held, tested. A physical examination of the monster beneath the mask.

He liked the weight. Not the intimacy of it, that was irrelevant. But the symbolism. Being made to hold something. Not to speak, not to act, just… hold. A command disguised as touch.

He was thinking.

Not about stopping this. About using it.

About the story he could tell if he needed to. The mask he could wear. The look he could give the next time they were in front of a lieutenant. Submissive? Threatened? Humiliated? Make the Sergeant back off on him.

He could play that.

Doakes smirked. Just barely.

“I thought so,” he said, voice like gravel. “You don’t bite. You obey like a mutt.”

Dexter inhaled sharply. His brain flagged the scent, sweat, oil, powder. A cop’s hands. A killer’s hands. Not so different from his own. Dexter inhaled sharply through his nose. His tongue moved slightly around the fingers, not intentionally, just adjusting. They were warm. Tasted like metal and tension.

So this is what it feels like to be handled, Dexter thought. Manhandled, to be precise. Maybe even puppeteered. He could see why most people found it humiliating. He, on the other hand, found it… useful.

Doakes pulled his fingers back slowly, watching Dexter like a trigger of a gun.

“You think you’re in control,” he muttered, stepping back like he hadn’t just crossed ten lines. “But you’re not.”

And just like that, he was gone. Turned his back and walked away.

Dexter didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not yet.

Lips still parted. Pulse racing faster than it should.

Not fear. Not arousal. Something stranger. Something useful.

He logged the moment. Catalogued every gesture, every word. Later, he’d dissect it. Turn it into advantage. Into leverage. Into a plan.

For now he stayed exactly where he was, lips still parted slightly, heart hammering so loud he could hear it in his teeth.

The silence returned.

Not comfortable.

Not safe.

Just thick with the kind of tension that doesn’t go away—it evolves.

And Dexter…
Dexter didn’t know if he hated it. Or needed it.

….its been a long day.

 

___________________

Evening - Dexters Morgans Apartment

He hadn’t meant to sleep. Just lie down, reset the system. Wash off the tension clinging to his skin like blood. But now the room was quiet and dark and too warm, and Dexter’s breath came in slow, uneven pulls.

He was half-awake. Half-dreaming. At first, it was just warmth. The kind that blooms low in the belly and hums in the blood. He turned on his stomach, pillow tucked under his chest. The sheets cool against his bare legs. Then came pressure, faint and rhythmic. Hips shifting. Almost unconsciously. Grinding against the mattress with lazy insistence.

Just a slow, instinctive grind into the mattress. The lazy kind of friction that built just enough heat to keep going. Over and over. Like his body had found the one rail of pleasure and latched on, unaware or uncaring, that his mind hadn’t signed off.

His brow twitched. He made a soft, uncertain sound into the pillow. And still, his hips kept rocking. Slower now, then a little faster. A messy rhythm, desperate and inefficient. Dexter had no idea when it started. Only that it wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t.

The sheets were warm beneath him. Damp. Every breath was too shallow. His cock ached, painfully stiff, trapped between skin and cotton. Heat building where skin met friction. Each motion fed the next, groggy, clumsy, desperate.

A muffled moan slipped out, shocked, almost frightened by itself.

What the hell is this? he thought. His brain reached for control, but it was too slow. The need had already taken the wheel.

Doakes’s imagined hand gripped his neck in the dream. Not violently but firm. Possessive. And Dexter’s hips jerked again, mind spiraling into that pressure, that surrender, that loss of control.

It felt good—but more than that, it felt urgent. His body didn’t care about the analysis. It wanted—needed—this.

And worse?

He did, too.

He pressed down harder. Gasped. His thighs trembled. Sweat bloomed across his back. He knew he should stop. That this wasn’t normal. Wasn’t him. But the pressure was so good, and it was working, and—

Doakes’s voice slithered up from the dark corners of his mind.

“You obey.”

Dexter groaned quiet, pathetic. His toes curled. His hand fisted the sheet beside him like a lifeline. He ground harder, faster, completely out of rhythm now, just chasing it, chasing it—

And then he came.

Hot and sharp. A twitching, helpless spasm into his boxers. A sound punched out of his chest, something between a moan and a sob. His whole body went tight, then loose, then still.

The fan spun above him. The room didn’t move but Dexter was shaking. His breath came in ragged bursts. Shame crawled up the back of his throat, hot and bitter. He could feel the wet cling of fabric, the sweat pooling at the base of his spine. His face was buried in the pillow, half hoping he could smother the moment out of existence.

This wasn’t him. He didn’t do this. He didn’t need, didn’t want.

Except he had. Badly.

He rolled onto his side slowly, cock still twitching in overstimulated guilt, and stared at nothing.

He’d gotten himself off to the thought of Doakes. Not violence. Not revenge.

Doakes’s voice. Doakes’s hands. Doakes’s control.

His whole body recoiled from the thought—but too late.

He reached for the discarded shirt on the floor, wiping himself with angry, efficient motions. Like cleaning a crime scene. But there was no getting rid of the evidence in his head. Or the heat still clinging to his skin.

Formularende

One moment, he was lying in bed, flushed and furious and trying to pretend his shame didn’t still cling to him like sweat. The next, he wasn’t alone.

A low, familiar voice cut through the quiet like a scalpel. “Well, that was... sad.”

Dexter sat up so fast he nearly choked on his own breath. Brian stood near the window, arms crossed, casual as ever, smirk etched across his face like it was carved in bone. Dexter stared. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Brian tilted his head. “Just thought I’d drop in. Seemed like a good time. You know,deep emotional turmoil, unresolved sexual tension, crippling embarrassment.”

Dexter dragged a hand down his face. “You’ve got five seconds to leave before I start fantasizing about killing you again.”

Brian laughed. “Please. Like you can even think straight right now.” He sauntered closer, gaze flicking to the crumpled shirt on the floor, the one Dexter had just used to clean himself up. “Yikes,” he said, “Really making the family proud, little brother.”

 “Get out.”

The other ignored him, of course. He always did. “You jerk off over the Sergeant and I’m the problem?”

Dexter’s stomach twisted. “I didn’t—”

 “You did.” Brian’s grin sharpened. “And you liked it.”

Dexter’s fists clenched in the sheets. “He touched me. It wasn’t supposed to happen. I didn’t want it.”

Brian raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t want it... or didn’t want to admit you liked it?”

Silence. Brian’s voice dropped, low and dangerous now, but not unkind. “You’re slipping, Dex. Getting sloppy. Letting people inside that little concrete vault you call a soul.”  He stood upright again, stepping closer, looking down at him. “And worse?” he added. “You’re letting him in. Of all people.”

Dexter looked away, jaw tight. Brian softened. Just a fraction. “You think this is about sex?” The other didn’t answer. Brian crouched beside the bed, voice gentler now. “It’s not. It’s about control. It always is, with you.”

Dexter looked at him then. Quiet. Wounded. Barely hiding the tremble in his fingers. He felt like when he was in that container full of blood. “I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he admitted. Brian smiled. And for once, it wasn’t cruel. “That’s the fun part, little brother,” he said softly. “You’re finally feeling something.”

Then he leaned in, whispered close to Dexter’s ear. “Let’s see how far it goes.”

And like a ghost, he was gone.

 

Morning - Dexter Morgan's Apartment

The alarm didn’t wake him. He was already awake. Hadn’t really slept. Just lay there, eyes open, body still, brain screaming in a low, relentless hum. Brian was gone. Of course. Whether hallucination or something worse, he always knew how to leave before the consequences could catch up.

Dexter sat up, slow. His mouth was dry. His skin itched. There were fingerprints on his jaw, and he wasn’t sure if they were Doakes’s or his own. He got up. Mechanically. The routine did the heavy lifting. His body moved through it like it had done a thousand times because it had.

Shower. Too hot. Too short.

Toothbrush. Too fast.

Coffee. Too bitter. Not strong enough.

His hands trembled just a little when he poured it. He ignored that. Filed it somewhere beneath “irrelevant biological reactions.”

The worst part?

There was no silence anymore.

Not real silence. Not the comforting kind he used to sink into. It was filled now, with Brian’s voice, with Doakes’s hand on his face, with Deb’s yelling and Rita’s tears and the sound of Harry’s judgment in his bones.

He hated it.

He missed... emptiness.

Dexter stood in the middle of his living room, coffee in hand, staring at nothing.

Then his phone buzzed.

A text. From Deb.  “Don’t be late.”

He exhaled. Drained half the coffee in one gulp. Grabbed his keys.

 

Miami Metro – 7:24 AM

He walked in like he hadn’t spent the night disassociating in his apartment. Like he hadn’t yelled at the ghost of his dead brother. Like he didn’t still taste blood in the back of his throat — not from violence, but from holding too much inside.

He passed Deb in the hallway.

She didn’t speak.

She just looked at him — that look. Arms crossed, jaw set, still furious. But also worried. She didn’t say it, but it was in her eyes.

“You look like shit, Dex.”

He gave a half-shrug. The best he could do. He didn’t want to deal with it. With any of it.

Rita’s absence. Lila’s messages. Doakes’s stare. Brian’s ghost. The copycat. The pressure. The hunger.

God, the hunger.

He walked faster.

 

Blood Lab – 7:36 AM

He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, eyes shut.

Ten seconds.

That’s all he wanted. Ten seconds where no one could see that he was unraveling.

Ten seconds of—

“Morgan.”

Dexter’s eyes snapped open. Seriously?!

Doakes. Of course. Dexter didn’t even have time to fake a yawn before the door creaked open behind him again. Footsteps. Heavy. Decisive.

He didn’t need to look. Dexter sighed inwardly. Here we go again. The Sergeant stood in the doorway like he was entering a war zone. Or a very confusing therapy session. His arms were crossed so tight across his chest it looked like he was physically holding something in.

Dexter glanced up from a blood spatter report, blinking slowly. “Morning.”

Doakes didn’t answer. He stepped inside. Closed the door.

Dexter raised an eyebrow. “Okay. Sure. Come in.”

The other paced once. Then stopped. Looked at the microscope. Looked at the window. Looked at Dexter. Then cleared his throat, violently, like he was trying to hack out a confession.

“You slept alright?” Doakes asked, gruff.

Dexter blinked. “No.”

A beat.

Doakes nodded like that made sense. Then frowned like it didn’t.

More silence.

Dexter went back to his paperwork.

The other took a sharp breath in through his nose. Like he was about to say something normal. Like, “Hey, about yesterday,” or maybe even “Sorry I shoved my finger in your mouth to test your threshold for madness and/or affection.”

But instead he said:

“I´m not gay.”

Dexter froze mid-note.

He slowly lifted his head. “I… okay?”

“I just—grew up a certain way. Lotta expectations. Lotta macho bullshit. Marine Corps. You know. It wasn’t exactly... open-minded.”

Dexter blinked at him, entirely too tired to guess where this was going, but intrigued by the sheer spiraling energy radiating off the man.

Doakes kept going.

“I’m sayin’—not that I thought you were gay. Or that it matters. You could be. Or… not. I don’t know what you are, Morgan. Honestly, I’ve stopped trying to figure it out. You’re like a damn Rubik’s cube with a weird blood fascination.”

Dexter opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. “I’m flattered?” he offered, unsure.

Doakes pointed at him,sharply, like don’t you dare.

“This ain't about feelings, Morgan. This is just—I don’t like fucking weird tension or bullshit from people. I don’t like not knowing where people stand.”

“Okay.” Dexter nodded. “And where do I stand?”

Doakes stared at him. And, despite himself, looked vaguely haunted.

“You sucked ,” he muttered.

Dexter blinked then flushed. Entirely against his will.

Doakes flushed.

“We are never talking about this again.”

“Of course not.”

More silence. They both looked at the floor like it had suddenly become very fascinating.

Finally, Doakes sighed, “You got anything useful from the scene yesterday?”

Dexter straightened, grateful for the pivot. “Yes. Spatter directionality was inconsistent. No arterial spray. Which means the victim was already dead when—”

The Sergeant held up a hand. “Talk nerd slower, Morgan. I need coffee first.”

Dexter exhaled. “Debra’s probably making some. Or Masuka. He makes it weird, but it’s strong.”

Doakes grumbled something under his breath and made for the door. Before he left, he paused. Looked over his shoulder.

“You’re still a freak.”

Dexter gave him a blank look. “Alright.”

Doakes scoffed and walked out. Morgan finally let himself relax and then went right back to spiraling.

______________
Miami Metro Briefing Room, 10:03 AM

Another goddamn debrief.

Doakes stood in the corner of the room like a watchdog, arms folded, eyes narrow, jaw clenched just tight enough to give himself a stress migraine by noon. His shirt collar was already sticking to his neck. Because of course it was. Florida was hot, the case was cold.

Across the table, Lundy was arranging papers like a man who enjoyed clipboards more than human connection. His voice was smooth, calm, steady, like a therapist who’d seen too many corpses and not enough action.

“We’re circling in,” Lundy said with that calm white-man gusto that made Doakes itch. “This Person is smart. Organized. Methodical. But not infallible. They’ve made mistakes.”

Doakes scoffed under his breath.

You mean like the mistake of killing two dozen people and leaving zero DNA? Real fucking sloppy.

Masuka, fuck his sweaty little creep soul, raised his hand like he was in fifth grade. “What kind of mistakes are we talking about? Like... psycho-sexual projection? Or like... actual trail-of-blood type mistakes?”

Lundy blinked slowly. “More like shifting M.O. Minor inconsistencies. Forensics anomalies.”

Doakes followed Lundy’s gaze, straight to Dexter, who was sitting too damn still for a guy being told the Bay Harbor Butcher was slipping up. Eyes dead. Posture perfect. Just enough movement to fake interest. No more.

Motherfucker probably practiced that look in the mirror.

Debra was next to Morgan, chewing a pen like it owed her money. She kept glancing between Dexter and Lundy like she was playing mental ping-pong and losing hard. Probably regretting that burst outa crime scene. Christ, what was it with this department and emotional disasters?

Batista was on the other side of the table, taking notes like this was a marriage seminar and not a serial killer hunt. He even had a color-coded highlighter set. Bless his optimistic little heart.

Doakes ground his molars and leaned forward slightly, arms still crossed.

“What’s the new theory?” he asked. “That the guy suddenly forgot how to clean up after himself? Because so far this 'butcher' has left less evidence than a fart in a wind tunnel.”

Lundy gave him that slow, diplomatic nod, the kind that said thank you for your input, Sergeant, please shut the hell up now.

“Not forgotten. Rushed,” Lundy corrected. “Something has changed. We think the Killer may be distracted. Emotional.”

Doakes didn’t even have to look. He felt the tension radiate off Dexter like steam off a pressure cooker. Just a flicker. Just enough.

Bingo.

Lundy went on, but Doakes wasn’t listening anymore. He was watching the blood geek. The way Morgan’s fingers tapped his folder. The way he avoided eye contact when Lundy said the word emotional. The way he looked like he hadn’t slept in three days.

Doakes tilted his head just slightly.

Oh, you slippery little fucker. You’re spiraling.

And not the I-got-too-drunk-at-Jackson’s-bar kind of spiraling. This was different. Doakes knew that look. He’d seen it in the mirror too many times. Not grief. Not guilt. Control loss. The one thing Dexter Morgan couldn’t afford. Lundy kept talking, outlining timelines and victim grids and some crap about outlier disposal patterns. Doakes tuned it all out. He just stared across the table, jaw tight.

You got something to hide, Morgan. I don’t know what the hell it is yet, but I’m closer than you think. And the more your shiny little mask slips—

Dexter suddenly sneezed.

Doakes flinched.

Everyone turned.

Dexter blinked, sniffled, and pulled out a tissue with polite confusion, like a Victorian widow.

“Excuse me,” he said softly.

Doakes stared.

He’s a fucking robot. A tired, sniffling robot,

Masuka leaned over to Batista and whispered way too loudly, “You think he maybe needs to get laid?”

Dexter didn’t even flinch. Doakes did.

God, I hate this job.

Lundy cleared his throat again. “Let’s reconvene at 2 p.m. for cross-checking M.E. reports and reinterviews. I want fresh eyes. No assumptions.”

Doakes pushed off the wall and headed for the door, brushing past Dexter on the way out.

He didn’t say anything.

But he looked at him.

And Dexter looked back.

And for one split second—

—they both knew.

This was gonna get ugly.

And probably, somehow, stupidly personal.

Goddammit.

11:27 AM — Gym, Miami Metro PD

Doakes slammed a 25-pound plate onto the bar with a loud clang, the sound echoing through the mostly empty precinct gym. He hadn’t even changed into gym clothes, he was still in his button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up, dress shoes squeaking against the rubber mat.

Because he was not okay.

No, he was spiraling.

Over Dexter Morgan.

And that... thing that happened.

He grunted as he pushed the barbell up, then down, then up again.

What the actual goddamn hell was that?

The Weirdo didn’t even flinch. He didn’t recoil or snap or bite, not even instinctively. Just let it happen. Like it was nothing. Like Doakes hadn’t just violated several human resources policies and about thirty years of repressed Southern homophobia.

Doakes gritted his teeth and pushed harder. His biceps burned. Good.

Maybe he could sweat this bullshit out of his bloodstream. He racked the weights with a frustrated clang and paced. That wasn’t just a dominance move gone weird.

That wasn’t normal.

That was—

...what the fuck even was that?

He wasn’t attracted to Dexter. No. No. Hell no. He hated that smug, detached creep. He wanted to punch him half the time. He wanted to unravel his secrets, not—

Not—

He rubbed his hands over his face and groaned.

Goddamn it, James. Get it together.

Okay. Step back.

He wasn’t mad because of the... finger thing. He was mad because Dexter took it. Like he was testing him, not the other way around. Like Doakes was the one under the microscope, being dissected and studied.

He wasn’t the predator in that moment.

He was the prey.

And he’d walked right into it.

That smug little shit had the nerve to act like it didn’t even rattle him. He didn’t even spit after. Just blinked like a malfunctioning android like Doakes hadn’t—

Jesus Christ.

He dropped down and started doing pushups. Fast. Aggressive. Just to stop thinking.

One.

Two.

Three.

“You wanna play games, Morgan?” he muttered under his breath. “You picked the wrong motherfucker.”

Ten.

Eleven.

Twelve.

But even now, sweaty and furious and half-deranged, he couldn’t stop seeing it. Dexter’s blank eyes. That flushed look. That pause, just long enough to register what was happening. And that little flicker of breath.

Doakes stopped. Collapsed onto his elbows.

He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling.

“...Fuck.”

Was this... was this turning into a thing?

No.

Nope.

He was gonna shut this shit down. For good. No more games. No more weird, sexual tension interrogation moments. No more power struggles that ended in—

God, what even was that.

He dragged a towel over his face and stood up, trying to yank his sanity back into its upright position. He was gonna go back out there, file some reports, maybe scream at Masuka for breathing weird, and avoid Dexter Morgan like he had a contagious brain virus.

That was the plan.

Clean. Simple. Sensible.

 

1:14 PM – Miami Metro Homicide Division

The scent of burnt coffee, paperwork, and long-term disappointment hit Doakes the second he stepped back into the precinct. His shirt clung damp to his back, his jaw was tight, and his eyes did a full sweep of the room before his brain gave him permission to relax. Barely.

Dexter was at his desk.

Typing.

Calm.

Unbothered.

Doakes grunted. Hard. He wasn’t gonna think about that right now. No. He was gonna get a drink of water, eat a protein bar like a normal person, and hopefully not think about fingers or mouths or—

"YO!" Masuka’s voice cracked across the room like a gunshot. “BAR NIGHT, BITCHES!”

Doakes sighed. Subtle. Barely.

Dexter didn’t even look up from his screen. Which somehow made it worse. Masuka was already bouncing toward the center of the bullpen, sunglasses on his head, his badge clipped on sideways like it was some kind of tragic fashion statement.

“Happy hour, my dudes and dudettes! First round’s on me. Hell, make it the first three!” he announced with far too much enthusiasm for someone surrounded by corpses and overworked detectives.

Deb groaned. “I swear to god, if you try to take me to that weird tiki bar again—”

“Tiki Thrust has $4 mai tais and a DJ that plays 90s techno remixes of Smash Mouth, Deb,” Masuka said solemnly, like he was naming his firstborn child. “Don’t disrespect the temple.”

Doakes was already walking past him to get to the water cooler when Masuka popped up beside him like a fungus.

“C’mon, Sarge. You’ve been walking around all intense lately—more than usual,” he said, elbowing him. “You need a drink. Or a vacation. Or sex. Maybe all three.”

Doakes turned his head very slowly. “Say that again, Masuka.”

Masuka blinked. “Uh... the vacation part?”

Doakes stared him down until the man physically retreated. Then he poured himself a cup of water and chugged it.

Dexter, traitorous bastard that he was, finally looked up and offered the blandest little half-smile imaginable. “You going, Sergeant?”

That voice. That face.

Doakes nearly cracked the paper cup in half. This fucker knew what he was playing

“Yeah sure” he snapped, and walked off.

Notes:

Hope you all enjoy the chapter :)
*me silently dying in the corner bc i wrote "smut" about them*
I was literally stuck on how i can make the sexual tension start. In my head Dexter has an oral Fixation, like people just on how he devours food like... O-O
Comments and Kudos are appreciated

Chapter 6

7:47- PM Tiki Thrust Lounge

The music was some bastardized remix of Smash Mouth’s “All Star” and what sounded like dolphin calls. Pineapple-shaped lights blinked from the ceiling like they were dying. Everything smelled like coconut and bad decisions.

Doakes hated it here.

He sat at the corner of the sticky bamboo-patterned bar, a single bourbon sweating in front of him. He didn’t sip it. He didn’t even look at it. He just glared, at the neon tiki masks on the wall, at Masuka who was already doing something deeply unholy to a karaoke mic, and most of all… at Dexter Morgan, who was nursing a drink with all the smug serenity of a guy that just blackmailed god.

He wasn’t avoiding looking at Dexter. He wasn’t. He just happened to be keeping tabs on him subtly. In a homicide-adjacent way.

“Hey.”

Debra’s voice clipped in from the side, louder than necessary, already two drinks deep if the flushed cheeks and tiki umbrella in her hair meant anything. Doakes sighed slightly. She dropped onto the stool next to him and groaned, sipping from what looked like an electric blue death trap served in a glass.

“You look like someone shoved a pineapple up your actual soul, Sarge,” she said, propping her chin on one hand and side-eyeing him.

“I’m enjoying myself,” Doakes deadpanned.

Deb squinted at him. “You’re scowling into a drink like it owes you child support.”

He grunted. That wasn’t not true.

She nudged his arm, then looked down into her drink. “Hey… can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“It’s about Dexter.”

And just like that, his jaw flexed. Of course it was.

She leaned closer. Not whispering. Not exactly loud either. Just slurring with purpose.

“I know he’s… weird. And I know he’s a freak about privacy. But lately, he’s just… I dunno. Wrong. Like he’s unraveling. Or melting. Or one day I’m gonna come home and find he’s started a worm farm and won’t make eye contact anymore.”

Doakes blinked. “The fuck?”

“I mean it!” she insisted, gesturing wildly. “He doesn’t say anything, but I can tell. He looks tired. Real tired. Like, ‘cursed by a weird fucking voodoo guy’ tired.”

Doakes stared at her. “Morgan. What exactly do you think I do with that information?”

She shrugged and swirled her drink. “I dunno. You’re the only one he reacts to.”

He scoffed. “React? He looks at me like im gonna but him through the wringer.”

“Well...yeah,” she said, lifting her eyebrows. “You kinda do have that ‘I’ll eat your liver with a side of crunch’ vibe.”

He didn’t dignify that.

She slumped back in the stool. “He needs someone to make him talk. Like, shake him by the shoulders until he explodes or cries or...I dunno...does a human emotion.”

Doakes drummed his fingers against the bar, “Maybe he doesn’t want to talk,” he said, voice low.

Deb gave him a look. “Too fucking bad.”

He raised an eyebrow.

She grinned. “You’re scary. You make grown men wet themselves. If anyone’s gonna crack that hollow-boned weirdo open, it’s you.”

Doakes grunted. Again. Louder this time.

“Don’t tell him I said that,” she added, drinking her weird blue cocktail in one gulp.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Deb clinked her glass against his and she order another cocktail with some ridiculous name on it. Then, against his better judgment, he looked back at Dexter again. Still sipping. Still composed. Still too quiet. Doakes frowned and finally took a sip of his bourbon. It didn’t help. Fuck

*_____________________________*

Dexter leaned against the table at one of the lounges in the corner, elbow pressed to the sticky bamboo trim, straw bobbing absently in a drink that was too red, too sweet, and far too ridiculous for the week he’d had. He hadn’t taken a sip.

He wasn’t paying attention to it. He was watching.

Debra and Doakes. They were sitting close. Not too close, but close enough. Her hand waved as she talked. Doakes didn’t move much, just stared. Listened. Debra laughed once, and Dexter’s throat tightened. He couldn’t hear them. Not over the sound of Masuka yelling “WOOO” into a karaoke mic while the intro to “Pony” by Ginuwine played behind him. Not over the thrum of drunk conversation or clinking glass or whatever awful animal-print soundscape the bar was calling “ambiance.”

But he could see.

Doakes was leaning forward now. Not a lot, but enough that it made Dexter tense. Enough to make him want to get up. Leave. Intervene. Crawl out of his skin. Debra was talking about him. She had to be. His palms were sweating. His drink shifted slightly in his grip. He couldn’t swallow. His shirt collar felt too tight. His pulse, too loud.

Then Batista appeared beside him, smelling like rum and coconut lotion, holding two plastic shot cups filled with something green. Dexter shook his head, “Don’t feel like it Angel.”

“You look like you’re watching your own funeral, amigo,” he said, pressing one into Dexter’s hand anyway. “Here. You need this.”

Dexter blinked at the shot. Did he?

Yes. Yes, he did.

He threw it back in one gulp. No grimace. No breath. Nothing. Batista whooped and clapped him on the back. “That’s the spirit!”

Dexter reached for his original drink. Drained it in two pulls. It tasted like sickly sweet cherries and lies. He didn’t care. He needed more.

Batista flagged the bartender and smiled. “This is gonna be fun.”

The world was tilting slightly after maybe his sixth….seventh? shot. Not in the dramatic, spinning way Dexter had once seen in college, when guys were trying to impress each other with vodka and poor choices. This was… smoother. Softer. Like the floor had just remembered it was actually the deck of a boat, and now it wanted to gently rock him into oblivion. He was sitting…probably. He was on a stool, or maybe a booth. His head was definitely resting on something vaguely wooden.

His drink was gone.

Again.

That was… concerning. Maybe.

"You're gonna feel this tomorrow," someone, probably Masuka, snorted nearby.

Dexter lifted his head slowly, blinking at the warm tiki lights and fake palm fronds overhead like they were stars. Not real. None of it felt real. He looked down at the melted ice in his glass. “I had a plan.”

“What?” Masuka asked, sliding into the booth across from him with another round.

“I had a plan,” Dexter repeated, pointing at the glass on the table like it had betrayed him. “Go home. Sleep. Avoid crimes of passion and emotional entanglement.”

“You’re so bad at that last one,” Masuka giggled.

Dexter scowled. Or tried to. His face didn't cooperate.

This is fine. This is good. I’m blending. I’m engaging in normal social rituals. I am not thinking about the copycat killer, Rita and the Kids, my sister knowing too much, or James Doakes shoving his finger into my mouth like some unholy dominance game. Nope. Just alcohol and repressed panic. Cheers to that.

Masuka shoved a plate of something fried toward him. “Eat. You look like you’re about to float off the planet.”

Dexter poked a jalapeño popper with one finger. It squished. He vaguely remembered saying no to drinking. Hadn't he? Once? Then he remembered Debra at the far end of the bar with Doakes, and suddenly the jalapeño popper was halfway to his mouth.

“Did you see them?” he slurred, eyes narrowing. “Talking?”

“Who?”

“My sister,” Dexter said, trying to sit up and immediately regretting it. “And Doakes. Whispering. Plotting. Probably... emotionally bonding.”

Masuka blinked. “Dude, you’re, like, weirdly jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” Dexter hissed. “I’m… monitoring a potential threat to my ecosystem.”

“You sound like Discovery Channel.”

“I am the Discovery Channel.”

Masuka snorted so hard he nearly choked on a mozzarella stick. The other only slumped forward again, face pressing into the table with a soft thud. Everything was fuzzy. His limbs didn’t feel like they belonged to him. The warmth in his chest wasn’t cozy, it was chaos, liquified.

He missed Brian.

He hated Lila.

He was terrified of Rita.

He wanted to strangle Doakes.

And he couldn’t remember the last time he slept. The world wobbled again. Musik filling his ears. The smell of oversweet drinks, greasy food, some weird coconut scent around the whole place.

Then—

“Dex?”

Debra’s voice, near his shoulder. He didn’t answer. Just mumbled something into the table. Wow, how pitiful, he thought annoyed.

“Jesus,” she sighed. “You’re drunk.”

He lifted his hand slowly. Gave her a thumbs up without lifting his head.

“Yeah,” she muttered. “No shit.”

He still didn’t lift his head, but he did rotate it enough to press one cheek to the table and glare up at Debra like a sleepy, betrayed cat that you just woke up.

“You,” he muttered, the word slurring. “Traitor.”

Debra blinked, confused, still holding her drink like she wasn’t entirely sure whether she should sip it or throw it in his face. “What?”

“You were talking to Doakes,” Dexter growled, or tried to. It came out more like a pouting grumble. Debra raised an eyebrow and sat down next to him with the heavy sigh of a woman who knew this conversation was about to be a whole thing. “Okay, one—he was sitting alone. Two—it’s called talking. Like normal humans do. Something you’re clearly not fucking good at.”

“You whispered,” Dexter said, finger flopping vaguely in her direction. “That’s, like, shady. You were whisper-talking. Laughing. What the hell were you laughing about with him?”

Debra stared at him, then barked out a laugh. “You’re jealous. Oh my god, you’re jealous.”

Dexter recoiled dramatically, like her words were coated in acid. “No. I’m—I'm monitoring! Surveillance! You’re being reckless. You don’t know what he’s capable of. You know how he annoys me at the job and calls me names.”

Debra, now laughing so hard she nearly dropped her drink, clutched her side and wheezed. “You’re jealous and drunk and petty. Oh, this is fucking great. Should I be taking notes? Is this what it looks like when  you have a meltdown?”

Dexter sat up straighter, or tried to. His spine was on strike. “I’m not—I don’t—He’s not allowed to talk to you like that!”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Debra swatted his shoulder. “You don’t get to gatekeep who gets to talk to me. You’re not my boyfriend, you’re my pain-in-the-ass brother.”

“You’re my only friend,” Dexter mumbled into his drink, immediately forgetting it was empty and pouting when the straw made that sad sucking sound.

Debra rolled her eyes but her face softened a little. “Jesus, Dex…”

He squinted at her. “He’s mean. And sweaty.”

“You are emotionally constipated”

Dexter grumbled. “Rude.”

“True.”

They stared at each other for a long moment before Dexter slumped forward again with a deep, exaggerated groan.

“Everything’s falling apart,” he said dramatically. “My code, my life, my liver.”

“You don’t even drink, you lightweight.”

“You drank with Doakes,” he groaned, like that fact alone was a betrayal worthy of exile.

“I didn’t drink with him, I talked to him. God. Chill the fuck out. What are you, five?”

“I’m six,” Dexter mumbled.

“You’re drunk and weird.”

“You’re a traitor with bad taste in feds to sleep with.”

Debra snorted but a blush was forming on her cheeks. “And you’re a grumpy blood geek with bad taste in everything. You’re lucky I love you, you dickweed.”

Dexter made a vague hand motion that could’ve meant “I love you too” or “bring me more jalapeño poppers,” but either way, he was done arguing for now. He let his head drop back to the table again with a thunk.

“Tell Batista to bring me a sippy cup,” he mumbled.

“You’re the fucking worst Captain Creeptastic,” Debra said, rubbing his back.

Dexter groaned like a dying animal.

And somewhere in the bar, Masuka cheered as someone ordered a round of shots, completely unaware that Dexter Morgan was having a drunken, code-based emotional breakdown three feet away from the karaoke machine.

And Debra took one look at her brother, slumped over their sticky table with a paper umbrella stuck to his forehead and muttering something about betrayal and jalapeño poppers, and realized she had a problem.

Correction: another problem.

Masuka was currently body-rolling against a bamboo pole like a stripper at a haunted luau, and Batista was dancing so enthusiastically that his ID badge had flown off and landed in someone’s piña colada. That ruled them out. Debra glanced at her half-empty drink, sighed, and slid it away. She wasn’t exactly in peak driving condition either, not that she couldn’t manage, but there were laws and she had some lingering fucking Christ respect for them.

Unfortunately. Which meant she had one option left. One deeply grumpy, vaguely terrifying, often shouty option.

She turned her head slowly and spotted him across the bar. Doakes, still seated stiffly in a corner like he was the designated bouncer for everyone's poor life choices. He was nursing his bourbon still, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, very clearly Not Enjoying Himself™.

“Fuck me sideways,” she muttered, then pushed off the booth and made her way over.

Doakes clocked her approach instantly and gave her a look like he was preparing to be insulted.

“Hey,” Debra said, voice pitched just above the bad karaoke rendition of “Total Eclipse of the Heart.”

Doakes grunted in response.

She pointed a thumb back toward Dexter. “You doing anything right now?”

His stare sharpened. “Why?”

Debra sighed. “Because my brother—your favorite blood-spatter pain in the ass—is three sheets to the fucking wind, I’m a drink and a half into bad decisions, Batista is trying to salsa with a chair, and Masuka thinks he’s Janet Jackson. I need someone sober and scary to get Dex home.”

Doakes blinked like she told him that Unicorns snorted Hershey chocolate. “He’s drunk?”

Debra pinched the bridge of her nose. “Yes. Like, emotional drunk. Grumpy, dramatic, umbrella-in-his-hair drunk.”

There was a pause. Then, slowly—very slowly—Doakes’s expression shifted into something that almost resembled amusement. If you squinted and tilted your head.

“Well fuck,” he muttered.

Debra huffed. “So will you help or not?”

Doakes drained the rest of his drink, set the glass down with a hard clink, and stood.

“I’ll drive him,” he said. “But if he pukes in my car, I’m feeding him to a gator.”

“Fair,” Debra said. “Try not to fight him on the way home. He’s... fragile.”

Doakes side-eyed her so hard she nearly combusted. “Fragile?”

“Emotionally. Don’t poke the Dex-o-Tron 5000,” she warned.

He muttered something that sounded like Jesus Christ, then followed her across the bar toward where Dexter had curled into himself like a cat that had witnessed tax fraud or maybe that the plate of jalapeno poppers was empty.

Dexter lifted his head blearily as they approached. “Oh great.”

Doakes looked down at him, unimpressed. “Get your drunk ass up, Morgan. You’re going home.”

Dexter blinked slowly, looked at his sister and then at Mister grumpy pants again. “...Are you gonna lecture me?”

The Sergeant grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to his feet. “I’m gonna toss you over my shoulder if you don’t move.”

Dexter swayed. “Rude,” he whispered.

Debra gave Doakes a thumbs-up. “Good luck.”

The other grunted and steered a tipsy blood freak toward the exit, hand clamped firm on his shoulder. Debra watched them go and sighed, flopping into the empty booth as Masuka screamed “I LOVE THIS SONG!” in the background.

God help them all.

_____________

Dexter Morgan did not enjoy being manhandled. He especially didn’t enjoy being manhandled while drunk, sweaty, and still vaguely offended that his sister had been talking, laughing, even, with Doakes of all people. Was there no sacred bond between siblings anymore? Why did I let her always eat the last cookie that Mom made, if this is how she pays me back.

Unfortunately, Dexter was in no condition to protest with dignity. Or direction. Or balance.

“Can you-ugh-stop pulling,” he snapped, jerking his arm out of Doakes’ grip only to immediately stumble sideways into a decorative tiki torch. “I’m perfectly capable of walking on my own.”

Doakes snorted, grabbing him by the back of the shirt before he could go full Human S’more. “You almost got a concussion from a torch.”

“It was coming at me real aggressive,” Dexter muttered, narrowing his eyes at the torch.

The Miami night was hot and humid and smelled like stale coconut rum and bad choices. Doakes walked fast, like he was trying to outrun the sheer embarrassment of being seen with a drunk Dexter Morgan clinging to a misplaced sense of pride.

“Unbelievable,” Doakes muttered, half-dragging him toward the car. “What the hell did you drink?”

“Feelings,” the redhead mumbled. “I drank feelings.”

Doakes rolled his eyes so hard they nearly reversed time. “Yeah, I can tell. Sloppy-ass emotions. You don’t drink. This is off-brand.”

“I could kill something,” Dexter said defensively. “I could kill... that mailbox. Look at it. All smug. Judging me.”

“That’s a recycling bin, you fucker.”

Dexter pointed accusingly at it. “Even worse.”

Doakes finally got him to the car and all but shoved him into the passenger seat. Dexter immediately slumped like an inflatable tube man losing air, one leg half out the door.

“Feet in the damn car,” Doakes snapped.

Dexter raised his head slowly, eyes glassy. “You’re very bossy. Has anyone ever told you that? You’re like... like a very barky dog.”

“I will leave you in this parking lot,” Doakes warned, slamming the door shut once Dexter’s limbs were finally inside. By the time Doakes slid into the driver’s seat, Dexter had already adjusted all the car's air vents to point directly at his face.

“Hey,” Dexter said, poking one vent for emphasis. “It’s hot. I’m hot. In a temperature way.”

The other said nothing, just turned the key and pulled out of the lot like he was fleeing a crime scene. Which wasn’t far from the truth.

“I can’t believe you are taking me home,” Dexter muttered after a minute, head lolled against the window.

Doakes kept his eyes on the road. “Believe it.”

The other squinted at him. “You like this. You’re enjoying this.”

“No,” Doakes said. “I’m tolerating this. There's a difference.”

“This is humiliating.”

Doakes side-eyed him. “This is karma.”

They drove in silence for a minute, broken only by the soft sound of Dexter fiddling with the seat controls like he was trying to find a position that made him forget his entire existence.

“Sergeant,” Dexter said quietly.

“What?”

“You’re not gonna tell Deb I cried, right?”

“You cried?”

“No.”

Doakes smirked. Just a little.

Dexter sank further into the seat. “This is the worst night of my life.”

“You see dead people daily, Morgan.”

“Exactly. This is still worse.”

Doakes didn’t argue. He just turned up the AC and kept driving, already planning the lecture he’d deliver in the morning. Assuming Morgan survived his hangover. Assuming they both did.

“Your car smells like gunpowder,” Dexter grumbled, scrunching his nose and shifting in the passenger seat like he was trying to merge with the upholstery.

Doakes didn’t look at him. “That’s the smell of responsibility. Try it sometime.”

Dexter let out a dramatic sigh, dragging his palm down his face. “Can you drive any slower? At this rate I’ll sober up and die of old age.”

Doakes threw a pointed glare his way. “I’m doing you a favor, you ungrateful motherf—”

“You offered.”

“You needed it.”

Dexter leaned against the window. “I needed a drink. I settled for a chaperone with shitty AC.”

Doakes barked a laugh. “Says the lab geek who murdered a Mai Tai drink and tried to fight with the torch.”

Dexter pointed one wobbly finger in the air. “It looked at me wrong.”

“It didn’t have eyes.”

“Exactly.”

A silence stretched. Then—

“You’re the most annoying drunk I’ve ever met,” Doakes said.

Dexter snorted. “That’s rich coming from you. You’re like if the concept of yelling grew legs and joined law enforcement.”

“I don’t yell.”

“You shout feelings then, my bad and none of them are good.”

Doakes gripped the steering wheel tighter. “You act like you're better than everyone, but you’re not. You’re just quieter about your bullsh—”

“I am better than everyone,” Dexter said sweetly. Giving him that annoying smirk that got on Doakes nerves.

“,I swear to God, I will leave your punk-ass on the side off the road,” Doakes muttered.

Dexter leaned his forehead against the glass. “You know... you should’ve just left me there.”

“Tried. Your sister asked and was very persistent. I thought better just to get it over with.”

Dexter blinked slowly. “Gross, A functioning sense of loyalty from you.”

“She’s the only one in this department with a brain and a spine.”

“Hmm,” Dexter murmured. “Doakes complimenting my Sister. That’s it. That’s the seventh sign of the apocalypse.”

Doakes smirked a little. “Better start repenting, Morgan.”

Dexter raised both hands in a clasp. “Forgive me, Doakes, for I have sinned. I drank too much, I danced not at all, and I almost cried infront of the Bar”

“You did cry—”

“I DID NOT—”

“You sniffled like a goddamn ass toddler.”

Dexter groaned and slouched deeper. “This is hell. I’m in hell. You’re the demon assigned to make me feel things.”

“Good,” Doakes muttered, pulling into the parking lot of Dexter’s building. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice before chugging liquid regret.”

Dexter didn’t move. Doakes put the car in park and looked at him. “You gonna get out, or do I have to carry your whiny ass upstairs too?”

Dexter muttered, “I hope your car breaks and we’re both trapped for hours and you have to listen to me narrate my childhood.”

“Try me.”

“I’ll start with the time Harry made me alphabetize his knifes. Twice.”

Doakes actually looked faintly horrified. “You know what? I’m leaving. You stay here and make out with your trauma.”

Dexter finally opened the door, stumbling out with all the grace of a drunk flamingo. “Thanks,” he mumbled reluctantly.

The other grunted. “You’re lucky I don’t let you sleep it off in the dumpster.”

Dexter turned to flip him a sloppy, sarcastic salute. “Night, Sergeant Sunshine.”, and almost fell on his face.

Doakes got out of the car, to stop the fucking blood freak from kissing the gravel. The redhead had gone quiet. Which, for Doakes, wasn’t too out of the ordinary, Morgan not talking was like a snake not blinking. Normal. Expected. Maybe even preferable.

But this?

This was different. Morgan was too quiet. Not “calculating a blood spatter trajectory” quiet. This was deadweight, slow-breathing, eyes-lost-somewhere-else kind of quiet. Doakes had one of the guys’s arms slung across his shoulders. The man moved like his bones were filled with syrup and regret. They moved up the stairs to Dexters apartment.

“Keys,” Doakes grunted.

Dexter blinked slowly, then dug into his pocket with all the coordination of a tranquilized giraffe. After three failed attempts, Doakes just snatched the key ring from him and muttered a curse under his breath.

He's touching my keys. Harry would've called that a personal threshold. I'm too tired to care. My mouth won't work anyway. My head is full of sludge and every step echoes behind my eyes. How is Doakes this strong? How is he not yelling? Better Question, why isn’t he yelling? This silence feels like a trap. I hate that I don’t hate it.

Doakes opened the apartment door and guided Dexter inside like someone hauling in a busted refrigerator.

“You good?” he asked, not bothering to mask the suspicion in his voice.

Dexter nodded slowly. Doakes gave him a look that said, Bullshit, but didn’t press. Just helped him to the couch and eased him down like he was something breakable, which was definitely not a look that dexter wanted on himself. He hated it.

Stop looking at me like I’m a kicked dog. I’m not fragile. I’m not weak. I’m…

He winced as he sat. His head was a vise. His chest a cement mixer. His stomach made a sound.

...I’m probably going to die, actually.

Doakes stood there, arms crossed, not leaving.

Dexter looked up blearily. “You can go now.”

“Sure,” Doakes said flatly, not moving. “You got water?”

Dexter blinked again, slow and confused. “Why…?”

“Because your sister asked me to get you home,” Doakes snapped. “And also? Maybe I don’t feel like scraping your carcass off your own bathroom floor tomorrow morning.”

Dexter made a face like that thought hadn’t occurred to him  or like it had, but in the positive column. Doakes moved to the kitchen, poured water into the first glass he found and brought it back. Dexter took it. Didn’t drink it.

He saw me drunk. He saw me unravel. He saw me…

He stared at the water like it held answers. Doakes stared at him like he was the question. Dexter finally mumbled, “You’re still here.”

“I noticed,” Doakes said dryly.

Another beat.

The redhead finally took a small sip of the water, avoiding eye contact like it might kill him.

What are you waiting for? For me to thank you? For me to apologize? I don’t do that. I don’t—

“I’m fine,” he said stiffly, still not looking up.

“You’re not, but whatever,” Doakes said, stepping back. “Next time? Don’t be an idiot.”

Dexter nodded faintly. He should’ve let Doakes leave. The door was halfway closed. One more step and he’d be gone. Out. Away. Taking the heavy air and the unspoken weight of the night with him. But Dexter’s hand moved before his mind did. Fingers curled around Doakes’ wrist, catching him.

Doakes froze.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned.

“...What the fuck are you doing?”

Dexter didn’t have an answer. Not a clean one. His breath came too shallow. His mind buzzed like a beehive with no order, thoughts bouncing against the inside of his skull, none of them useful, none of them his. It was white noise and heat and pressure building behind his eyes and—...He tugged. Not hard. Not desperate. Just enough to make Doakes take a half-step back toward him, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed.

Dexter swallowed. His voice was rough when it came out. “Don’t go.”

Doakes blinked, clearly thrown. “The fuck you mean, ‘don’t go’? I did what your sister asked. You’re in one piece. I’m not your babysitter.”

“I know,” he said quickly. Too quickly. His grip stayed tight on Doakes’ wrist. His thumb brushed over the bone there, just once.

Why did I do that?  Why the hell did I do that?  Let him go. Let. Him. Go. But my brain, it’s too loud. It’s too loud and I thought if he stayed, it would stop. Just for a minute. Just for a second of silence.

“I just…” he tried again. “I don’t want to be alone.”

That made Doakes freeze. For real this time. Dexter could feel it, the way the other man tensed under his hand, the shift in his breathing, like something cracked open behind his ribs. Like he didn’t expect that either.

“…You high?” Doakes finally asked. Quiet, suspicious.

Dexter shook his head, eyes cast somewhere down and away. “No.”

Drunk, maybe. Exhausted, definitely. Drowning in his own static thoughts? Always. But not high.

Doakes stared at him for a long moment. Then down at the hand still gripping his wrist. He didn’t pull away. And that might’ve been worse.

“I’m not here to fix you,” he said, rough and low.

“I know.”

“This doesn’t mean I trust you.”

“I wouldn’t, either.”

They stood there like that, inches apart. Neither letting go. Both looking like they were waiting for a bomb to go off. Dexter’s fingers twitched, but he didn’t let go. Doakes didn’t move. The only sound in the room was the hum of the fridge and the blood in Dexter’s ears.

I don’t want anything from him. I don’t know what this is. But the noise is quieter with him here. And I…

Dexter looked up, eyes finally meeting Doakes’.

I need the quiet.

Doakes finally arched a brow. “You gonna let go of my damn wrist or keep clinging?”

Dexter blinked, like he'd just remembered he was holding on. His fingers flexed but didn’t let go. “You’re warm,” he said flatly. “And statistically less likely to yell me than usual tonight.”

The other snorted. “Only ‘cause you look like you'd bruise easy right now.”

“That’s profiling, Sergeant. I’m not that fragile.”

Doakes huffed, but there was the ghost of a smile there or maybe just confusion disguised as one. “You’re drunk.”

“Barely,” Dexter muttered. “Tipsy at most. Slightly existential.”

“Great. That’ll pair nicely with whatever emotional bullshit this is.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Dexter said, but his hand finally dropped from Doakes’ wrist only to end up splayed against his chest instead as he got up from the couch. “I’m just using you to keep the room from spinning.”

“Oh, that’s what this is,” Doakes growled, stepping in closer, closing the inch-and-a-half of space left between them. “A structural support situation.”

“Exactly.”

Their eyes locked, the usual undercurrent of hostility curling into something rougher. Thicker. The kind of tension that scraped against the ribs.

“You always this mouthy when you’re drunk?” Doakes asked, voice lower now. 

Dexter’s gaze didn’t waver. “Only when I’m thinking too much.”

“Thinking about what?”

“You,” he said, like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t a small bomb going off in the room.

Doakes’ nostrils flared. His hands twitched at his sides, like he didn’t know whether to shove Dexter away or shove him against something. “What the fuck are we doing, Morgan?”

Dexter exhaled, slow. His hand on Doakes’ chest curled slightly, fingertips dragging across his shirt like he could read braille from heartbeat patterns. The moment twisted, not soft, not romantic. Tense. Frustrated. Hot. Doakes grabbed him and kissed him like he was trying to shut him up and make him feel everything at the same time.

Dexter kissed back with the kind of precision usually reserved for murder scene. He didn’t even realize they’d moved until his back hit the wall with a heavy thud. Doakes was on him again in a second, not with soft caresses or searching touches, but with purpose, all coiled strength and heat, like pinning Dexter there was the only thing keeping the room from coming apart. His hands were fists in the forensic blood spatter analyst shirt, jaw tight, eyes dark and unreadable. No hesitation. No request. Just action.

Dexter sucked in a breath, sharp, stunned — not from fear. From how right it felt. And that was a problem. Because he could stop this. Easily. His arm under Doakes’ shoulder, his leg planted he knew half a dozen angles to reverse the position and flip the sergeant.  But he didn’t move. Didn’t want to. His body was buzzing, his heart thudding against Doakes’ grip like it was trying to chase him down from the inside. And all he could think was.

Why do I want this?

Doakes shoved harder, pressing their bodies together, one hand braced beside Dexter’s head, the other low on his hip like he was claiming territory. His mouth was back on Dexter’s, rough, angry, consuming. Dexter kissed back without thought. Teeth and breath and tongue. Not tender. Just need. There was a part of him that screamed this was dangerous too dangerous, not because he’d get hurt, that wasn’t something he was concerned about, but because it felt good. Because it felt like surrender, and that was a language he didn’t know how to speak without blood.

Doakes' fingers flexed on his hip, dragging the redhead closer to him. Dexter let his head thump back against the wall. His hands found the sergeants shoulders not to push him away, but to anchor himself there. He was confused. Adrenalized. Half-aroused, half-wrecked, fully fucking lost.

Doakes’ hand shoved under Dexter’s shirt without ceremony calloused fingers dragging up warm skin, leaving behind a trail of friction that sent Dexter’s breath skipping. Not gentle. Not exploratory. Just a full, possessive press of palm against his abdome, thumb grazing just under the edge of a scar. Dexter arched into it before he could think. His back scraped the wall, hips twitching forward  right into the deliberate press of Doakes’ thigh between his legs.

A sharp sound slipped out of him. Not a moan, too choked for that. Just a soft, stunned breath that cracked on the edge of something real. Doakes heard it. Smirked against his jaw.

“Thought you were supposed to be the one in control, Morgan,” he rasped, low and dark and close. “What the fuck do you call this?”

Dexter couldn’t answer. His body was grinding down in slow, helpless rolls, like it had decided to betray him completely. He didn’t even remember starting. Just the friction. The pressure. The noise dimming under the weight of sensation.

And God, it felt so fucking good.

Doakes leaned in and bit him, hard enough on the side of his neck to make him gasp. Then his tongue was there, hot and wet, licking along the mark like he was sealing it in.

“Fuck,” Dexter hissed, fingers tightening on Doakes’ shoulders, his hips still moving with those shamefully rhythmic pushes. Doakes didn’t stop. He kissed down the neck, teeth and tongue and breath. Hit the collarbone. Bit there too. Not playful. Territorial.

Dexter’s head dropped back with a low, broken sound and that’s when he realized.

He was making noise.

Little, shuddering gasps every time Doakes’ thigh flexed under him. Every time that mouth moved down his throat. Soft, desperate noises he didn’t know he was capable of. Like his body was trying to say something his brain refused to admit. And still, Doakes didn’t mock him. Didn’t tease. Just held him there, one hand under his shirt, one thigh slotted between his legs, mouth working like he was trying to memorize the other through his pulse.

His hips moved faster now, grinding harder against the thick line of Doakes’ thigh like he could bury the ache there. It was obscene, the way the pressure hit just right, how his breath stuttered with every pass of friction. He hated how close he felt to breaking.

Doakes noticed. Of course he did.

“Well, look at you,” he murmured, voice like gravel wrapped in a smirk. “Didn’t think the Freak got off like a teenager on prom night.”

Dexter let out a shaky breath that almost passed for a laugh, then pressed harder, dragging himself along Doakes’ thigh like he needed it. And God help him, maybe he did.

“Jealous?” he bit out, voice raw.

Doakes laughed, a short, sharp bark against the skin of his throat. “You’re damn near whining, Morgan. That what does it for you? Getting manhandled by someone who doesn’t buy your bullshit?” Dexter’s fingernails dug into his shoulders, more instinct than defiance. His whole body was tense and twitching, built around the friction, the heat.

“Better than jerking off alone in your tactical gear,” Dexter hissed. “Or is this the only time you let someone touch you without a background check, Sergeant?”

That earned him a growl deep, annoyed, maybe even impressed. Doakes’ thigh shifted just enough to hit a new angle, and Dexter choked on a breath that turned into a low moan before he could kill it.

“Oh, fuck you,” he snapped, flushed, panting, furious with himself.

Doakes just leaned in, lips brushing the shell of Dexter’s ear.

“You’re trying, Morgan. Trust me, you’re trying real hard.”

Dexter groaned, eyes fluttering shut as he pushed down again, desperate and raw and losing the war he didn’t know he was fighting.

“Shut up,” he muttered.

“Make me,” Doakes shot back.

Dexter kissed him. Hard. Teeth and heat and anger and something else he didn’t want to name. Because if he couldn’t control this, at least he could own it. Their mouths crashed together not kissing so much as colliding, teeth hitting, lips split, breathing through each other’s heat. It wasn’t practiced. It wasn’t pretty.

It was filthy.

Sloppy and mean and so fucking human it made Dexter’s skin crawl and sing at the same time. He didn’t know who grabbed who. Didn’t care. Doakes was in his mouth like he was trying to shut him up from the inside out, and He— God, he was letting him.  And all the while, his thoughts were racing in a sick, frayed loop:

This is wrong. This is nothing.

He could taste blood. His? Doakes ? Didn’t matter. There was spit on his chin, his back scraping the wall, hands in Doakes’ shirt like he might tear it just to feel skin. And the worst part,  the part he couldn’t make himself stop circling, was how easy it was to give in. How good it felt to be held like this, controlled, manhandled, seen. Not coddled. Not pitied. Owned. Every time Doakes bit his lip, or dragged nails down his side, or shoved their hips together hard enough to bruise, Dexter made a sound he didn’t recognize. A whimper, maybe. Something needy.

I’m not supposed to feel this. I don’t get to have this. This isn’t part of the Code.

But he couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t. He wanted to drown in it. To bury his teeth in Doakes’ neck and take something he couldn’t name. Maybe the feeling of not being outcasted as a monster because humans also follow their instincts blindly. To let the world burn away and leave nothing but this, the pressure, the heat. Like that was exactly what he wanted.

Dexter’s hips snapped forward again, grinding down hard, chasing friction like it owed him peace. He was close, embarrassingly close, hips stuttering, breath ragged, mouth dragging over Doakes’ jaw in a fevered mess of teeth and panting. The noise in his head had gone almost silent. Almost.

Then the floor tilted.

His stomach twisted, hard. Sharp. Heat flashed up his throat in a sick wave and for one terrible, split second, he thought he could power through it.

He couldn’t.

“Fuck—” Dexter yanked back like he'd been hit, eyes wide, hand clamping over his mouth. Doakes barely had time to react before the other shoved off the wall and staggered down the hall, lurching into the bathroom and dropping to his knees just in time.

The retching hit hard. Violent. Raw. Shame.

All of it hit the toilet in a mess of heat, humiliation and the sickly-sweet red concoction that he drank, while the high inside him cracked and crumbled, leaving only the sting of bile and the echo of Doakes hands on his body. His forehead thudded against the cool porcelain.

Great. Beautiful. Sex, intimacy, emotional collapse immediately followed by vomiting like a prom night cliché.

He groaned, wiped his mouth on the back of his shaking hand, and didn’t dare look at the bathroom door. His eyes were bloodshot. His lips swollen and bitten. He looked like something dragged out of the ocean. He didn’t hear Doakes enter but he felt him. The weight of him in the doorway. The silence.

“Christ,” Doakes muttered, voice low, not mocking. Just there.

Dexter didn’t look up.

“Didn’t know foreplay meant projectile vomiting with you,” Doakes added, stepping closer. Still snarky. Still him.

Dexter let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t so pitiful.

“First time for everything.”

Doakes crouched beside him, one strong arm sliding under his to hoist him up without asking. He didn’t comment on the way Dexter swayed, or how his knees buckled slightly. Just muttered, “Come on,” and half-carried him out of the bathroom.

Dexter let himself be pulled. It wasn’t graceful. His legs didn’t cooperate. He practically stumbled — not from the alcohol anymore, not fully  but from the weight in his head, in his chest. Still, he followed the tug of Doakes’ hand like it was a tether keeping him from sinking all the way down. They made it to the couch in silence, the heat of what had just happened still clinging to their skin like sweat. Doakes eased him down, steady hands on Dexter’s shoulders. Dexter collapsed back into the cushions, a damp mess of shivering muscle and unresolved arousal, throat raw, head swimming. Doakes stood over him for a second, chest rising and falling like he was still coming down from something too.

They were both a wreck.

Spit-slick mouths. Bruised lips. Shirts wrinkled and half-untucked and Dexter— Dexter didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to say. So he just said, “Well. That was dignified.”

Doakes huffed. “You’re lucky I don’t take pictures.”

“I’d sue.”

“You’d try.”

A beat passed.

Then, quieter: “You good?”

Dexter blinked up at him. He wasn’t. Not even close. But he nodded anyway.

“You need sleep.”

Dexter gave a dry, humorless smile. “That’s optimistic.”

Doakes didn’t return it. He crossed his arms. “What the hell’s going on with you, Morgan?”

Dexter rubbed a hand down his face.

What do I say? That I’m haunted by ghosts? That I might’ve liked your hand on my face a little too much? That I’ve been chasing murderers and killing them and dumping them in the ocean, even though that’s not eco-friendly?

Instead, he stared at his own knees and asked, “What did you think of Harry Morgan?”

The silence came sharp and fast. Dexter looked up. Doakes blinked like he’d just been asked to describe the moon in interpretive dance.

“The hell kind of question is that?”

Dexter shrugged, but his voice wasn’t casual. “Just curious.”

Doakes didn’t answer right away. He lowered himself onto the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, the weight of his body suddenly… heavier.

“Harry was a decent cop,” Doakes said finally. “Clean, or as clean as you could be in this city. Tactical. Smart. Little too self-righteous for my taste, but... solid.”

Dexter nodded. Silence again.

“Did he talk about me?”

Doakes side-eyed him. “Sometimes.”

Dexter’s fingers dug into the cushion.

“What did he say?”

Doakes gave him a skeptical look. “Why do you care?”

Dexter stared ahead, at nothing.

“He gave a damn about you, Morgan. Probably too much.”

Dexter’s throat tightened.

He hated that. He hated how much that hurt.

“Harry was a decent cop.”

Doakes said it like it was a fact. Like Harry was just another name in the academy archives, badge number scribbled on a dusty report somewhere, filed under "M" for Morgan and "C" for Cautionary Tale.

Decent. That word keeps poking at me. Not “brilliant,” not “extraordinary,” not “visionary.” Just decent.

Decent men don’t raise monsters. Decent men don’t teach children how to cut up bodies and hide the evidence. Decent men don’t build codes like cages and call it love.

I shift on the couch. The upholstery creaks beneath me like it’s echoing my discomfort. Doakes is sitting just a few feet away, still as a boulder, radiating that thick ex-Marine presence like he's guarding something… me, maybe. Or just himself. I don’t know.

But I’m not thinking about Doakes right now. Not really. I’m thinking about Harry. About how wrong Doakes is.

Harry wasn’t decent.

Harry was desperate.

He was terrified.

And he turned that fear into discipline, wrapped it around my throat like a leash. Taught me to be good at pretending I’m good. Normal. Smiled at my science fair trophies while secretly getting thpught how to dissect a body. Decent men don’t turn their sons into monsters.

And yet—

And yet.

There’s a part of me that wants to scream at Doakes for diminishing him. For reducing the man who shaped me into a bullet point on a precinct evaluation. You don’t get to do that, Sergeant. You didn’t see him on the nights he couldn’t look at me. You didn’t hear how his voice cracked when he told me why I had to be careful. You didn’t clean up after the mistakes he made.

I did.

I carry them. I am them. And maybe I hate him for it. Maybe I miss him. Maybe it’s both. Maybe I don’t want Doakes to see him as human because if Harry was just human, then what does that make me?

I glance at Doakes. He hasn’t moved. He thinks the conversation is over. It never is.

I sit there with the buzzing in my skull, the burn behind my eyes, and the weight of a memory that never really leaves. Harry was a decent cop. Screw you, James. You have no idea.

Dexter shook his head slowly, the weight of it too much, like his thoughts had gathered into lead behind his eyes. He was still slumped on the couch, limbs long and awkward, hunched forward like his body was trying to fold in on itself. “That’s not true,” he muttered, almost too soft to hear.

Doakes looked up, barely catching the words. “What isn’t?”

Dexter blinked hard. His jaw clenched, and for a second it looked like he might say something sharp, maybe even spit, but it just melted into something quieter, looser. Sadder.

“Harry wasn’t decent,” he mumbled. “He—he wasn’t…”

The sentence trailed off. His hand made a vague gesture, like the rest of the words were floating in front of him and he just couldn’t grab them.

Doakes stared at him, the usual tension around his eyes flickering into something unreadable. Concern? Confusion? Maybe both. Maybe neither.

“Alright,” he muttered under his breath.

He shifted forward, knees cracking as he moved off the couch. Dexter barely registered the motion before Doakes’ calloused fingers were in his sweaty hair, slow and unexpected, brushing through the mess of it like it wasn’t strange at all. Dexter flinched, just slightly but didn’t pull away.

“Just lay back,” Doakes said, low and calm, like he was talking to a spooked animal or a fellow soldier bleeding out.

Dexter let himself be pushed down. The back of his head hit the pillow, Doakes’ hand still loosely in his hair.

Doakes sat beside him on the couch, quiet now. Dexter didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to. The room went heavy with silence, the kind that wasn’t peaceful, but wasn't hostile either. Just full. Like they’d both opened a door and were standing there, staring into it, unsure of who walked through first. And for now, no one did.

_________________________________________________

Dexter woke with a groan. His skull throbbed like something had been trying to claw its way out all night. His mouth was dry, tongue heavy and sour, and his back ached from the awkward angle he’d apparently passed out in.

The apartment was still, not quiet, but still. The hum of the fridge, the faint buzz of the overhead light he’d forgotten to turn off in the kitchen. The couch creaked under him as he slowly pushed himself upright, blanket sliding off his legs.

He blinked at the darkness.

4:07 AM.

Of course it was. Hangovers didn’t wait for reasonable hours.

He rubbed at his eyes. The memory of last night came in scattered, headache-blurred fragments, the bar, Debra’s voice, too much alcohol, Doakes dragging him home. And—

Dexter froze. Doakes wasn’t there anymore. No sound in the kitchen, no boots by the door.

But someone was. He could feel it before he even turned his head.

And then—

“Morning, sunshine.”

Dexter jerked toward the voice. Brian sat in the armchair near the window, legs crossed, fingers steepled under his chin like he’d been waiting hours. His smile was soft. Mocking. Familiar.

Dexter groaned again. “Get out of my head.”

Brian chuckled. “You say that like I ever left.”

Dexter dropped his face into his hands. “Why are you here?”

“You’ve been spiraling so hard I could practically feel it from hell.”

Dexter cracked one bloodshot eye open. “You’re not in hell.”

Brian shrugged. “Metaphorically. speaking”

Dexter leaned back against the couch cushions, exhaling slowly, already regretting every decision he made last night. Especially the one involving three shots of whatever Masuka had shouted about.

“Doakes brought you home,” Brian added, voice light and sing-song.

“I noticed.”

“He didn’t stay.”

“Good.”

Brian grinned wider. “But you wanted him to.”

Dexter glared at him. “You’re not real.”

“I’m real enough.” Brian stood, slow and deliberate, the way he always did when he was about to say something that would burrow under Dexter’s skin and stay there. “You keep pushing people away, and then act surprised when you end up alone. You let him in, just a little, and then panicked.”

“I was drunk,” Dexter said through clenched teeth.

“You were honest,” Brian said, stepping closer. He crouched beside the couch, head tilted, watching him like something half-wild and deeply curious.

“You’re afraid of feeling anything that doesn’t come with a scalpel,” he said gently. “But guess what? This—” he tapped Dexter’s temple, “—is going to keep unraveling until you deal with it.”

Dexter closed his eyes. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Brian whispered. “You miss me.”

Dexter said nothing. The silence stretched. And when he opened his eyes again, Brian was gone. Just the empty apartment. The ache in his head. And the creeping realization that he didn’t want to be alone tonight. But he was. Again.

_____________________

Saturday. Blessed, silent, Saturday.

Dexter blinked into the soft morning light filtering through the blinds. No alarm. No bodies. No blood. No Doakes. Just stillness. And a faint soreness behind his eyes that promised caffeine would be necessary, but not catastrophic.

He sat up slowly, rubbed the back of his neck. He padded to the kitchen barefoot, relishing the simplicity of it all. Tile floor cold beneath his feet, coffee machine blinking red like a little life preserver.

A press of a button. A familiar hiss. Liquid hope. He sighed. Not because he was sad—but because this, this normalcy, felt almost... nice.

Weekends are when the wolves retreat into their dens. When the prey gather in farmers’ markets and swap gossip over overpriced muffins. When I—Dexter Morgan, blood spatter analyst, forensics aficionado, killer of killers—become just another tired man in boxers waiting for his coffee to finish brewing.

He scratched his head absently, walked to the window, peered out at the sun-drenched street below. Joggers. Dog walkers. Neighbors who waved too easily.

“I could kill all of you,” he muttered into his mug, not unkindly.

The coffee was strong. Thank God. He turned on the radio and let it fill the silence. The rest of the routine was muscle memory. Shower. Shave. Clean clothes. Tidy the kitchen, even though it was already clean. He didn't have to do any of it. But he did. Because it felt good to be organized. Contained.

He stared at his reflection while brushing his teeth, then rinsed and spit with the grim satisfaction of someone preparing to fight absolutely no one today. He even made eggs. With toast. Saturdays were rare beasts, fleeting moments where the Dark Passenger took the backseat, yawning.

No Rita to visit. No blood to catalog. No Doakes breathing down his neck or shoving him into confined spaces. No Debra yelling about emotional accountability. No Brian—

Stop that, he thought, as he buttered his toast.

 

Saturday — 10:34 AM.

Dexter was at the grocery store. Yes, he hunted Killers. Yes, he had dissected corpses by moonlight. But today? Today he was staring at two nearly identical cartons of eggs, wondering if the “organic, cage-free” ones were worth the extra $1.30.

This is what passes for moral dilemmas now, he thought. Egg ethics.

He settled on the cheaper ones. He wasn’t made of money  or patience. The store was full of civilians doing civilian things. Couples bickering about almond milk, a toddler screaming in aisle five, some teenager stocking shelves with the dead-eyed energy of someone who had truly given up. And Dexter… Dexter was just one of them. A man in a Henley shirt and pants, pushing a cart with milk, bananas, bleach, and a frozen pizza.

Nothing suspicious. Nothing sharp. Just… groceries.

His phone buzzed once. He didn’t check it. Probably Masuka, still drunk-texting from last night’s tiki bar disaster. Or maybe Debra.

No. Not today.

He slid into the checkout line like a shadow. Quiet. Efficient. Disconnected.

 

11:47 AM. Home.

Groceries unpacked. Counter wiped down. He poured a fresh cup of coffee and stood by the window again. A bird chirped somewhere outside.

So this is what domesticated life is like. Riveting.

He cleaned his knives, the kitchen ones, not the kill kit, just to keep his hands busy. Reorganized the spice cabinet. Alphabetized his small DVD collection. Then, because the silence started pressing in like static, he put on a documentary about shark migration. Very calming. Very sharp teeth.

 

2:12 PM. Miami Public Library.

Dexter wandered the nonfiction section, scanning titles like The Mind of the Killer and Forensic Analysis of Modern Crime Scenes. Just a little light reading. He picked up a book on stress management and flipped through it like a man trying to understand the concept of joy. It had breathing exercises. That felt insulting.

“I breathe just fine,” he muttered, setting it down.

 

3:35 PM. Bayfront Park.

He watched families have picnics. A kid ran by with cotton candy. Someone flew a kite. Dexter sat on a bench, sipping water.

Doakes would accuse me of stalking if he saw this, he thought, amused. He’s not wrong.

But this time, he wasn’t watching anyone in particular. Just… breathing. Watching. Existing. He even pet a stranger’s dog. The dog seemed confused.

“Yeah, me too,” Dexter said softly.

 

6:50 PM. Apartment.

Dinner was his sad frozen pizza, but he added basil. That felt like effort. He didn’t kill anyone. He didn’t even fantasize about it.

Well, okay. Once. But that guy in line cut an old lady off.

 

9:04 PM. Couch.

Dexter lay flat, full of pizza and existential dread, watching a late-night nature show about predatory cats. He yawned. A real yawn. Deep. Unperformative and looked at his quiet apartment, then glanced toward the dark corner near the bookshelf, just in case Brian decided to materialize again or Harry.

No ghost. Just shadows.

“Good,” Dexter mumbled, closing his eyes. “One day without a hallucination. That’s progress.”

He fell asleep fully clothed, TV still on.

Saturday: Survived.

Chapter 7

Sunday – 4:36 AM
Dexter woke to the sound of scratching. Not dream scratching. Not “Did I leave the TV on?” scratching. Real. Rhythmic. Persistent. Like fingernails across his brain.

Scrtch-scrtch-scrtch.

He sat up, bleary-eyed, heart already working through its usual 4 AM paranoia checklist. Knife? No. Police? No. Blood? None.

But the sound continued.

He turned his head, slowly, and saw it—
Two gleaming, yellow eyes peered in from the outside of his apartment window. A black cat. Balanced on the thin ledge.

“What the hell…” he muttered, dragging himself out of bed. His feet hit the cold floor. The cat scratched once more, then meowed. Loudly.

It was… judging him. Somehow. He unlatched the window.

“You’re going to fall and ruin both our days.”

The moment the frame slid up, the cat launched. Like a tiny black missile, it bolted past him, claws skittering on the wood floor, tail high. Dexter staggered back, groggy, and suddenly cohabiting with a hellspawn. The cat darted under the bed.

Dexter stared. “No. This isn’t happening.”

MEOW.

He knelt  and got a face full of hissing fur and narrowed eyes.

“What are you even doing here?” he muttered, already reaching after it.

He reached. Missed. The cat fled again, this time springing onto the counter. Dexter followed, slipping on a sock. He was a trained blood spatter expert. A precision killer. A man of discipline. He was now being outmaneuvered by six pounds of suspicious fluff.

This is why I kill people and not animals, he thought. Animals have no rules.

The cat hopped onto the windowsill. Sniffed over a photo of Dexter and the kids from a park day with Rita. Looked him dead in the eyes and batted it off the edge.

Dexter froze. “Seriously?”

The cat flopped down right there on the windowsill. Purring.

He stood in the middle of his apartment at 4:43 in the morning, bedhead wild, shirtless, one sock on, staring at this smug creature now making biscuits.

“…You’re not even sorry.”

The cat blinked slowly. Innocently. Then licked its paw.

Dexter sighed. “I guess we’re roommates now.”

______________

Sunday, 6:12 AM
Dexter stood in the kitchen, clutching a lukewarm cup of coffee like it was a lifeline, staring at the black cat now asleep on top of his toaster. He dialed the number with the defeated precision of a man submitting to bureaucracy.

Ring.

Ring.

Click.

“Miami-Animal Services, how can I help you?”

Dexter cleared his throat. “Yes, hello. I… I have acquired a cat.”

Silence. “You… acquired?”

He stared at the cat. It yawned.
“I woke up and it was on my windowsill. I opened the window and it came inside. Now it’s, uh… refusing to leave.”

“Okay. Is it injured?”

“No, if I had to guess.”

A pause.
“Sir, is the animal behaving aggressively?”

Dexter watched as the cat slowly batted his clean spoon onto the floor.
“It has a lot of energy. But no. No open hostility.”

“You can bring it in to our shelter, or we can send animal control to pick it up.”

Dexter considered the image of himself wrestling the thing into a carrier. He had plastic wrap, but somehow he doubted that was the right kind of prep.

“I’d like to avoid bloodshed, so let’s go with the pick-up option.”

“Okay. Can I get your name?”

A long pause. He looked at the cat.
“…Dexter Morgan.”

“And the address?”

He gave it.

“We’ll send someone out this afternoon.”

“Great.”

“Anything else I should know?”

Dexter looked down. The cat was now licking its paw

“…No.”

Click.

He sighed. The cat opened one eye.

“Enjoy your last hours here.”

Dexter moved and sat on the couch, flipping through a forensic journal without really reading it. The words blurred together, too sterile, too clean. Outside, the sun was climbing, warm, golden, and deeply uninvited.

The cat — the uninvited tenant of his now cohabitated apartment — was perched a few feet away on the armrest, watching him with unsettling focus. Like it knew something. Like it had opinions.

He ignored it. Tried to, anyway. It blinked slowly, then stretched, long and liquid, before stepping onto the couch cushions with surprising grace.

Dexter tensed as it crept closer, its paws silent against the fabric. It sniffed at his knee. Then, without warning, it clambered into his lap.

“…Okay.”

He stared down at the black ball of fur now settling into his legs, tail curling comfortably, purring like a small, smug motor.

Dexter blinked. “This is happening, I guess.”

The purring grew louder. The cat nudged its head under his hand. Reflexively, Dexter scratched behind its ear. It leaned into the touch.

He tilted his head. “You’re… not so bad when you’re not knocking cutlery onto the floor.”

The cat responded by headbutting his stomach, curling tighter. Dexter let his hand rest gently against its side, listening to the steady rhythm of its purring. Warm. Soft. Living.

“…Harry would hate this.”

The cat meowed sleepily.

Dexter exhaled, almost smiling. “Yeah. Me too.”

But he didn’t move.

_______________________

Steam curls against the edges of the mirror. The shower hisses, a steady rhythm in the quiet. Dexter stands under the water, unmoving, letting it beat against his shoulders. Hot. Cleansing. Routine. He watches the water snake down his body, red-tinged in memory, though there's no blood. Just warmth. And something else.

A bruise.

Dark. Blooming. Too high on his neck to be accidental. Too deliberate to ignore. He frowns. Tilts his head to the side, studying it as if it were evidence in a case he didn’t know he was part of.

“…Right.”

He doesn't touch it. Just watches it, like it might disappear if he stared hard enough. It doesn’t. He closes his eyes briefly. Not in sentiment, he doesn’t do sentiment but in calculation. Assessment.

Last night, a blur. Not of lost time, he remembers all of it. Every word. Every hand. Every tension too tightly coiled between them for it to be safe, or sane, or survivable. And then surrender or maybe just a temporary truce, sealed with teeth.

He opens his eyes. The bite is still there. He sighs. Not out of regret. Dexter doesn’t do regret either. Just mild inconvenience. Like finding a fingerprint smudge on a clean blade.

He steps out of the shower, water trailing in neat lines over the tile. Grabs a towel. Wipes the mirror, revealing his reflection.

“Well,” he says to himself, tone dry. “That’s… evidence.”

Pause.

He turns away, towel slung over his shoulders, voice quiet, flat:

“Guess I’m not the only predator in Miami.”

Dexter stepped out of the bathroom, towel around his neck, hair damp from the shower. He moved toward the kitchen in search of coffee and something vaguely food-adjacent.

Soft paws padded behind him. He paused. Looked over his shoulder.

The cat stared back, sitting primly in the hallway like it hadn’t just stalked him from one end of the apartment to the other. Its tail swished once. Judgmental. Regal.

Dexter narrowed his eyes. “Are you following me?”

The cat blinked.

He turned away, continued into the kitchen. The paws followed.

He stopped at the counter. Poured coffee. Toasted bread. Heard the soft thump of a small body jumping onto a chair.

Dexter turned, mug in hand, and found the cat now seated at the table. Watching. Like it was expecting him to serve breakfast.

“Right,” Dexter muttered, sipping his coffee. “You’re just… everywhere now.”

He turned to grab a knife. The cat meowed. Dexter whipped around, brows raised. “You want toast? Because I don’t think shelter cats are cleared for carbs.”

The cat meowed again.

The redhead sliced the toast in half, placed it on a plate, and stared at it. Then, behind him—scritch scritch—the sound of claws on laminate. The cat had jumped onto the counter.

Dexter sighed.  He picked up the feline intruder, held it up at eye level. “You are a tiny, hairy surveillance device, aren’t you? Are you here on behalf of Harry? Or Brian?”

The cat licked his nose.

He set it back down on the floor. “You better not be peeing anywhere.”

The cat trotted after him as he walked back toward the living room. Dexter sat down. The cat leapt onto the couch. Settled beside him. Tail curled neatly over its paws.

Dexter glanced sideways. “Okay, you win. You can stay. Temporarily.”

The cat purred.

He sighed. “Of course you’re smug about it.”,took a sip of coffee. The cat bumped its head against his arm. And, without thinking, he let it.

There was a knock at the door.

Dexter blinked from the couch, where the cat now lay upside down, belly exposed, purring like a tiny lawnmower. He glanced at the clock.

Right. Animal shelter guy.

He got up, reluctantly dislodging the cat, who gave a half-hearted meow of protest. Dexter opened the door. The man on the other side was bright-eyed, polo-shirted, clipboard-ready. Too enthusiastic for someone working on a Sunday. “Hi! You called about a black cat? Said it wandered in this morning?”

Dexter nodded slowly. “Right. The stray.”

The man smiled, already peeking over Dexter’s shoulder into the apartment. “Is it still here? We’ve had reports of a couple of missing house cats in the area.”

Dexter hesitated. His brain, usually surgical and precise, chose this moment to short-circuit. Behind him, the cat strolled into view like it owned the entire complex.

It meowed.

The shelter guy perked up. “There it is! Looks healthy, too. No collar though—we’ll scan for a chip just in case.”

Dexter glanced down at the cat. The cat looked up at him. Something about the way it blinked slowly, as if knowing exactly what was going on, filled Dexter with an unexpected, illogical panic.

He cleared his throat. “Actually…”

The man looked up. “Yeah?”

Dexter stepped half in front of the doorway, blocking the view. “Change of plans.”

The shelter guy frowned. “Sorry?”

Dexter gave an awkward, too-wide smile. “It’s not a stray. False alarm. It’s mine.”

The man blinked. “Oh… you’re sure? You did say it ran inside through your window.”

Dexter nodded, far too earnestly. “Cats do that. Windows. It’s a whole thing.”

The guy looked down at the clipboard, then up again. “So... you want me to close the case?”

Dexter nodded again, already closing the door. “Yup. Thanks so much for coming. Really. Great response time. Gold star.”

He shut the door a little too quickly, leaning against it as if he'd just narrowly avoided disaster. The cat strutted past his feet and jumped back onto the couch. Dexter stared. Then he muttered, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” The cat blinked slowly, tail flicking. “Guess you live here now.”

He sat cross-legged on the couch, laptop balanced on one knee, the cat perched on the back of the couch behind him like a tiny, judgmental gargoyle.

He typed:
“What do cats need?”

Immediately, a flood of search results assaulted his sleep-deprived eyes:
“Essential Cat Supplies!”
“New Cat Checklist!”
“Top 10 Things Every First-Time Cat Owner Must Know!”

Dexter clicked one at random, squinting like the screen might attack him.

🐾 Food and Water Bowls
🐾 Litter Box (and Litter!)
🐾 Scratching Post
🐾 Toys for Enrichment
🐾 Quality Cat Food
🐾 Cozy Sleeping Spots

He paused, glancing at the cat, who was currently using his shirt as a bed.

“Enrichment,” Dexter murmured.  The cat yawned.

He kept scrolling.

There was a whole section about “transition stress” and “safe spaces” and “bonding time,” which he skimmed with increasing discomfort. He knew how to track the behavioral patterns of serial killers, but apparently domestic housecats required more emotional awareness.

He added items to a digital shopping cart like he was assembling a kill kit:
– One litter box (hooded, discreet — privacy matters)
– Stainless steel bowls (no plastic, something about acne??)
– Dry and wet food options
– Catnip mouse
– Wand toy with feathers (whatever the hell that meant)
– Catbed
– Name tag???

He blinked.

Right. A name.

He looked over his shoulder. The cat was now grooming itself with terrifying intensity, back leg in the air like a gymnast mid-dismount.

Dexter frowned. “You don’t look like a ‘Fluffy.’”

He scrolled to another tab: “Good cat names for black cats”

Options included:
Salem, Shadow, Midnight, Hex, Ink, Lucifer, Binx.

He tilted his head. “Binx?”

The cat sneezed violently.

“…Not Binx.”

He kept scrolling. Something strange twitched in his chest — like this mattered. Like naming the creature gave it power, or gave him responsibility. That was new. That was… irritating but also, kind of nice.

He sighed and typed something dumb into the name tag section:
“Reaper.”

He hit order, and leaned back with a sigh, just as the cat leapt off the couch and landed gracefully in his lap.

It curled up, purring, head tucked under his hand.

Dexter stared at it.

“…I don’t know what’s wrong with me either,” he muttered.

The cat purred louder.

________________________

Dexter Morgan vs. The Cat Bath

There were a lot of things Dexter was good at. Precision. Patience. Not leaving evidence behind. But as he stood in his bathroom, sleeves rolled up, a towel draped over one arm like a waiter about to serve doom, he realized none of that had prepared him for what was about to happen.

The cat, Reaper, though that name was starting to feel like a jinx, sat perched on the sink, staring at the running water like it had personally offended her ancestors.

“I looked it up,” Dexter said aloud, because somehow talking to the animal helped. “You’re supposed to like baths if I ease you in. Warm water. Calming voice. Positive association.”

Reaper hissed.

“I don’t like this either,” he muttered.

The tub was ready. Two inches of lukewarm water, a no-tears shampoo the internet swore was safe, and one desperate blood analyst trying to not get shredded.

He reached for her slowly, carefully.

“See? Gentle. I’m not dissecting you.”

As soon as her paws touched the water, the cat went feral. Claws splayed. Howling. Spinning like a demonic top. Dexter’s arms were covered in wet fur and scratches. She launched herself halfway up the tile wall, scrambled over his shoulder and clawed at the closed bathroom door.

He finally managed to corral her into the tub again, holding her awkwardly like a soggy meatloaf while trying to lather one paw. The shampoo bottle slipped. The cat scrambled away again.

At one point she managed to get behind the shower curtain. He opened it slowly like she was a hostage taker.

“Reaper, please.”

She blinked at him. Then sneezed. He took it as surrender.

By the time she was rinsed, towel-wrapped, and glaring from the safety of the sink again, Dexter looked like he’d been through a war zone. He slumped against the toiled seat, soaked, bleeding in three places, and whispered to the ceiling:

“Killers are easier than this.”

Dexter sat on the closed toilet lid, a thick, soft towel draped over his lap like a white flag. The cat  was glaring from the far corner of the sink, looking like a drowned shadow with attitude.

“Alright,” he sighed. “Truce?”

She didn't move. Just narrowed her eyes like she was adding this moment to her list of vendettas. He reached slowly — carefully — towel in hand. This time, no water. No soap. No betrayal. Just fluffing.

To his surprise, she allowed it.

Mostly.

Dexter gently pressed the towel to her side, soaking up the damp patches. Small strokes, gentle dabs. A process. Like blotting a blood pool without disturbing the pattern.

“I never thought I’d be saying this,” he muttered, “but you’re almost worse than blood.”

Reaper made a low, throaty sound that was somewhere between a growl and a grumble. Not quite hostile. Not quite friendly. Dexter, absurdly, found it comforting. He switched to her back, carefully rubbing in circles. Her fur puffed slightly, like static. She flicked her tail with the dramatics of a diva whose dressing room coffee had been slightly too cold.

“You know, I’ve wrapped corpses more gently than this,” he added, more to himself than her.

She sneezed again.

He paused, “Bless you?”

Her only reply was curling her paws under her body, accepting the warmth of the towel now that she’d decided she was safe again.

Dexter kept drying her with quiet care. One ear. Then the other. Down her spine. Around her paws. Eventually, she stopped glowering. She blinked slowly. And with a surprising softness, headbutted his hand and Dexter got an idea.

It started as an experiment.

A towel. A cat. A few spare minutes and an overwhelming desire for peace and quiet.

Dexter had read online, yes, he was reading cat forums now, that some felines liked being swaddled like infants. It “mimicked the womb,” they said. “Helped with anxiety.” “Encouraged bonding.”

He had no idea what a cat in a womb felt like, but honestly, it couldn’t be stranger than swaddling a corpse in plastic wrap. And Dexter? Dexter was very good at wrapping things up.

So, like a well-trained technician, he laid the towel flat. Waited. Let Reaper sniff the fabric, circle it, test his intentions with narrowed slits of suspicion.

Then, with the efficiency of a practiced killer and the gentleness of a man being judged by a small, wet, vengeful deity, he wrapped her.

One fold. Two. A careful tuck beneath her body. A little squeeze.

She didn’t hiss.

She purred.

Loudly.

Reaper's entire body went limp in the towel like she’d just discovered nirvana. Her eyes half-closed, ears tilted forward in surrender. One paw poked from the top of the wrap like she was waving a white flag. The other remained hidden in the cozy folds of cotton.

Dexter blinked. “...You like this?”

She purred louder. He stared at the tiny towel burrito in his lap, deeply aware that this was the quietest, stillest, most unconditionally approving moment he’d had in... well. Years.

“You’re so weird,” he said flatly.

Reaper kneaded the air with her one visible paw, tiny claws flexing out and in, still wrapped like a tiny feline sushi roll. Dexter adjusted the towel slightly to keep her warm. Her head flopped sideways, eyes fully closed now, purring like a motorboat in park.

For once, there was no inner voice dissecting him. No Harry. No judgment. No mask.

Just him. A warm towel. And a tiny black cat shaped like a loaf of bread.

 

_____________________

Monday Morning, Now With Cat

The alarm buzzed at precisely 5:30 AM.

Dexter’s eyes opened with the mechanical precision of a man who thrived on routine. Or used to, anyway.

He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and—

“Mrrrp.”

A soft weight dropped onto his feet. Black fur. Blinking gold eyes.

Reaper.

Dexter sighed. “You’re not part of the schedule.”

Reaper blinked slowly, then stretched across his shins with all the smug grace of a cat who had claimed her human, and knew it.

Dexter peeled her off gently, setting her down on the floor as he stood. She immediately trotted behind him, tail flicking, paws utterly silent except for the occasional soft thmp of her jumping up to survey his every movement like a tiny, judgmental shadow.

He started his routine.

Teeth: brushed.

Shower: quick and boiling hot.

Razor: sharp.

Shirt: dark.

Breakfast: two eggs, scrambled, toast.

All while mentally reviewing the copycat case.

“The kill marks were too clean. Mimicked the slicing pattern but lacked intent. There’s no ritualistic buildup, no psychological escalation. This isn’t art. It’s plagiarism.”

He cracked an egg into a pan. Reaper leapt onto the counter.

“Get down,” Dexter muttered.

Reaper, naturally, did not.

He plated his eggs. She pawed at the edge of the dish.

“No. You had your breakfast—oh goddammit.”

He relented. One tiny piece of egg. She devoured it like it was hand-carved Kobe beef. Back to the copycat.

“Ken Olson. Probably obsessed with headlines, with legacy. He wants to be me, but he doesn’t know me. Doesn’t know the work.”

Dexter washed his dish. Reaper played with the soap bubbles in the sink. He stepped into his bedroom to grab his bag. She followed.

He went to the bathroom to brush his hair. She followed.

He sat down to lace his boots. A tail brushed against his leg. Again.

Dexter paused.

“You’re making this difficult.”

Reaper jumped onto the table next to his car keys and knocked them off. Deliberately.

He retrieved them, stared at her.

She blinked, slow and content. He looked down at the cat who had now stretched herself across the entryway rug like she was guarding it. He picked her up, gently, and moved her aside. She immediately flopped right back down.

Dexter sighed but he grabbed his keys, his lunch, his ID badge and stepped out into the Miami heat, cat hair faintly dusting his otherwise immaculate shirt.

The Bay Harbor Butcher had work to do.

Even if his new assistant only offered emotional terrorism and purring.

__

Miami Metro Homicide – Monday Morning

Dexter walked through the double doors of the precinct, coffee in hand and crime scene photos tucked under one arm, doing his best to look… normal.

He had a system. Walk in. Nod at the receptionist. Duck into the lab. Analyze blood. Think about murder.

Except today, none of it worked.

Because today, Deb spotted him first.

“Dexter!” she called across the bullpen, her voice way too loud for how early it was. “You didn’t answer my text about breakfast. Again.”

“I was feeding the cat,” he said before thinking.

Debra stopped mid-stride. “You—what?”

Too late.

He offered a vague shrug and kept walking. “Long story. Very hairy.”

Masuka wheeled around from his desk like a cartoon meerkat. “You got a cat? Oh my god, is it a bloodthirsty killing machine? Did you name it after a serial killer? Please tell me it’s Cat Bundy.”

Dexter didn’t break stride. “Her name’s Reaper.”

Masuka gasped like it was the most romantic thing he’d ever heard. “That’s… metal.”

“Yeah, I’m swooning,” Deb muttered, trailing behind.

Dexter finally reached the sanctuary of his lab, shut the door, and exhaled.

Peace.

Almost.

Because as soon as he turned around, Doakes was right there, arms crossed, looking like he’d spent the whole weekend eating glass and regretting not eating more.

Dexter blinked. “Can I help you, Sergeant?”

Doakes didn’t say anything at first. Just stared. Hard. Like he was trying to melt Dexter’s skull with pure distrust.

“Rough night?” Doakes asked eventually, voice suspicious.

“I have a cat now.”

That... wasn’t what Dexter meant to say. Doakes stared at him. His eye twitched. Then, incredibly, he turned and walked away.

Dexter slowly turned back to his microscope, willing himself to focus on the blood spatter slides in front of him. But Reaper’s fur was still on his sleeve. His head ached faintly from caffeine withdrawal. And somewhere in Miami, Ken Olson was still free. Still sloppily impersonating his masterpiece.

“Pretender. Amateur. I’ll find him. I’ll make it right.”

Dexter leaned over the table, adjusted the slide. The blood was fresh. Vivid. But behind it all, he could still feel Doakes' eyes on the back of his head and that was going to be a problem.

_____

INT. MIAMI METRO – DEXTER’S LAB – MID-MORNING

Dexter was focused on a smear of blood beneath the lens, humming faintly under his breath. Reaper’s fur was everywhere, a strand of black clung to the cuff. He absently picked it off and flicked it into the trash.

Peace, at last.

Until—

“Okay, seriously, how the hell did you get a cat?”

Dexter jumped.

Debra stood in the doorway, arms crossed, coffee in one hand, eyebrows already at full “what the fuck” height. Her expression was a weird blend of suspicion and fascination, like she'd just caught him doing ballet in a crime scene.

Dexter didn’t look up from the microscope. “It climbed through my window.”

A beat.

Debra blinked. “What?”

He finally glanced up. “Black cat. Broke in. Took over. I called a shelter, but she seemed… comfortable. Now I own a cat, apparently.”

Deb stared. Then she squinted. “So you just—kept it?”

“She followed me around,” Dexter said, as if that explained everything. “Then she climbed into my lap. Then the shelter guy came and I panicked.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re like a socially stunted Disney princess.” She stepped further in, grinning now. “What’s her name?”

“Reaper.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Dexter smirked slightly. “It was that or ‘Bloodslide.’”

Deb groaned into her coffee. “God. You know Masuka’s already planning matching shirts for the precinct cat uncle club. I give it two days before he brings you a laser pointer shaped like a boob.”

Dexter shrugged. “She might like it.”

She snorted. “You’re a menace.”

But then she softened—just a bit. “You doing okay though?”

He hesitated. Something twisted in his chest. A flicker of too many sleepless nights, of ghost brothers and judgmental sergeants and copycat killers smearing his work across Miami like a bad forgery.

But he just said, “Yeah. Reaper’s... weirdly calming.”

Debra gave him a look. “You named your pet after the embodiment of death.”

Dexter nodded. “Fitting.”

She sipped her coffee, shrugged. “Fair.” She started backing out, but paused in the doorway. “Hey—if she ever shits in your shoes, I told you so.”

Dexter held up a slide. “If she does, I’ll analyze it.”

“Gross.” She left.

Dexter looked back at the blood under his scope.

Then, quietly, to himself, “She wouldn’t.”

A soft, almost imperceptible grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

*__________________________________*

Debra Morgan sat at her desk, staring at her screen, eyes glazed over. A murder file lay open in front of her, half-highlighted, half-forgotten. Her pen rested between her teeth, slowly being chewed to death. She hadn’t typed a word in ten minutes.

Because she was thinking about Dexter.

Her weird-ass, blood guy, “Im bat at emotions” brother.

Who now owned a cat. A fucking cat.

Not a tarantula, not a tank of piranhas, not a murder crow named Carl. A fluffy, clingy, purring, follow-you-around-like-you’re-their-sun-god cat.

Debra rubbed her temple. “What the actual fuck is happening.”

From the desk across the way, Detective McNamara glanced up. “What?”

“Nothing,” Deb said quickly, waving him off like she wasn’t having a full-blown sibling identity crisis.

Because here’s the thing—Dexter had always been... Dexter. Emotionally constipated. Disconcertingly calm.. She was used to him being weird.

But this was a different weird. Domestic weird. It made her want to check his apartment for body doubles or alien pods.

And today? Today he came in with a damn cat hair on his shoulder and didn’t even notice. Didn’t even flinch when Masuka tried to lint roll him while making jokes about “pussy magnet energy.”

What the fucking hell.

“Hey, Morgan.”

She looked up, startled. Batista leaned on her cubicle wall with two coffees.

“Figured you needed this,” he said with a grin.

“You’re not wrong,” she muttered, accepting the cup. “You ever look at someone you’ve known your whole life and just suddenly go, ‘Are you a stranger? Or have you always been this weird and I just blocked it out for mental survival?’”

Batista blinked. “Are we talking about Dexter?”

“Yes!” she whisper-yelled.

He laughed. “I dunno, he seems more... chill lately? Looked like someone who’d just discovered meditation.”

“Right?!” she hissed. “It’s freaking me out! Dexter doesn’t chill. Dexter studies chloroform ratios in his free time.”

Batista shrugged. “Maybe he needed a soft thing to balance him out. Like yin and yang. Light and dark. Cat and emotionally dead dude.”

Debra groaned and let her forehead hit her desk. “We’re all gonna die. He’s entering his whimsical era. Next thing you know he’ll start knitting.”

“I’d wear a Dexter scarf,” Batista said, sipping his coffee.

“Then you deserve whatever curse it gives you.”

She peeked at her computer screen again, tried to re-focus, but her brain just whispered: Dexter. Cat. Dexter. Cat. Dexter fucking owns a CAT.

There was no coming back from this.

She was going to need stronger coffee.

And possibly therapy.

________

INT. MIAMI METRO – HALLWAY NEAR BREAK ROOM – LATE MORNING

Debra Morgan stormed down the hallway like a woman on a mission. A mission fueled by caffeine deprivation, psychological distress, and whatever existential crisis came from realizing your creepy, emotionally muted brother was now a cat dad. Her badge clipped to her belt flapped with every step.  She needed coffee. Stat.

She turned the corner toward the break room—bam. Collided shoulder-first into a wall of muscle and tactical suspicion.

"Shit—!" she snapped, stumbling back.

Sergeant James Doakes raised one eyebrow. "Morgan."

"Jesus, do you train your body to be that solid? It’s like walking into a concrete statue with an attitude."

"You ran into me," he deadpanned.

She waved a hand. "Whatever. My brain’s melting."

Doakes stepped aside as she ducked into the break room and started fumbling with the coffee pot like it was a lifeline. The machine wheezed pathetically. She groaned.

He lingered in the doorway, watching her like she might spontaneously combust.

"Whats with you this time?"

Debra poured half a cup of the sludge-like brew and said, without looking at him:
"My brother got a cat."

Doakes blinked.

She turned around, sipping like it would save her soul. "You heard me. A cat. Like, fluffy, four legs, follows him around, purrs at him. Dexter Morgan is living with a goddamn feline like he's Snow White with a blood spatter degree."

Doakes stared at her like she’d just told him Dexter started ballroom dancing.

“…That doesn’t make sense.”

"Right?!" she exclaimed, hands up. "You know him! And now he has a CAT."

Doakes narrowed his eyes. He was quiet for a long moment. You could almost hear the static in his brain as he tried to load that image.

"Are you sure the cat’s still alive?"

She snorted. "Honestly? I'm half-expecting to find it taxidermied and posed on his couch with a name tag that says 'Mr. Meowgan.'"

Doakes hummed.

She stared at her coffee. “…Maybe I should check on him. You know, after work. See if he’s doing okay.”

Doakes gave her a suspicious look. “You worried about him?”

Debra shrugged. “I dunno. I’m worried about me being worried about him. And the damn cat.”

He shook his head. “I don’t trust it.”

“Welcome to the Morgan Experience.”

She left with her cup and a half-hearted salute, muttering to herself as she walked away:
"Dexter fucking Morgan, the Cat Whisperer. We’re all gonna die."

Doakes stood there another full minute.

Then quietly said to no one:

“That damn freak’s gonna knit the thing a sweater.”

__________________

Dexter was finishing up for the day, meticulously aligning glass slides in their little box like they were soldiers standing at ease. Everything clean. Everything in its place. Order restored, if only in his lab. The way he liked it.

The rest of his day had been relatively quiet, no dead bodies, no overly dramatic moral reckonings, no ghost of his murdered brother lounging on the corner. Just normal… ish.

Then came the dreaded sound: steps

Specifically, Debra’s steps

She leaned against the doorframe with a grin that was far too mischievous for his liking.

“So,” she said, arms folded, “I’ve decided.”

Dexter didn’t look up. “That’s rarely good.”

“I want to meet the cat.”

His hand froze mid-swipe. Slowly, Dexter looked at her. “Why?”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a cat,” he said, flatly. “It’s not a sidekick or a witness or a charming old neighbor with dementia. It licks its own butt and knocks over glasses.”

“Exactly,” Debra said, grinning wider. “That means it has more emotional depth than you.”

He sighed through his nose. “Deb, it’s a normal cat. It’s not trained. It won’t juggle. It might hiss at you.”

“Dex, I’ve dated guys who hiss at me. A cat’s an upgrade.”

He stared. She smirked.

“I’m coming over.”

“You could have just said that.”

“Well, you could’ve just told me you had a damn cat in the first place instead of acting like your apartment is Area 51 and the cat’s the alien.”

Dexter’s brain tried to calculate the odds of her forgetting about this in the next hour. The numbers were not promising.

“I’m not feeding you,” he said finally.

“Whatever. I’m bringing beer and treats for your demon furball.”

Dexter looked skyward like maybe Harry would intervene. He did not.

Debra turned and walked away, calling over her shoulder, “See you in twenty, Cat Boy.”

Dexter sighed. Out loud. He never did that.

_____________________

INT. DEXTER’S APARTMENT – 20:31 p.m.

Dexter was standing at his kitchen counter, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the “Place Order” button on the delivery app.

Pad Thai for him. Chicken satay for Debra. Extra peanut sauce, because she eats it like it’s soup.

He didn’t want to admit that he remembered that. Or that he thought ahead for this visit. Or that the very idea of her seeing his apartment with a cat in it made his stomach twist in 47 new ways.

He pressed the button. The knock came exactly ten seconds later.

Dexter blinked. “She’s early.”

Or he was late. One of the two. His concept of time had started warping since acquiring the tiny shadow-beast that now ruled his home and sleep deprivation.

He opened the door.

Debra stood there with a six-pack under one arm, a crinkly bag from a pet store in the other, and the exact face someone makes when they’re about to roast you for the rest of your life.

“Evening, Garfield.”

Dexter sighed. “You’re not even inside yet.”

She shoved the beer into his arms and breezed in like she paid rent.

He closed the door, warily watching her scan the space. Her eyes roamed over the impeccably tidy apartment until they landed on—

“The hell is that?”

The cat was perched on the back of the couch like a gargoyle made of midnight silk, yellow eyes blinking slowly, regal and unimpressed.

Deb dropped the pet store bag to the floor.

“No way. No f**ing way.* Dexter, it’s cute.”

Dexter deadpanned. “That’s subjective.”

“Look at its little face! Look at its paws! Oh my god, you have a black cat. You literally adopted your personality.”

He started to object, but the cat hopped off the couch and strutted over to Debra like it had been waiting for her this whole time. It sniffed her boots, gave a soft mrrp, and headbutted her shin.

Debra gasped.

Dexter muttered, “Traitor.”

She crouched down and scratched behind the cat’s ears.  Then, like a man accepting his own execution, he walked into the kitchen and began putting beer in the fridge. Behind him, Deb cooed at the cat, already giving it nicknames.

The front buzzer rang.

Dinner was here.

Dexter stood there, holding the fridge door open, wondering how this had become his life.

Then the cat meowed.

And his sister laughed.

He shut the fridge with a soft thud and went to answer the door.

The Takeout boxes crinkled and steamed on the coffee table as he put them down, the smell of spices curling warmly through the room. Debra was cross-legged on the floor, digging into her chicken satay like she hadn’t eaten in years. Dexter, perched on the couch with his pad thai, watched her feed tiny pieces of chicken to the cat with the focus and reverence of a priest offering communion.

“She doesn’t need any more,” Dexter muttered, stabbing at a noodle.

“She,” Deb said pointedly, dropping another morsel in front of the cat, “is perfect.”

The cat, who had yet to be officially named, elegantly batted the piece, sniffed it, and took a dainty bite before curling up beside Debra like she belonged to her instead.

Dexter narrowed his eyes. “She’s manipulating you.”

Deb snorted. “She’s a cat, Dex. She’s not a Russian double agent.”

“She stared at me for six straight minutes this morning. No blinking. Just... judgment.”

“Sounds familiar,” Deb said, giving him a sharp look before smiling and reaching for another beer. “Besides, she probably sensed you were gonna abandon her to the animal shelter. Cold-hearted bastard.”

Dexter sighed, leaned back, and watched as the cat smugly rested her head on Debra’s knee. “I still don’t get it.”

“What, that she likes me more?”

“No. That she likes me at all.” He poked at his food. “Remember how we never had pets?”

Deb looked up from her beer. “Yeah. Dad always said we never had time for pets. Which was bullshit, by the way.”

Dexter glanced sideways, voice quieting. “It was because animals never liked me.”

Deb paused, her face softening just slightly.

“You were weird with them,” she admitted. “Remember when you tried to hold that hamster in third grade and it screamed like it was being murdered?”

“I wasn’t even squeezing it.”

“It just knew,” she said, shrugging. “Like some spooky instinct.”

Dexter hummed. “Dogs growled. Birds flew into windows. Even goldfish would die faster.”

He stared down at the black cat now snuggling into Deb’s hoodie.

“And then this one just… walked into my life. Literally. Scratched on my window like a horror movie.”

Debra grinned. “She’s your little demon bride. Congrats, you finally got something living that doesn’t run screaming.”

Dexter chuckled under his breath, surprised by the sound.

There was a long pause as they both picked at their food. The cat began purring, a deep, rolling hum that filled the room like white noise.

Debra looked up again. “You good, Dex?”

He glanced at her, unreadable for a moment.

“I’m... better,” he said finally. “I think.”

Another pause.

Deb leaned back against the couch, drained her beer, and gave the cat a scratch behind the ears. “Well, if the end of the world’s coming, at least we’ve got a cat.”

Dexter watched the two of them, this sister and the sleek black feline curled in her lap and something strange and warm tugged in his chest.

Maybe it wasn’t love but it was close.

 

INT. DEXTER’S APARTMENT – 21: 45

The food was mostly gone. A few stray rice grains lingered on Deb’s plate, but she'd since migrated from the floor to the couch, feet tucked up beside her, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. The cat — now dubbed "cat" because neither sibling had agreed on a name — was curled between them like a living armrest, purring as if she'd claimed the couch and everyone on it.

Debra nursed a second beer, talking without much pause, her voice relaxed in that half-sarcastic, half-affectionate way she saved for Dexter.

“...and then this rookie from Vice has the balls to tell me how to do my job. I told him if he ever said ‘female perp’ again I’d staple his dick to his badge.”

Dexter blinked, slowly, from the other end of the couch. “Effective.”

“Thank you,” Deb said, pointing at him with the bottle. “You understand me.”

The cat stretched between them, claws just barely grazing Dexter’s thigh.

He eyed her. “I think she’s dreaming about blood.”

“Then she really is your cat,” Deb muttered, taking another sip.

Dexter didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. The hum of the refrigerator filled the silence.

“Y’know,” Deb said suddenly, looking over at him, “I don’t think I’ve ever just... hung out here. Like, actually spent time in your place.”

“You used to come by to yell at me,” Dexter said. “I assumed that was our family tradition.”

Deb made a face. “I mean like this. Not just showing up because I’m pissed or suspicious or high on caffeine and stress.”

She smiled, faintly, in that crooked way she sometimes did when her shields were down.

“You’re kinda... chill, when you’re not being a total weirdo.”

“I’m always a total weirdo,” Dexter said automatically.

“True,” she snorted. “But now you’ve got a cat. It softens the vibe. I think you’re, like, ten percent more human now.”

The cat rolled onto her back, exposing her belly.

“Fifteen percent,” Deb corrected.

Dexter looked down at the furry mess sprawled between them. “I still don’t get why she picked me.”

“Probably smelled the emptiness and decided to fix it.”

He tilted his head. “That’s disturbing.”

“That’s cats.” Deb shrugged. “They see your soul and just choose to squat in it.”

Dexter gave a tired little laugh. Not his usual awkward chuckle, a real, quiet laugh. It surprised them both. Debra didn’t comment, just leaned back again and rested her beer on her stomach. They sat in companionable silence. The cat purred louder. Debra yawned.

“I might crash here,” she said eventually. “I don’t wanna drive.”

Dexter didn’t argue. Just nodded and got up to get a blanket.

When he came back, Deb was already half asleep, cat curled up against her ribs like a heat pack.

He draped the blanket over both of them. Deb mumbled something unintelligible, twitched once, and went still again.

Dexter sat back down, watching the rise and fall of her breath. He wasn’t used to the apartment being full. Or warm. Or soft.

But for now, it was all of those things.

And for once — just for tonight — he let himself stay there, in that quiet.

Not hunting.
Not calculating.
Not spiraling.

Just… there.

Notes:

Yay bonding timeeeeeeeee
https://www.tumblr.com/erebus-6/790564381015556096/little-moodboard-for-my-fic?source=share -> im to stupid to figure out how to add pics in ao3
Also im not sure about the name, if you guys have a better idea for the cats name let me know :>

Comments and Kudos are appreciated

Chapter 8

DEXTER’S APARTMENT – 5:50 a.m.

The sun had barely crested over the horizon, filtering into the apartment in soft strips of gold. Dexter stood in the kitchen, methodically prepping his morning coffee. The measured steps — grind, pour, wait — soothed his mind. Beside him, his breakfast was already neatly arranged.

From the living room, there was a yawn that turned into a long, exaggerated groan.

“Ughhhhh. Why is your couch made of wood?”

Dexter turned slightly, still focused on his pour. “You slept diagonally.”

Debra padded in, wrapped in the same hoodie she’d arrived in, hair a mess, eyes puffy with sleep. The cat, now dubbed Cricket, after some light (and very one-sided) debate, trotted along beside her like a smug shadow.

“She loves me,” Debra said, scooping Cricket up and lifting her like Simba. “She imprinted on me like a duckling.”

Dexter glanced at her. “You fed her last night.”

“Love is earned,” Deb said, placing Cricket gently on the counter next to Dexter’s toast. The cat immediately began sniffing his plate.  Dexter sighed and lifted the plate out of range.

Cricket meowed.

Debra smirked. “She says you’re a bitch.”

Dexter gave her a flat look, then set her a cup of coffee. “Black, no sugar. The way you like your worldview.”

Debra saluted him with the mug. “You’re such a freak before 8 a.m., I hope you know that.”

Dexter allowed a tiny smile. The domestic rhythm was bizarrely tolerable. The presence of another person, even Debra ,didn’t feel like an intrusion this morning. It felt… routine. Foreign, but manageable.

“Should we carpool?” she asked, already walking back toward the bathroom with her coffee in hand. “I’m too lazy to pick up my car.”

Dexter nodded. “We’ll leave in fifteen.”

 ___________________

Cricket had tried to follow them out the door. Dexter had to coax her back inside with a strip of turkey. Now, as they rolled toward Miami Metro, Debra was slumped in the passenger seat.

“She’s gonna miss me,” she said, squinting against the sun. “You should bring her to the lab.”

“She’d vomit on the first blood slide she saw.”

“Perfect. She’s my niece. She’s got taste.”

Dexter just shook his head, hiding the smile tugging at his lips. He focused on the road. But in the back of his mind, a quiet, almost unfamiliar thought flickered to life.

This doesn’t feel like pretending. Not today. Not with Debra beside him. Not with the cat sprawled across his couch. Not with the day unfolding like it wasn’t a trap. Just… life. Weird. Chaotic. Loud.

The freeway stretched ahead, bathed in the low, amber light of a Florida morning. Dexter kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting against the gearshift in perfect calm. Debra slouched beside him, hair still damp from the world’s fastest shower.

“Alright,” she muttered, thumbing the dial on the radio. “Let’s get something to wake the brain up before Masuka starts talking about strip clubs and bacterial growth again.”

The radio clicked.

Brassy, bombastic marching band music EXPLODED from the speakers. A full-blown, tuba-blaring, cymbal-crashing, patriotic mess of high school halftime show energy flooded the car in perfect surround sound.

Dexter blinked. Debra froze.

“…What the actual shit is this?”

Dexter, deadpan just answered, “It’s my preset.”

She slowly turned to him, eyes wide. “Your what?”

He didn’t flinch. “Station 88.7. All marching band music. Twenty-four hours.”

Debra stared at him like he’d grown a third eye that was currently saluting the American flag.

“You—…Dex—…you voluntarily listen to this?”

“It’s mathematically structured. Precise. Focused. It’s good for mornings.”

The music swelled, as if to punctuate that insane statement.

Debra buried her face in her hands. “You are... an alien. I swear to God. This explains fucking shit everything. This explains why you have no furniture with actual cushions.”

Dexter calmly turned the volume down by a single notch. Not off. Just down.

“You don’t like Sousa?” he asked, sincerely.

Debra groaned. “Sousa can Sousa my ass, Dexter.”

Still, she didn’t change the station. The marching band music still lingered at a barely tolerable volume, more background chaos than actual melody now, but neither sibling had bothered to change it. Dexter drove with the same quiet, calculating focus he used for everything. Debra, meanwhile, was vibrating in her seat like a soda can ready to burst.

She turned, squinting at him. “Okay. Real question.”

Dexter didn’t glance away from the road. “God help me.”

“How the fuck are things going with Sergeant Grim-and-Grimier? You two still doing Lundy's Little Buddy Cop Program or whatever the hell it is?”

Dexter blinked, expression carefully blank. “If you mean Doakes, yes. We’re still working together.”

“You haven’t killed each other yet, so I guess that’s progress.”

Dexter sighed. “That’s a very low bar.”

Debra leaned against the window, “I still don’t get why Lundy thought that was a good idea. You two in the same room is like putting a lit match and a tank of gas in a closet and locking the door.”

Dexter gave her a side glance. “He said it was about cooperation and mutual understanding.”

“Bullshit,” she said, kicking her boot against the glovebox. “It’s ‘cause I told him about you showing up drunk and acting like an emotionally constipated raccoon.”

There was an awkward pause.

Dexter blinked. “That... explains some things.”

“Damn right it does,” she said, then frowned at him. “You mad?”

“I’m not... thrilled.”

“Oh, boo-fucking-hoo,” she snapped. “Maybe if you hadn’t pulled that Lila stunt, I wouldn’t be having to play Damage Control: Sibling Edition.”

Dexter exhaled slowly. “Can we not talk about Lila?”

“No, we’re absolutely talking about Lila, because every time I don’t, you do something weirder, like adopt a goddamn cat or emotionally implode.”

“I didn’t implode on anything.”

Debra turned to him, one eyebrow arched so high it almost disappeared into her hairline. “Dex. You were drunk. You glared at me from the bar for talking to him like a jealous middle schooler. And he drove your dramatic ass home. You tell me what the hell that was.”

Dexter’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “It was... nothing.”

“Oh yeah?” she said, laughing. “’Cause you’ve been walking around like someone rearranged your moral code with a tire iron.”

Dexter didn’t respond. A long pause.

Debra finally sighed and looked out the window. “Whatever. Just... be careful, okay? Doakes is intense. And not like ‘bad boy with a motorcycle’ intense. More like ‘might bite someone’s ear off in a bar fight and then blame you for bleeding on his shoes.’”

Dexter finally spoke, dry as sand. “Comforting.”

Another beat of silence, filled only by a triumphant brass fanfare. Debra groaned and smacked the dial. The radio cut to silence.

“Finally,” she muttered. “I was starting to get flashbacks to marching band kids in high school. Those nerds had some weird shit in their instrument cases, I swear.”

“She likes you,” he said softly.

Debra squinted. “What?”

“The cat,” he clarified. “She likes you.”

Debra blinked... then grinned. “Of course she does. I’m fucking adorable.”

Dexter shook his head, pulling into the precinct lot.

“She has no idea what she’s gotten into.”

“Neither do you,” Debra said, hopping out of the car. “But here we are.”

And with that, she slammed the door shut and strutted toward the building, leaving Dexter to stare after her, equal parts fond, annoyed, and vaguely alarmed. Like always.

_____

MIAMI METRO HOMICIDE – MORNING

The precinct was already pulsing with the low buzz of conversation, phones ringing, and the clatter of keyboards in full swing. Dexter walked through the sliding glass doors with his usual insulated calm, and the faint smell of antiseptic and old coffee hanging in the air.

His shoes clicked quietly on the linoleum as he made his way past the bullpen, nodding at a few familiar faces: One Officer from patrol gave him a bleary thumbs-up, one of the new techs waved too hard and almost dropped a file folder. Dexter returned both gestures with his usual small, noncommittal smile.

Business as usual. Murder, reports, people pretending they’ve had coffee when they’ve clearly only inhaled despair. Me? I had coffee. I also cleaned cat litter at 5 a.m. Something’s changed. I don’t know if I hate it yet.

He passed Masuka, who was already eating a breakfast burrito at his desk like it was a speed-eating competition. Grease glistened on the keyboard.

"Hey, Dexter!" Masuka called around a mouthful. “I heard you got a cat now. What’s her name? Please tell me it’s something hot, like... Catnip Everdeen.”

Dexter didn’t even blink. “Her name is Reaper.”

“Ooooh,” Masuka said, waggling his eyebrows.

“Not really. She’s black, and she follows me.”

Masuka grinned. “Kinky.”

He moved on.

At his lab, he slid the door shut with a small sigh, placing his mug on the counter and reaching for the morning’s evidence files. The routine helped, simple, clean. The blood always told the truth, even when people didn’t.

Routine. Predictable. Safe. Almost boring... and I used to like boring.

His fingers paused on the edge of the first folder. Then he glanced to the small corner shelf near the window.

Why does the thought of a small animal climbing across my sofa feel more grounding than my code?

He shook it off, opened the folder, and began reviewing the case. Blood spatter. Location markers. Angle of entry.

Footsteps sounded behind him, and the door cracked open.

“Morning, lab rat,” came Doakes’ low, growled voice.

Dexter didn’t turn. “Morning, Sergeant.”

Doakes paused just long enough to make the air feel heavier.

“You still got that cat?”

Dexter finally glanced over his shoulder. “Yes.”

Doakes squinted. “You’re weirder than I thought.”

Dexter smiled, eyes flicking back to the file. “Good to know I can still surprise you.”

“Not a compliment, Morgan.”

But he left without another word, the door sliding shut behind him. Dexter exhaled quietly.

Back to the blood. The one thing that doesn't talk back. Unless I ask nicely.

He picked up the sample, held it to the light, and started to work.

___________________________

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Dexter hunched over the microscope, the cool hum of the lab surrounding him like a sterile cocoon. The scent of ethanol and copper filled the air—a comfort, oddly enough. On the slide before him, a blood spatter sample bloomed red against the pale lens of glass, perfectly fanned like an arterial spray caught mid-flight.

They think they’re close. The Bay Harbor Butcher. Miami Metro’s favorite boogeyman. A few whispers, a few pieces of old evidence swept out of the corners like dust. But they’re not close enough. Not yet.

He adjusted the slide slightly, the crimson smear shifting under his gaze.

I was careful. Meticulous. Every body, every trophy, everything had a reason, a rhythm. But now there’s a copycat dragging my legacy through the mud. Ken Olson. A sad little mimic with all the flair of a parking ticket and none of the conviction.

Dexter scribbled a note on his clipboard without looking, his handwriting eerily steady.

And I hate that I care. I hate that the idea of someone else stealing my work makes my teeth itch. This wasn’t supposed to be about ego. This was about balance. Justice. The Code. Harry’s Code.

He set the clipboard down and reached for the next vial, tilting it under the light. The blood inside had dried to a rich, rusted brown.

But Harry’s been quiet lately. Or judging. Maybe both. Hard to tell with ghosts. Even harder when one of them is your dead brother showing up like a twisted Jiminy Cricket.

He leaned back slightly, rubbing at his temple. The headache still pulsed behind his eyes, a leftover echo of not enough sleep and confusion.

I need to refocus. The copycat needs to go. Not just because he’s sloppy. But because he’s a threat—to my work, to the Code, to me. I keep saying I want normal, but I can’t have it, not while my shadow is walking free and leaving blood in the wrong patterns.

A knock tapped against the lab door. Debra peeked in, coffee in hand.

“You still nerding it up in here, Dex?”

Dexter looked up, forcing a neutral smile. “Always.”

She lingered a second longer, like she wanted to say something else, but just muttered, “Freakin’ blood whisperer,” and disappeared.

Dexter turned back to his microscope, lowering his eye once again to the lens.

There’s always blood. And sooner or later, it always points the way. Even if that way is right back to me.

Dexter sealed his latest blood vial and slipped it into the evidence fridge. He wiped his hands on a paper towel, head still buzzing from thoughts of the Bay Harbor Butcher copycat, when someone cleared their throat sharply behind him.

He turned.

He turned. Lundy stood there, clipboard in hand, face unreadable. His presence always carried a quiet weight, like a teacher waiting to see if you’d confess before he asked the question. And just behind him, with his arms crossed and a scowl already forming—DOAKES.

Dexter’s stomach sank a little.

Lundy stepped forward. “Mr. Morgan, we need you on a stakeout tonight.”

Dexter blinked. “A stakeout?”

Lundy flipped open the clipboard and handed over a series of printouts: harbor manifests, timestamps, grainy photos of a small, rusting trawler docked near Harbor 14. Dexter scanned them.

“The same boat’s been showing up in harbor logs at irregular intervals,” Lundy explained. “Tide charts suggest it’s moving during off-hours, just after 2 or 3 a.m. which fits the Bay Harbor Butcher’s known disposal windows.”

Doakes added, “Coast Guard hasn’t flagged it. Owner’s clean on paper, but someone’s been skipping the check-in logs.”

Lundy nodded. “It's probably nothing. But given how close this is to the Butcher’s known dump zones, we can’t ignore it.”

Dexter tilted the manifest toward the light. “You think this is where the copycat is dumping now?”

Lundy raised an eyebrow. “Could be the original. Could be a decoy. Could be a trap. Either way—”

He looked at both of them.

“I want fresh eyes on it. Doakes handles field assessment. Morgan, I want you watching for anything that doesn’t match the Butchers patterns.”

Dexter resisted the urge to sigh.

Lundy handed Doakes the keys. “10 p.m. Harbor 14. Try to be professional.”

Doakes gave Dexter a look. That look. Dexter returned it with a thin, polite smile. Lundy turned back to Dexter. “You’re the best blood expert we’ve got, Dexter. And the Bay Harbor Butcher is a big fish to catch. I want your instincts on this.”

Doakes muttered under his breath. “Instincts. Right.”

Dexter’s jaw twitched. Lundy walked off, already focused on the next task. Dexter and Doakes remained behind in the lab, the tension settling like dust.

This isn’t a trap. It’s a cage. And I just got locked in it with a panther who thinks I’m a deer.

Doakes finally grunted, turned on his heel, and left without another word. Dexter stared down at the trawler photo. A boat, sitting quiet in the dark.

He knew the type.

So did the Bay Harbor Butcher.

 

_______________________________________________________________

HARBOR 14 – NIGHT

The Miami waterfront was calm, moonlight sliding over black water, the creaking of boats like distant whispers. A foghorn sounded somewhere far off, low and haunting. Dexter sat in the passenger seat, gloved fingers fidgeting with the edge of the binocular case. Doakes was behind the wheel, one hand on the armrest, the other gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly for someone “relaxing.”

They had been sitting in silence for forty-seven minutes.

Doakes finally exhaled, sharp and annoyed. “You gonna twitch all night, Morgan, or can I die in peace over here?”

Dexter blinked. “I wasn’t twitching.”

“You’re always twitching. Like you’re trying to hold in a sneeze that’s also a murder.”

Dexter stared out the window. “I think that’s just my face.”

Silence.

Then Doakes grumbled, “Jesus.”

Nothing like a night of dock fog and unspoken sexual trauma to bring two men closer together.

Doakes glanced at him, then back at the boat. “This your element, right? Blood, boats, bodies?”

Dexter didn’t flinch. “I like the solitude.”

“Yeah. That tracks.” Doakes leaned back, face lit dimly by the dash lights. “You ever think about what kind of sick bastard actually enjoys cutting people up for a living?”

Dexter gave him a tight smile. “You mean like surgeons?”

Doakes snarled. “Cute.”

They lapsed into silence again. The radio crackled faintly with dispatch chatter. The boat rocked in the tide. Crickets chirped.

Then, out of nowhere, Doakes muttered, “You ever gonna talk about the other night?”

Dexter stiffened.

Nope. Absolutely not. We are not doing this on a stakeout. I’d rather be stabbed with a crusty pipette than talk about your finger in my mouth, Sergeant.

Dexter cleared his throat. “What other night?”

Doakes looked at him flatly. “You really gonna make me say it?”

Dexter said nothing. The silence stretched. Then—

“Thought so,” Doakes said under his breath, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe he was there, in that car, with him.

Dexter stared out the windshield.

Doakes glanced over, his voice low, suspicious. “You always this quiet?”

“I like silence.”

…

More silence.

Dexter opened a thermos and poured himself coffee. He offered it, half out of weird habit, half to fill the dead space.

Doakes blinked at it. “You drug it?”

Dexter’s face didn’t change. “If I wanted you unconscious, I wouldn’t need coffee to do it.”

A beat. Then, surprisingly, Doakes chuckled under his breath. Just once. A short, annoyed, begrudging kind of sound. Dexter sipped his coffee, watching him from the corner of his eye.

“Why do you even do this?” Doakes asked suddenly.

Dexter blinked. “Do what?”

“Lab shit. Blood spatter. Dead bodies. You act like none of it touches you. You where what?, Top of your class in medical school, and then pursued a career in forensic science as a blood spatter geek?”

Dexter paused. The boat creaked again. “It’s... clean. Blood tells the truth. Bodies don’t lie.”

Doakes squinted at him. “Yeah, but you act like you’re allergic to being human.”

Dexter turned to him. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough,” Doakes muttered. “You’re like a walking blank space. Sometimes I think if I shook you hard enough, dust would fall out.”

Dexter smirked. “That’s poetic. Did you write that down ahead of time?”

Doakes gave him a look that could’ve boiled water.

Another silence.

I could be out there right now. Checking the haul deck. Peeking into hidden compartments. Seeing if this is where my sloppy little copycat has been playing pretend. But instead, I’m here. Babysitting Doakes like a moody prom date with a Glock.

“So. That cat thing. That true?”

Dexter hesitated. “...Yes.”

Doakes stared at him for a long moment.

The other raised a brow. “Why is that the thing that breaks your brain?”

 You just don’t seem like the type.”

“I didn’t think I was either,” he admitted. “But it... follows me around. Sleeps in the sink.”

 “Cats are sneaky as hell.”

 “So are people.”

That got another side-eye from Doakes. “Yeah. Some more than others.”

Dexter didn’t respond. The boat creaked again. Both of them turned to look.

Still nothing.

Doakes checked his watch. “Three more hours of this shit.”

Dexter settled back into the seat, letting his head rest against the window.

Three more hours. Three more hours of awkward silences, judgmental glances. But at least there’s no Lila. No Rita. No Harry. No Brian. Just Doakes, the ocean, and a boat that may or may not hold a killer.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Not to sleep, just to rest.

“So what’s the cat’s name?”

Dexter blinked, slow. “…I haven’t decided yet.”

Doakes gave him a long look. “You have a whole ass living thing in your home and you didn’t even name it?”

“I tried,” Dexter said, tone even. “But nothing felt… accurate.”

Doakes snorted. “It’s a cat, Morgan. You ain’t naming a warship.”

Dexter considered this. “I thought about ‘Reaper but Debra doesn’t really find it that funny.”

“Reaper.”

Dexter shrugged.

Doakes muttered, “God, you’re weird.”

He smirked. “You asked.”

Silence again.

The distant hum of the harbor cranes groaning in the wind. Doakes cracked his neck and dug into his jacket for his phone. He tapped, scrolled, then glanced sideways.

“What kind of food you even feed them? Hope not some weird ass shit.”

Dexter didn’t look over. “High-protein, grain-free wet food. No tuna. They get addicted to it.”

Doakes stared.

Dexter added, “Also no lilies in the apartment. Extremely toxic. I have a folder.”

“You have a folder.”

“Color-coded.”

“You are a serial killer.”

Dexter turned, calm. “You’ve been saying that for weeks.”

“I meant, like, organizing a cat care folder. That’s the actual crime.”

Dexter smiled faintly and sipped from his thermos.

Doakes sighed and shook his head. “Christ.”

Another moment passed.

Then the Sergeant muttered, “What’s it like?”

Dexter tilted his head. “The cat?”

“No,” Doakes snapped. “Being… whatever the hell you are.”

Dexter didn’t respond right away. He looked out the windshield. The water shimmered, dark and quiet. Silence. A seagull screamed in the distance. They sat in the warm bubble of the car. The harbor swayed gently beyond. The boat didn’t move. Nothing happened.

Doakes shifted again.

Dexter sipped his coffee.

Then, finally—

“Reaper,” Doakes muttered. “Jesus Christ.”

__________________________

The hours dripped by like molasses. The harbor was a graveyard of stillness,  steel hulls swaying on dark water, wind slicing between metal structures, rusted cranes creaking like dying animals. Dexter sat statue-still in the passenger seat, jaw tight, eyes pinned to the empty boat. But the pressure in his head was mounting.

A throb behind his right eye. Then both. Then a sharp, needling migraine that pulsed with the weight of too much, too many ghosts, too little sleep.

Harry’s voice had been following him for days, heavy with judgment, ever-present. Brian’s had been closer, whispering nonsense like lullabies dipped in blood.

Dexter shifted slightly. His fingers twitched on his thigh.

Doakes glanced over.

"You good?" he grunted.

Dexter didn’t look at him. “Fine.”

Doakes stared at him for a beat longer. “You look like you're about to vomit.”

Dexter winced at the stab of light from a passing car.

“I get migraines,” he said simply.

Doakes leaned back with a scoff. “Of course you do. Probably from holding in whatever weird shit’s in that head of yours.”

Dexter didn’t reply. He stared out at the harbor. His eyes burned. His skin felt too tight. The whole world was a low-pitched buzz under his skin, and he wanted out.

Harry appeared behind his eyelids for a flash — arms crossed, frown deep, that fatherly disappointment soaked into every pore.

“You’re losing control.”

Dexter’s breathing hitched.

“You need air?” Doakes asked suddenly.

Dexter blinked. He must’ve looked worse than he thought.

“No,” he said stiffly. “I’m fine.”

"You keep saying that," the other muttered, pulling out a protein bar. He ripped it open with his teeth. “Startin’ to sound like a glitching robot.”

Dexter rubbed his temple. "Maybe I am."

“Shit, maybe.”

The silence returned, only this time, it wasn’t even tolerable. Dexter’s whole body buzzed. His thoughts scattered and reformed into pieces that didn’t quite connect. His nails bit into his palms.

Brian whispered. “You could kill someone and feel better. It doesn’t have to fit the code, it just has to stop the urge.”

Dexter leaned his head back against the window, eyes closed. His voice was barely audible. “I need sleep.”

Doakes glanced at him again, chewing slowly. “Yeah. You look like death.”

Dexter gave a weak smile. “You always know just what to say.”

The Sergeant rolled his eyes and tossed the wrapper in the back seat. “You’re a dick, Morgan.”

Dexter let the words hang in the air like a weighted blanket.

_______

Nothing happened that night. No movement at the boat. No sign of their killer. Just the hum of Dexter's headache and the maddening echo of ghosts. By the time the sun began bleeding faint orange into the edge of the sky, Dexter felt like a barely contained storm.

But the cat would be waiting at home.

And for some reason… that mattered.

The sky was that weird gray-lavender mix that only shows up when the city’s still waking up. Quiet. Heavy. A strange stillness hung over the drive back. Dexter sat slumped in the passenger seat, hands in his lap, eyelids half-mast. His jaw worked like he was chewing on a thought he couldn’t quite swallow.

Doakes stole a glance at him.

“You gonna throw up in my car?”

“Not unless you hit a pothole and make it my problem.”

“Charming.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence. When Doakes pulled into Dexter’s apartment lot, the sun was just starting to glow behind the skyline. A few people were walking dogs. One guy jogged by looking entirely too enthusiastic for this hour. Dexter dragged himself out of the seat like his bones were on strike. Doakes followed him without being asked.

Dexter unlocked the door and stepped in—

—and immediately there was a meow and a blur of fur.

The black cat darted out from behind the couch and trotted straight toward Dexter, tail high like a banner.

Doakes stopped cold in the doorway. “The fuck?”

Dexter blinked at the cat, then down at Doakes. “I told you. I have a cat.”

Dexter bent down stiffly and scooped up the feline, who melted against his chest like it was part of a routine. The cat stretched a paw up to Dexter’s collar, purring like a jet engine. He just stood there, expression unreadable, gently scratching behind the cat’s ears, walked to the kitchen, and poured a scoop of food into the bowl like a man completing a sacred morning ritual.

Doakes lingered in the doorway, arms crossed.

Reaper immediately trotted over to her food, tail swaying.

Dexter yawned. He looked rough. pale, circles under his eyes, that lingering tension of ghosts in his blood.

“You gonna pass out?” Doakes asked gruffly.

The redhead ran a hand through his hair. “As soon as I can find horizontal space.”

“Don’t die. I don’t wanna have to explain your weird ass to anyone.”

Dexter gave him a tired look. “Your concern is noted.”

And with that, Doakes disappeared. The cat finished eating, walked over, and curled right up against Dexter’s foot as if she’d been guarding it all night. He shook his head and finally collapsed on the couch, one arm draped over his eyes.

It was finally quiet.

Well. Quiet enough.

__________

DEXTER’S APARTMENT – LATE AFTERNOON

Dexter was lying on the couch, feet bare, cat on his stomach like a warm, purring paperweight. His head still throbbed faintly, the ghost of a migraine clinging to the edges of his skull. He was not in the mood for anything human.

So naturally, that’s when someone knocked.

Three sharp, authoritative raps.

Dexter groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Reaper lifted her head and gave him an unimpressed look. Dexter slid off the couch carefully, shifting the cat into the warm spot he left behind. She stretched and plopped back down like this was her place now. When he opened the door, Doakes stood there. Black t-shirt. Dark pants. And… a brown paper bag.

Dexter blinked. “Didn’t expect to see you again today.”

Doakes pushed past him into the apartment. “Didn’t plan on it. But you looked like shit, and I figured—" he raised the bag slightly "—you probably haven’t eaten anything that didn’t come in powder form or wasn’t meant for a cat.”

Dexter narrowed his eyes. “Is that… Thai food?”

“Yeah. You’re welcome.”

“Did you poison it?”

“Only emotionally.”

“Touching.”

As they walked into the living room, Doakes stopped short. The cat was now sprawled upside down in the middle of the couch, tail flicking lazily, completely unbothered by the newcomer.

“Still here,” he muttered.

“Reaper lives here.”

Doakes made a face. “Sounds like a stripper name for a vampire.”

Dexter just took the bag of food and started unpacking it. “She seems to like it.”

Reaper rolled over and made a chirpy meow sound.

Doakes stared. Then, slowly, cautiously… he crouched down.

The cat purred and rubbed her face against the couch cushion. The seargent gave her a very slow, skeptical head-pat.She leaned in like she’d been waiting for this moment all day.

She likes him. Of course she does. Cats are excellent judges of character. Which meant either she saw something in Doakes I didn’t… Or she was a very bad cat.

Dexter watched from the kitchen. “She’s manipulating you.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Doakes, with infinite hesitation, scratched behind her ears. The cat closed her eyes and purred louder. Doakes blinked like he’d just seen the face of God.

Dexter plated the food and handed him one of the takeout containers. “So. You come bearing food and petting cats. Are you dying?”

Doakes sat down slowly, the cat now firmly between them like a tiny chaperone. “Figured if we’re doing more stakeouts, I should make sure you don’t drop dead from sleep deprivation or some weird guilt trip spiral.”

Dexter raised an eyebrow. “I’m not spiraling.”

Doakes stared at him.

The other took a bite of noodles. “…Maybe a little.”

They ate in companionable silence, except for the purring. Dexter stared at his food.

Chicken pad see. Stir-fried noodles, broccoli, soy sauce. Comfort food for the emotionally repressed. Which is ironic, considering who brought it.

 Doakes stood up with a grunt after he finished his food, brushing cat fur off his pants. Reaper gave a lazy stretch, clearly unbothered that her warm seat was leaving.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he muttered, already heading for the door. “And feed the damn cat something other than your leftover cereal.”

Dexter followed him to the door, still holding his half-empty container. “It’s organic.”

“It’s sad,” Doakes said, stepping into the hall. He paused. Looked over his shoulder. “And maybe let someone know if you're gonna start adopting shit. Pets. People. Emotions.”

Dexter blinked. “Noted.”

Doakes gave him a final grunt and turned down the corridor. The door shut. Silence bloomed. For a moment, Dexter just stood there.

Then—

“You really let him pet your cat?”

Dexter froze.

The air dropped ten degrees.

He turned slowly.

Brian stood by the kitchen counter, backlit by the soft orange under-lighting. His arms were crossed, and that smile was already tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Dexter sighed. “Do you live in my apartment now?”

Brian tilted his head. “No. I haunt you. Totally different lease agreement.”

He pushed off the counter and sauntered forward, eyes darting to where the cat had resumed loafing on the rug.

“A cat?” he said, sounding both amused and fascinated. “You, of all people.”

“She showed up,” Dexter muttered. “I was being… humane.”

Brian smirked. “That’s a new word in your vocabulary.”

Dexter narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?”

“I was curious,” Brian said, circling him now like a buzzard. “You’ve been busy.” His grin widened. “This is fun. You’re unraveling. And not in the usual way. This is messy. Human. Delicious.”

Dexter rubbed his temple. The headache was back. He looked away.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Brian stood, slow and fluid, stepping in close, too close. The air between them thinned.

“Oh, baby brother,” he said, voice like velvet wrapped around a razor. “That’s the best part.”

He smiled, sharp and delighted.

“You’re finally starting to rot from the inside.”

 

Notes:

Sorry that it took so long, was kind of stuck on it but hope it isnt to bad.

Chapter 9

Notes:

Im aliveeeeee

The drive home was muscle memory. Left on 27th, cut past the gas station with the busted neon, keep one eye on the beat-up Corolla that’s been tailing too close for three blocks. Miami at night always hummed with static, sirens in the distance, the sticky feel of humidity even with the A/C blasting.

Doakes kept his hands locked at ten and two, jaw set, mind still half in the stakeout haze. He hadn’t slept worth a damn in days, and the edges of his thoughts felt sharp enough to cut skin.

The phone buzzed against the cup holder. Unknown number? He’d ignore it. But the name glowing back at him wasn’t unknown.

Jess.

He let it ring once, twice. Thought about letting it go. Then swore under his breath and thumbed it on.

“Yeah.”

A pause. Then, his sister’s voice — sharp, familiar, impossible to ignore.
“Yeah? That’s how you answer the phone? Jesus, James. No ‘hey, Jess,’ no ‘what’s up?’ Just ‘yeah.’”

Doakes pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jess, it’s late.”

“I don’t give a damn if it’s late. You know what else is late? You calling Mom back. It’s been what? Two week?. Two. You think she doesn’t notice? She calls me, she calls Roni, wondering if you’re dead in a ditch somewhere. You can’t pick up a damn phone for thirty seconds?”

He blew out a breath, staring hard at the road. “I’ve been working.”

“You’re always working.” Her tone dropped, but it didn’t soften. “And don’t start with the ‘my job saves lives’ speech. We all know what you do, James. But when’s the last time you saved your own damn family a worry line?”

That one landed. His knuckles whitened on the wheel. Silence stretched for a beat too long.

Jess pounced. “Roni’s putting together dinner next Sunday. You’re coming.”

“I don’t do dinner.”

“Bullshit. You eat. You’ve just convinced yourself you’re too important to do it at a table with your sisters and your mom.”

Doakes’ lips twitched, not quite a smile, more like the flicker of one trying to break free. “I am too important.”

“Don’t play smart with me. Roni’s making Jambalaya. Mom already promised flan. You skip it, I swear to God, James, I’ll drive down there myself, drag your uptight ass out of work, and embarrass you in front of your little cop friends.”

That actually drew a low, reluctant laugh out of him, gravelly, short-lived. “You always were bossy.”

“Somebody had to be. Dad sure as hell wasn’t.”

That one hit like a sucker punch. The car seemed to shrink around him, the sound of the road dulling. He gripped the wheel tighter, teeth grinding.

Jess let the silence breathe for a beat, then slipped right past it like she’d never said it. “Anyway, the boys are excited. Daniel’s already asking if Uncle James is gonna show up this time. He’s six, James. He doesn’t understand why his uncle’s too busy to visit. And Marcus is eight, he told his class you used to be an Army Ranger. You’re basically Captain America to him. You gonna let him down too?”

Doakes blinked hard at the windshield. Hell. That one cut deeper than she probably even meant it to.

“You still there?” Jess asked, softer now.

“Yeah,” he muttered.

“Look,” she said, quieter now. “We don’t see you. Not really. You’re out there chasing killers and God knows what, but you forget you’ve got people here. Me. Roni. Mom. We give a shit about you, James. Whether you like it or not.”

Doakes stared out at the dark stretch of highway, his reflection a grim silhouette in the driver’s side window. For once, he didn’t have a comeback. Just the sound of her breathing on the other end, steady, waiting.

“I’ll… think about it.”

“Uh-huh. You ‘think about it’ every damn time. Not good enough.”

“Jess—”

“Listen to me when I say this, you show up. You eat some damn Jambalaya, you let Mom fuss over you, and you let the boys climb all over you for an hour. It won’t kill you. And—” she hesitated, then added slyly, “—if you want, bring someone from work. A partner, a friend, whatever. The more the better. Maybe someone’ll knock that scowl off your face.”

Doakes barked out a sharp laugh. “Nobody at work wants to have dinner with me, Jess.”

“Oh, please. You mean you haven’t got one person who doesn’t hate your guts?”

“Not really.”

“Then find one. I don’t care if it’s the janitor. You show up, James. You hear me?”

He shook his head, but there was a trace of something lighter in his chest. “Fine. I’ll… think about it.”

“No. You’ll do it. That’s the difference between us, I say shit and it happens.”

Before he could answer, the line clicked dead. She hung up. Always on her terms. He remembered being a kid, Jess yelling at him and Roni both for tracking mud through the kitchen, hands on her hips like she was born to boss the world around. Some things didn’t change.

Doakes dropped the phone back in the cup holder, rolling his shoulders out, trying to shake the weight off. Neon bled across the windshield.

Maybe he’d go. Maybe he wouldn’t. But he was already picturing the smell of Jambalaya in Roni’s kitchen, his mom fussing over him like he was still twelve, Jess giving him that look like she could see straight through.

_________________________________

Doakes’s apartment was neat the way a barracks bunk was neat, not cozy, not lived-in, just… maintained. Everything had its place. The blinds were drawn tight, the counters wiped clean, the coffee table squared with the couch. He didn’t own throw pillows, didn’t believe in them. Sue him for that but that’s just throwing money out of the window.

First thing through the door, he set his gun and badge down. Habit. Always habit. Shoes off next, lined up exactly  against the wall. Then straight to the fridge, two bottles of water, one protein shake, and a container of leftover chicken breast waiting like a sad bachelor’s prize. He grabbed the shake, downed half in one pull.

The TV clicked on, muted. Local news ran b-roll of flashing lights and a crime scene taped off somewhere. He left it on anyway, background noise. He dropped onto the couch, leaned forward, forearms on his knees.

Jess. He could brush off anybody else, cops, feds, suspects but not her. Never her. And she was right, when Jess said “bring someone,” she didn’t mean it like a suggestion. She meant it like an order.

Doakes rubbed a hand over his scalp, groaning low in his throat. “Shit.”

Who the hell was he supposed to bring?

He started running through the list, methodical.

Debra Morgan. Christ, no. Too much energy, too much mouth, she’d probably spend the whole night swearing in front of the boys and telling stories that would make his mom clutch her rosary. He pictured Jess giving him that look across the table, and immediately scrapped the idea.

Batista. Maybe. Nice enough guy, family man, would talk his Mom’s ear off about his daughter, which might even take the heat off him. But Batista would also try to “open up” conversation, make everything soft and nice. Doakes wasn’t sure he could sit through that without snapping. And the guy drank too much and had a thing for spilling his heart out to strangers. The thought of him oversharing at Roni’s table made Doakes’ skin crawl. “Pass.”

Masuka. Doakes actually barked out a laugh in his empty apartment. Hell no. He’d rather throw himself in traffic.

LaGuerta. Now that was funny. Bringing his boss? Who was also his ex? Something he never talked about. It hadn’t ended clean. Nothing with her ever did. She was ambitious, calculating, sharp as glass and back when they were tangled up, he’d liked that about her. Maybe even admired it.  He’d brought Maria to dinner, back before everything blew up. Mom hadn’t even tried to hide the look in her eyes, that cool, polite disdain. She’d pulled him aside in the kitchen after, voice low but firm. “That woman? She’s not for you, James. She’s hungry for something else. She doesn’t see you, she sees what you can give her.”

At the time, he’d brushed it off. Told himself Mom didn’t know Maria like he did. But in the end, she’d been right. LaGuerta had chosen the badge, the ladder, the power. And Doakes? He was just one more rung she’d stepped over on her way up. Still… at least Maria wouldn’t bore him. She was sharp, could hold her own in any room, even in front of Jess’s fire. He knew Jess would respect that, in her own twisted way. Maria was a chapter he’d buried. Bringing her back to a family dinner would be like digging up a corpse and setting it at the table. No chance.

No chance in hell.

That left…

Doakes leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

Dexter.

The thought made him scowl. The guy was a creep, he knew it. But… he didn’t talk too much. Didn’t ask too many personal questions. Didn’t get on his nerves all the time. And the boys would probably think the guy was alright, polite, harmless, maybe even funny in that corny, deadpan way.

“Christ, am I really considering this?” Doakes muttered.

He stood, restless, and went into the kitchen. Knife in hand, he diced the chicken breast into strips with clean, efficient strokes, the same way he used to break down rations overseas. Tossed it into a skillet, no seasoning, just heat and oil. Military-style dinner. Fuel, not food.

While it sizzled, his brain kept circling back.  Jess was expecting someone. He could already hear her voice tearing into him if he showed up solo. “You think you’re too good for people? You couldn’t bring a friend? Not even one?”  The boys would ask. His mom would give him that look, the one that said mijo, don’t you get lonely?

And what was he supposed to say? “Yeah, Ma, everyone pisses me off except maybe one dude who I’m pretty sure is a serial killer, but he’s polite and weird as shit.”

He shook his head, smirking despite himself.

The chicken burned a little. He ate it anyway, straight from the pan, standing at the counter. No plates, no ceremony. Afterward, he cleaned the pan, set it upside down on the rack. Wiped the counter again.

Routine. Order. Always order.

But his mind wouldn’t let it go. He ran through the roster again. Deb — no. Batista — risky. Masuka — hell no. LaGuerta — over his dead body.

Dexter.

Doakes blew out a laugh, low and gravelly. “That’d be one boring-ass dinner.” But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. The guy wouldn’t embarrass him. Wouldn’t push too hard. Would probably sit there smiling like a damn mannequin while the boys asked him a thousand questions.

And maybe, just maybe, Jess would get off his back for once.

He dropped onto the couch again, arms folded tight, muttering to himself. “This is insane. I don’t need to bring nobody. I’ll show up alone, eat the damn food, and leave.”

Doakes scowled at the muted TV, shook his head, and finally cracked a grin. “Shit. Maybe I’ll flip a damn coin.”

Either way, he was screwed and weirdly enough… he found that kind of funny. He got up and checked the locks before moving to his bathroom. He brushed his teeth like he was trying to knock them out of his head, then checked the locks again before finally hitting the bedroom.

He dropped onto the mattress with a grunt, hands laced behind his head, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slow circles.

Family dinner. Jesus Christ.

His jaw flexed. He could already hear Jess barking, Roni trying to smooth things over, his mom clucking over him like he was still a kid. And on top of it, he was supposed to bring a friend. Or at least a body.

He let out a low laugh, more air than sound. “Like it’s that easy.”

His mind drifted where it didn’t want to, back to his marriage. The long, bitter fights, the way the silences got heavier than the arguments. He’d been good at soldiering, good at policing, but not good at living with someone. Not good at letting them in. She’d told him once he slept like a loaded gun, always waiting to go off. She wasn’t wrong.

He flipped onto his side, punched the pillow flat. LaGuerta’s face flashed in his head next. All ambition and sharp edges. “Yeah, that’d go over real fuckin’ well. Bring Maria back home. See how fast Mom throws you out on your ass.”

The laugh lingered in his chest, then faded.

And then, Dexter.

Doakes’s eyes narrowed in the dark. Dexter Morgan. Always hovering at the edges, quiet as a shadow. Never made a wrong move, never got flustered, never raised his voice. The guy was polite to a fault. Too polite.

Most people got under Doakes’s skin because they were sloppy, loud, weak. Dexter got under his skin because he was… perfect. Too perfect. Like he was wearing a mask that never slipped.

Inviting that to dinner? Hell no. And yet…

He let out another short, gruff laugh. The image came, Dexter sitting stiff at Roni’s kitchen table, kids climbing over him, Jess peppering him with questions. Dexter, nodding with that little fake smile, sliding right in like he’d been part of the family all along.

“Creepy son of a bitch,” Doakes muttered, amused despite himself.

He rolled onto his back again, folding his arms tight over his chest. His brain was overworking it, running recon on a goddamn family dinner like it was a mission briefing. Who to bring, what angle to play, how to minimize casualties but even as his body finally started to sink into the mattress, his mind kept circling. Batista. LaGuerta. Dexter. Alone. With every option, some part of him bristled. Some part of him laughed.

Sleep came slow, and not without a fight.

Notes:

Ok so very centric doakes chapter but i was so goddamn stuck on how to make doakes thinking on inviting dexter to the dinner. And hey it will be awkward but dexter enjoys any food (literally love him, such a cutie)
So sorry that i was dead on this fic for so long, it will sadly surely happen again sadly.
Hope you enjoyed it though

Chapter 10

The bullpen was already humming when Doakes walked in. Phones ringing, papers shuffling. He hated mornings in here. Too much noise, not enough discipline. He dropped his coffee on the desk, sat down heavy, and cracked open the first folder in the stack.

Dinner. Goddamn dinner.

He flipped a page too hard. LaGuerta was out of the question. His mother would skin him alive.

That left Morgan.

Dexter Fucking Morgan.

Doakes leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing across the bullpen. There he was, sitting at his station. Not a hair out of place.

Creepy bastard.

Doakes sipped his coffee, scowling. How the hell do you get a guy like that to a family dinner? You don’t ask. Asking would mean giving him leverage, showing weakness. That wasn’t happening. Which left one option. Bribery.

His mind started turning over the possibilities. What did Morgan actually want? He didn’t drink, never hung around for beers. Didn’t care about money. Never chasing ass, either, not like the other fuckers. The guy went home to that weird little life of his like clockwork.

Doakes drummed his fingers on the desk. Bribery wouldn’t be about vices. It’d be about access. Work.

Morgan lived for his lab, for blood. Let him cut to the front of the line on some high-profile case. That’d get his attention. He could dangle it just enough to make it seem like a favor, not a plea.

Hell, maybe frame it like an order. “Dinner. Sunday. Be there. You want that evidence fast-tracked? Done.”

Across the room, Dexter glanced up briefly, caught his eye. Doakes locked the stare just a second too long, like a dog testing the fence. Dexter gave him that little nod, half-smile, then went back to his paperwork.

Yeah. Creepy bastard. But dependable. Quiet. Wouldn’t embarrass him. Wouldn’t run his mouth. He might even disappear into the background while Jess roasted him alive.

Doakes looked back down at the folder, muttering under his breath.
“Guess it’s you, Morgan. You don’t even know it yet.”

________

Doakes didn’t waste time. He dropped a file on Dexter’s desk like it was a gauntlet, leaning in close enough to make Morgan glance up from his microscope.

“Sunday. Six o’clock. You’re coming with me.”

Dexter blinked once, slow, registering the hard edge in Doakes’s voice.  “That’s… oddly specific. What’s happening Sunday?”

“Dinner. Family dinner.” Doakes’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

It was strange, Sergeant Doakes didn’t ask. He ordered. But this wasn’t about the job. That alone was a red flag waving in Dexter’s mind. He tilted his head slightly, studying him like a specimen.

“Your family,” Dexter said. “You want me to meet them?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” the other snapped. He planted both hands on the desk, leaning in. “My sister’s on my ass. She wants me to bring somebody. You’re quiet, you don’t run your damn mouth, you eat your food and keep your head down. That’s all I need.”

Dexter almost smiled. It was rare for anyone to describe him so accurately, even if the sergeant meant it as an insult. “Sounds like you’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“Shut the hell up, Morgan. Answer’s yes.”

Dexter leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap, feigning consideration. Inside, his mind ticked faster. Dinner with Doakes’s family, messy, unpredictable, intimate. Dangerous. He had a strict policy against letting anyone in too close. But… it was also fascinating. An opportunity to see another side of Doakes, to observe him outside the badge and the bark.

“Tempting,” Dexter said finally, “but I don’t usually do… social events. Especially family ones.”

 “You think I want this? Think again. I’m giving you an order.”

“An order that has nothing to do with my actual work,” Dexter pointed out. His tone was calm, almost pleasant. “So why should I comply?”

“Because I can make your life easier. You want lab priority? You want first crack at scenes before anyone else breathes on it? Done. You show up Sunday, I’ll see to it your cases land on your desk before anyone else’s.”

Dexter tapped a finger against the armrest, pretending to mull it over. It was a tempting offer. Efficiency always appealed to him. But more importantly, Doakes’s desperation intrigued him.

He looked up. “If I agree, there are conditions.”

“The fuck you mean, conditions?”

“I don’t want to be… paraded,” Dexter said. “No spotlight, no questions I shouldn’t answer. I come, I eat, I leave. If your family expects me to put on a show, it won’t work.”

Doakes glared, but the muscle in his jaw flexed differently this time, irritation laced with reluctant agreement. “Fine. You sit there, you keep your mouth shut, you eat the damn arroz con pollo. That’s it.”

Dexter gave the faintest nod. “Then we have a deal.”

Doakes leaned in one last time, voice low and sharp. “Don’t screw me on this, Morgan. You so much as blink wrong at that table, I’ll bury you under paperwork so deep you’ll never come up for air.”

Dexter watched him storm off, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

Sergeant Doakes. Inviting me into his personal life. How… human of him.

The thought amused him, even as another part of him catalogued every risk. Dinner with Doakes’s family would be dangerous. But danger, when managed correctly, could be very useful.

__________________________

Dexters Apartment:

The migraine lingered like static in his skull, but when Dexter finally opened his eyes again, Reaper had relocated. The cat was curled neatly at the other end of the couch, tail wrapped around its body, paws tucked under. Those yellow eyes blinked at him, slow and deliberate.

The feline equivalent of a nod.

Dexter studied him. “So… you approve of this arrangement?”

Reaper answered with a deep, steady purr that vibrated into the quiet room. It wasn’t loud, but it filled the silence with something softer, something alive.

Dexter let his head tip back against the cushion, closing his eyes once more. “Congratulations. You’re officially the most supportive thing in my life.”

The weight of small paws padded closer. When Dexter opened his eyes again, Reaper was halfway across his lap, settling without permission. The cat pressed itself into his abdomen, kneading twice before going perfectly still, a little furnace of warmth.

Dexter frowned, not in displeasure, just in confusion at the simplicity of it. No interrogation, no performance, no suspicion. Just a creature that wanted proximity.

“You don’t ask questions,” he murmured, one hand absently finding its way to stroke the slick black fur. “You don’t dig where you shouldn’t. You’re a good cat.”

Reaper purred louder, eyes narrowing to slits of contentment.

The migraine didn’t vanish, but its sharpness dulled. The room felt less hostile.

Dexter allowed himself a moment, just a moment, to sit in the quiet rhythm of cat and man, before his thoughts inevitably pulled him back toward Sunday, and the chaos waiting there.

But for now, Reaper was enough.

___________________________________

Sunday, Dexters apartment:

Sunday evening crept in too quickly. Dexter stood in front of the mirror, buttoning a clean shirt. Each button aligned perfectly, no fabric bunching, collar flat. Presentable. Or at least, the socially acceptable simulation of it.

He smoothed the shirtfront, checking for wrinkles. A wrinkle was a weakness. Weakness invited questions. And questions were exactly what he couldn’t afford tonight. He tilted his head, studied the reflection. He looked like a man going to meet a jury, not a family. Which, in a way, wasn’t far off.

In the corner of the room, Reaper perched on the dresser, tail flicking. The cat watched with the same judgmental stare it always gave him.

“You disapprove?” Dexter asked, sliding on his watch. Reaper blinked slowly, unimpressed.

“Not my choice either,” Dexter muttered. “But Sergeant Doakes has… expectations. And apparently, I’m his best option.”

He slipped into his jacket, testing the fit at the shoulders. Functional. Crisp. Just enough polish to pass. Nothing that suggested he’d spent more time on it than necessary.

Shoes last. He straightened once more in the mirror, surveying the finished product. A man who could sit at a family table and pass as human, at least for a few hours.

Dexter exhaled slowly.

Presentable. Manageable. Harmless.

Reaper jumped down from the dresser, brushing against his leg before disappearing into the kitchen. A small reminder that at least one living creature would prefer him to stay home.

Six o’clock was approaching when the sound of a car horn bled into the quiet of Dexter’s apartment. Short, sharp, impatient.

Doakes.

Dexter locked the door behind him and descended the steps with the calm pace of a man who wasn’t heading toward a firing squad. Outside, the sergeant’s car idled at the curb, headlights glaring against the fading light.

“Morgan. Move your ass.”

Dexter opened the door, slid in, and fastened his seatbelt in one smooth motion. Doakes pulled away before the buckle even clicked into place.

The silence that filled the car wasn’t companionable, it was tight, buzzing with unspoken rules. Dexter kept his eyes forward, studying the way Doakes gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white against the leather.

“You look like you’re going to a funeral,” Doakes finally muttered.

Dexter glanced at him, then back at the road. “Family dinners can be similar.”

Doakes cut him a look, jaw tightening, but said nothing.

The city lights streaked past. Dexter let the hum of the engine settle around him, cataloguing every detail. Doakes shirt was pressed, his shoes polished. There was tension in the way he sat, not relaxed, but not entirely stiff either. A man preparing for battle under the guise of civility.

“You keep your mouth shut, you’ll be fine,” Doakes said after a beat, eyes on the road. “Eat what’s on the plate, say ‘thank you,’ don’t get clever.”

“Understood,” Dexter replied.

Doakes’s hands flexed once on the wheel. “And don’t mention my old man. Ever. You hear me?”

Dexter nodded. “Loud and clear.”

They lapsed into silence again, broken only by the tick of the turn signal as Doakes changed lanes.

Dexter tilted his head, considering the man beside him. He could sense the weight pressing, the invisible hand of family expectation, the obligation to show up, to perform. In its own way, it was not so different from Dexter’s own mask.

The irony almost made him smile.

Instead, he said nothing. He would observe. He would blend. And maybe, just maybe, he would learn something useful from watching Sergeant James Doakes squirm at his own family’s table.

The car hummed along the highway, the city dissolving into neighborhoods, and with it, the illusion of control.

Family dinner. Of all the possible ways Sergeant Doakes could finally corner me, this one had never made the list. Arrest. Confrontation. A bullet in the back of my skull. But this? That was new. For years he’s hunted me like some animal he couldn’t quite identify, barking, circling, smelling the blood. And now, tonight, he’s decided I make a suitable plus-one.

It’s almost flattering.

Still… there’s a certain appeal. I’ll see Doakes stripped of his uniform of authority, forced into the softer battlefield of family expectations. The man who calls me a freak every chance he gets , sitting across from me with his mother asking if I want more.

Yes. This could be useful.

And if I play it well, it could even be… enjoyable.

The silence broke first.

“Again. You better not embarrass me, Morgan,” Doakes snapped, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “My family doesn’t play games.”

Dexter tilted his head, watching the scenery roll past the window. “I wasn’t aware eating dinner qualified as a game.”

“Don’t get cute with me. Just act normal for once.”

Dexter allowed himself the faintest smile. “Normal. That’s your word for it.”

Doakes shot him a glare, then looked back at the road. “I’m serious. No smartass comments, no disappearing into your own head. Just smile, nod, answer what’s asked. You think you can manage that, freak?”

“Coming from you, Sergeant, that’s almost… tender.”

“Tender my ass. I don’t want my sisters asking me what the hell is wrong with my coworker. You’re a guest. Act like it.”

“Of course,” Dexter said smoothly. “Though I’m starting to suspect you invited me less because of my charming personality, and more because you needed a warm body at the table.”

Doakes didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked, chewing at the thought. Finally.  “Yeah. And you should be grateful. Anyone else, I’d have told to go to hell.”

Dexter kept his eyes forward, the faint smile still there. “I’m honored. Truly.”

Doakes muttered something under his breath, the kind of growl that carried centuries of irritation in three syllables.

The car turned down a narrower street, headlights sweeping across rows of modest houses. The smell of grilled food drifted faintly through open windows.

Doakes exhaled, steadying himself. “Alright. We’re here. You keep it together, Morgan, or so help me—”

Dexter interrupted, voice light, almost pleasant. “Relax, Sergeant. I’ll be the picture of politeness. I wouldn’t dream of ruining your evening.”

Doakes pulled into the driveway, slammed the gearshift into park, and gave him one last glare. “You ruin anything, I’ll bury you.”

Dexter unbuckled, calm as ever. “Of course you will.”

The car had barely stopped before the front door opened. Jess stood there already, framed in warm light and the smell of cooking drifting out behind her. She had her hands on her hips, posture sharp but not unkind, like a woman who’d been waiting long enough to start keeping score.

Her eyes went straight to Doakes. “You’re late.”

“Traffic,” Doakes grunted, already defensive.

Jess arched a brow, then shifted her gaze to Dexter. She sized him up in a single sweep — clothes, posture, expression — her head tilting slightly as if cataloguing every flaw and deciding if he passed muster.

Dexter met her eyes, polite smile in place. Inside, the analysis had already begun.

The resemblance is obvious. The same eyes, sharp and unforgiving. The same way they stand, like they’re daring you to disappoint them. They’re cut from the same cloth, just stitched for different roles.

“You must be Dexter,” she said finally, voice even.

“That’s right.”

She held out her hand, and he shook it. Firm grip. Measured. Testing.

“He cleans up better than you do, James,” she said, loud enough to make her brother’s jaw tighten.

“Don’t start,” Doakes growled, stepping past her toward the hall.

Jess smirked, then turned her attention back to Dexter, her gaze still weighing him like a coin she wasn’t sure was real. “Come on in, Dexter. We don’t bite. Well—” she glanced toward the kitchen, where voices and laughter drifted out “—not all of us.”

Jess didn’t move aside right away. She stayed planted in the doorway, the faintest smirk tugging at her mouth, like she enjoyed holding the power of entry.

“Dexter, huh?” she said, repeating the name like she was trying it on for size.

“That’s me,” he replied lightly, the corner of his mouth lifting.

Her eyes ran over him again, head tilted, studying. Judging. Weighing the specimen.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” she asked, still testing.

Dexter’s smile didn’t falter. “Depends on who’s asking.”

Jess let out a quick laugh through her nose, glancing past him at her brother. “Well. He’s already better company than you.”

From inside, Doakes’s voice barked. “Quit stalling at the damn door!”

Jess rolled her eyes but stepped aside at last, motioning Dexter in.

Permission granted. A small victory. And unlike her brother, she doesn’t want to bury me in the yard… at least, not yet.

As Dexter crossed the threshold, he couldn’t help the thought that flickered at the edges of his mind. If Sergeant Doakes is the storm, Jess is the lightning. Different impact. Same strike.

Dexter had barely stepped inside when another figure emerged from the kitchen, Roni from what dexter could recall, younger than Jess, her energy lighter, her expression warm in a way that felt almost foreign.

“There he is!” she said brightly, wiping her hands on a dish towel as she came toward him. “You must be Dexter. We’ve heard plenty.”

Plenty? Concerning.

Before Dexter could prepare an appropriate response, she leaned in for a greeting. A kiss on the cheek, familiar, casual, automatic.

Except Dexter didn’t move fast enough.

Her lips brushed air, colliding instead with the stiff edge of his cheekbone as he half-turned in belated realization. Too late to adjust, too early to recover gracefully.

“Oh—sorry!” Roni laughed, stepping back, clearly unbothered.

Dexter smoothed his expression into something apologetic, if not exactly human. “I don’t… receive many warm welcomes.”

Roni grinned, waving him off. “Well, you’ll get used to it here. We’re huggers, kissers, the whole thing. You’ll survive.”

Behind them, Jess leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the exchange with a crooked smile. “Don’t worry, Roni. James probably forgot to mention his friend isn’t great with… normal people stuff.”

Roni gave Dexter a pat on the arm before drifting back toward the kitchen, already calling out about the food. Jess lingered, still measuring him.

“You’ll do,” she said finally, and then turned on her heel.

Dexter trailed after Roni, the sounds of sizzling pans and clattering plates guiding him toward the kitchen. The space was alive, steam rising from pots, the smell of cumin and garlic thick in the air. Domestic chaos, organized and loud.

Two boys darted around the table like satellites in orbit, one clutching a toy car, the other brandishing a plastic dinosaur mid-roar. Six and eight, if Dexter remembered correctly. Nephews. Jess’s or Roni’s?

Roni caught one of them mid-sprint, snagging the back of his shirt with practiced precision. “Hey! Watch it, the food’s hot.” She glanced at Dexter with a smile. “These little hurricanes are Marcus and Daniel. Boys, this is Dexter. He works with your Uncle James.”

Both boys stopped, fixing him with unabashed stares.

The younger one, Marcus, piped up first. “You don’t look like a cop.”

Dexter smiled faintly. “That’s because I’m not.”

The older one, Daniel, narrowed his eyes. “Then why are you here?”

Sharp. Direct. Future cross-examiners, both of them. Children don’t bother with masks, they recognize when someone else wears one.

“I was invited,” Dexter said smoothly, crouching slightly to meet their gaze. “And I brought my appetite. That usually helps.”

The boys exchanged a glance, before Daniel shrugged. “Okay. But you gotta sit next to us. Uncle James never laughs at our jokes.”

From the doorway, Jess’s voice cut in dryly, “That’s because your jokes suck.”

The boys immediately protested, launching into loud arguments about who was the funnier brother. Roni just shook her head, setting out plates, clearly used to the noise.

Dexter stayed still, letting the sound wash over him.

Curious. The nephews are already better interrogators than half of Miami Metro.

“Don’t worry,” Roni said over the noise, handing Dexter a spoon and pointing toward a steaming pot. “Help me stir. You’ll win them over faster with food.”

Dexter took the spoon, moving it in careful, deliberate circles, the scent of peppers and onions rising with the steam. He kept his expression carefully neutral, stirring as though it were the most natural thing in the world to assist in someone else’s kitchen.

“Marcus. Daniel. Off the floor,” came the voice, firm but steady.

Doakes’s mother stepped in. Petite, but there was nothing small about her. Her eyes swept the kitchen like a searchlight, first to the boys, then Roni, and finally to Dexter.

Dexter didn’t need introductions. He knew instantly. The matriarch. The source of gravity here. The woman Doakes still answers to, even when he pretends not to. Strong spine, sharper tongue.

“Ah,” she said, her gaze narrowing just slightly. “You’re not family.”

Roni moved quickly, wiping her hands on the towel again. “Mama, this is Dexter. James brought him.”

Doakes’s mother kept her eyes on him, arms crossing slowly. “Brought him?”

Dexter set the spoon aside, polite, composed. “Yes, ma’am. I work with Sergeant Doakes. He invited me to dinner.”

There was a long pause. A test. Finally, she nodded once, curt. “Hmm. You stir well enough. At least you’re not standing around useless.”

The boys snickered at that, delighted to see an adult put on the spot.

Dexter inclined his head, lips pressed in a faint smile. “I try to be… helpful.”

She didn’t smile back, but something softened in her eyes, not approval, not yet, but allowance. Permission to exist in her kitchen. Then, without another word, she moved past him, tasting the stew with her own spoon, adding a pinch of salt like she’d been in control of it the whole time.

Remarkable. The power dynamic shifts with a single glance. Doakes is feared at the precinct, but here? He’s just another son under inspection. And I, Dexter Morgan, the outsider, the pretender, am granted temporary acceptance, not because of who I am, but because I stirred the pot correctly. Fascinating.

From the hallway came Doakes’s voice again, closer this time. “Ma! Don’t let Morgan mess up the food!”

Her response was swift, sharp, and cutting. “James, hush. He stirs better than you ever did.”

He stood beside her, silent, posture measured. Too close to retreat without drawing attention, too far from anyone else to blend into the chatter. Just… standing.

She glanced at him once, briefly, before returning to her work. The boys had gone back to chasing each other, Roni hummed while setting the table, but Dexter remained caught in orbit, next to the matriarch. He shifted his weight slightly, the kind of small adjustment normal people made when they felt out of place. A calculated fidget.

Finally, she spoke, her tone clipped but not unkind: “Youre quiet. Too quiet.”

Dexter smiled faintly. “I’ve been told that before.”

Another pause. Her eyes flicked sideways, measuring him again. “Quiet men… are sometimes listening. Sometimes hiding.”

Before he could offer a reply, Doakes’s voice cut in from the doorway, impatient. “Ma, stop grilling him. He’s fine.”

She didn’t even turn to look at her son. “I’ll decide that.”

Doakes’s mother stirred the pot once more, then set the spoon down with a decisive clink. Her gaze slid back toward Dexter, who was still standing beside her like a misplaced piece of furniture.

“So,” she said finally, “Dexter, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “Ma’am? Hm. Polite.”

Dexter gave a faint, almost mechanical smile. “I try.”

She crossed her arms, leaning against the counter now, openly studying him. “You work with my James. What is it you do?”

Dexter shifted just enough to look less like a statue. “Blood work. Forensics. I analyze crime scenes.”

That earned him a longer pause, her expression unreadable. “Blood.”

“Yes. I’m good at it.”

Her lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but not disapproval either. “At least youre honest. Most men talk big about what they love, not what they can do.”

Dexter inclined his head, mask holding steady, though he felt the faintest tightening in his chest.

From across the kitchen, Roni chimed in brightly, “Mama, don’t scare him off.”

Her mother waved her hand dismissively. “I’m just talking.” She tilted her head at Dexter again.

The boys ran out of the kitchen, toy car and dinosaur in tow, voices already echoing down the hall toward the living room. Roni followed after them, muttering something about setting out napkins before they knocked everything over.

And then it was just Dexter and Doakes’s mother. She leaned against the counter, arms still crossed, watching him with the kind of patient scrutiny that made even silence feel like interrogation.

“So,” she said again, voice low, almost conversational. “You sit all day with blood.”

Dexter nodded. “That’s the job.”

“What kind of man chooses blood?”

He paused, then gave the faintest shrug. “One who doesn’t mind messes.”

She studied him a long moment.  “James… he doesn’t bring people here. Ever. He is… proud. Private. But he brings you.”

“That surprises me too.”

That earned him a short laugh, more like a sharp breath. “You joke. Good. I like that.” Her expression sobered again. “But tell me, Dexter… are you a good man?”

Dexter’s lips curved in something that passed for sincerity. “I try to do good work. Be useful. Be… steady.”

Her eyes narrowed, as if listening for something beneath the words. “Not what I asked.”

“I think,” he said carefully, “that depends who you ask.”

“Hmm. Maybe. But I’ll ask my James. He sees through people, even when they try to hide.”

Dexter kept the smile fixed, even as his stomach tightened. Yes. Sergeant Doakes sees too much. Always has. But so does his mother. A family trait. A dangerous one.

She straightened, smoothing the front of her blouse like the conversation had ended. “Come. Were eating.”

Dexter gave a small nod, almost amused at the simplicity of the order. “I’ll do my best.”

For the first time, she smiled, faint but genuine. “We’ll see.”

______

The dining table filled quickly, plates clattering, chairs scraping, voices overlapping in bursts of laughter and sharp little quips. It was the sound of a family used to circling each other with equal parts love and friction.

Dexter slipped into an open chair at the far side, close enough to be in the current but not at the center of the storm. Doakes landed across from him like a stone dropped in a river, arms folded, already glaring like Dexter had stolen his seat.

But then the food came. Steaming platters of rice, roasted chicken, plantains, beans rich with seasoning. Bowls passed hand to hand, forks clinking as plates filled. The smell was intoxicating, bold, sharp, warm.

Dexter served himself with polite portions at first. Then, after the first bite, restraint melted away.

Jess noticed, smirking as she nudged her brother across the table. “Look at your friend, James. He’s enjoying Mama’s food more than you ever do.”

Doakes scowled. “Shut the hell up, Jess. He’s just being polite.”

Dexter swallowed, then smiled faintly. “I can assure you, it’s not politeness. This is… excellent.”

Doakes’s mother gave a curt nod, but the corners of her mouth curved upward ever so slightly. “Good. You look like you need feeding.”

The nephews erupted into laughter at that, chanting, “Skinny Dexter, skinny Dexter,” while Roni tried half-heartedly to shush them. Dexter only smiled, cutting another piece of chicken. He ate with quiet efficiency, while the storm of conversation raged around him.

Jess was arguing with Roni about who forgot to bring the sodas.
The boys were making engines out of their silverware, vrooming peas across the table.
Doakes’s mother kept shushing and scolding in equal measure, but with a rhythm that suggested she’d been doing this all her life.

“You spoil those kids,” Jess accused.

“They’re six and eight, Jess,” Roni shot back. “What do you want me to do, make them sit in the corner?”

Dexter didn’t join the debate. He just kept eating, a small smile tucked neatly into place as though the food itself was a secret joke.

The boys started chanting again, “Skinny Dexter! Skinny Dexter!”,  while waving their forks.

He glanced up, mouth full, and gave them an exaggerated roll of his eyes before returning to his food. The nephews collapsed into giggles.

Jess leaned toward Roni with a grin. “You see that? The man’s happier with his plate than he is with people. He might be perfect for James.”

Doakes slammed his fork down. “Don’t start that crap.”

Dexter chewed another mouthful of rice, unfazed. I came here as camouflage, but at this rate… I might leave with a second helping.

The table noise had reached peak chaos when the boys decided dinner was officially over. Plates half-finished, they jumped up from their chairs, buzzing with energy.

“Dexter!” the older one shouted, pointing across the table with dramatic flair. “Come see our stuff!”

“Yeah, we got the cool ones!” the younger added, tugging at his sleeve before anyone could object.

Dexter blinked. “Your… stuff?”

Jess laughed, nudging Roni. The boys were already pulling Dexter away from his seat. He let them guide him down the hall, more amused than reluctant. They flung open the door to their room like it was a vault. Inside, the floor was a battlefield of toys, action figures mid-combat, Hot Wheels looping across improvised tracks, dinosaurs posed mid-roar.

“Okay, Dexter,” the older one announced, “you get this guy.” He shoved a scarred action figure into Dexter’s hand. “He’s the general.”

“And you get the car!” the younger shouted, tossing him a sleek little racecar that immediately spun out of his hands. “It’s the fastest car.”

Dexter crouched, inspecting his new assignments with surprising seriousness. “A general and a getaway vehicle. Efficient combination.”

Within minutes, he was cross-legged on the carpet, moving the general across the battlefield while the kids narrated explosions and rescues in rapid-fire detail. Dexter listened, chiming in with the occasional dry comment that made them giggle. Dexter found himself oddly steady in the middle of it

“Okay, okay!” the older nephew barked, clearly the commander of this small army. “The general has to rescue the civilians before the dinosaur eats them.”

Dexter glanced at the toy dinosaur looming over a cluster of Lego figures. Its jaws were open in a permanent roar. “That looks like a challenging mission.”

“It is,” the younger one said gravely. “But you have the car.”

Dexter carefully set the action figure into the toy car, pushing it forward with exaggerated slowness. The wheels squeaked on the floor. “The general approaches the dinosaur. He hopes negotiations are possible.”

“Nooo! You can’t talk to the dinosaur, you gotta fight him!”

He paused, considering, then gave a small nod. “Violence it is, then.” He rammed the car directly into the dinosaur’s leg, toppling it. Both boys cheered like he’d just scored a touchdown.

Strange. The Dark Passenger thrives on control, precision, blood. But this—this is chaos wrapped in joy. No masks, no suspicion. Just play. Innocence I’ll never have, but can orbit for a moment, like a moon drawn to light.

Daniel crawled into his lap without hesitation, shoving another car into his free hand. Dexter stiffened at first, then relaxed as the boy happily narrated more explosions.

“Okay, Dexter, now you’re the bad guy too,” the older announced. “You drive the monster truck and smash everything.”

Dexter arched a brow. “So the general betrays everyone?”

“Yep!” the younger grinned, missing teeth. “It’s more fun that way.”

After sometime the kids had built a new battlefield out of pillows and overturned toy bins. Dexter sat in the middle of it all, knees drawn up, toys balanced neatly in his hands like evidence at a crime scene.

“Okay,” the older nephew declared, standing on the bed for dramatic effect, “the general has to fight the aliens and the dinosaur now.”

Dexter held up the action figure. “That’s quite an escalation.”

“Yeah, but he’s got the car still!” the younger added, crawling into position with a laser gun made of Legos.

Dexter placed the general in the car again, driving him in deliberate circles. The boys giggled at the unnecessary precision. “He’s surveying the battlefield,” Dexter explained.

Marcus groaned. “He’s supposed to attack!”

“It’s good strategy. Rushing into violence without planning never ends well.”

The boys exchanged a look, then simultaneously roared and hurled plastic aliens into the fray. “ATTACK!”

Dexter sighed with exaggerated defeat and rammed the general’s car straight into the dinosaur’s tail. It toppled again, scattering Lego civilians. The cheers that followed were almost deafening.

So simple. So uncalculated. They don’t care who I am, what I’ve done, or what I hide. They only care that I move the car, make the crash, play the part. Innocence accepts me where adults dissect me.

The younger one leaned against his arm, already setting up a new scenario. “Dexter, now the general saves the little people. Or else they all die.”

Dexter gently set the action figure next to the tiny Lego figures, scooping them into the car with surprising care. “No casualties this time,” he said softly.

The older nephew tilted his head. “You don’t like letting them die, huh?”

Dexter’s lips curved into the faintest smile. “Not when they’re innocent.”

“Alright, troops,” Roni’s voice cut into the chaos from the doorway, hands planted firmly on her hips, “that’s enough.”

Both boys froze mid-battle, plastic soldiers still dangling in their hands.

“It’s late,” she continued, giving her sons the mom look that could flatten skyscrapers. “You’ve had poor Dexter trapped in here for two hours. He’s supposed to be a guest, not your personal toy.”

The boys immediately erupted into protests.

“But Mom, he’s the best general ever!”
“And he makes the cars talk funny!”
“He’s gotta stay for the alien attack—”

“Bed.” Roni said sharply, crossing her arms.

The younger one, in a last-ditch effort, launched himself onto Dexter’s lap, wrapping tiny arms around his neck. The older clung to his arm like it was a lifeline.

Dexter sat there, stiff for a moment, looking down at the two small bodies plastered against him. Children are something. They don’t lie. They cling, they trust, without hesitation. Almost dangerous in how easily they accept me.

“See?” the older nephew pleaded, tugging on his sleeve. “He doesn’t mind.”

Roni pinched the bridge of her nose. “Boys—”

“Five more minutes!”

“Nope. You got school in the morning, mister.”

Dexter looked at Roni, expression perfectly deadpan. “I appear to have been captured.”

Both boys erupted in laughter, squeezing him tighter.

“Let the poor man breathe.”

“I’m fine,” he said, voice calm, almost clinical, but with the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes. He shifted slightly, letting the kids hang off him as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

The older nephew pressed his cheek to Dexter’s shoulder. “Can he come back tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s a school night,” their mom reminded again.

The younger piped up, stubborn as ever “Then Friday!”

Roni gave Dexter a look that hovered between apology and disbelief. “See what you did? Now they’re addicted.”

He just gave a tiny shrug. “They’re… persistent.”

“Persistent is one word for it,” she muttered, moving forward to peel her sons off him one at a time. They resisted, limbs flailing and shoot him pitiful glances as they were carried away.

Jess caught Dexter as he emerged from the kids’ room battlefield, straightening his shirt like nothing had happened. She smirked knowingly and motioned for him to follow her toward the entryway.

“You survived,” she teased, already balancing two oversized plastic containers. “Barely.”

Dexter eyed the containers. “That looks… substantial.”

Jess pressed them into his hands anyway, ignoring his hesitation. “Leftovers. Don’t argue. Roni made too much, and Mom said—” she lowered her voice, mimicking their mother’s sharp tone— “‘that tall skinny man doesn’t eat enough, give him more food.’”

Dexter blinked at her, containers weighing down his arms. “I’m fairly certain I ate more than anyone else tonight.”

“And she’s fairly certain you still need feeding. Don’t take it personal. She just decided you’re adoptable.”

Dexter tilted his head slightly, processing the comment. Adoptable. An interesting assessment for a man who cuts people. Yet… not the worst label I’ve carried.

The front door creaked open. Sergeant Doakes stood outside, hands in his pockets, jaw clenched like he’d been grinding it for hours.

“Took you long enough,” Doakes growled, eyes narrowing as he clocked the containers. “The hell is all that?”

Jess swatted her brother’s arm before Dexter could answer. “It’s called leftovers, James. Normal people take them home instead of sulking at the door like a gargoyle.”

Doakes muttered something under his breath, gaze flicking between his sister and Dexter with pure irritation.

Dexter, perfectly straight-faced, adjusted his grip on the containers. “Apparently, your mother is concerned about my caloric intake.”

Doakes just stared, then let out a sharp exhale that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t so hostile. “Unbelievable. Let’s go, Morgan.”

Dexter followed him out, containers still in hand, Jess’s grin lingering in the air behind him. He slid into the passenger seat with the two containers balanced neatly on his lap like evidence bags. Doakes started the engine, his jaw already tight.

“You really let them rope you into that, huh?” Doakes muttered, eyes on the road.

Dexter glanced down at the containers. “I didn’t have much choice. Your sister can be… very demanding.”

“That’s one word for it,” Doakes said, cutting the wheel. “Next thing I know, Mom’s fattening you up like you’re family.”

“Apparently, I’m adoptable.”

Doakes shot him a sharp side-eye. “You ain’t adoptable, Morgan. You’re a weird fucking alien.”

“Yet somehow I ended up with dinner for the week.” Dexter rested one hand on the lid of a container as if to secure it. “Could be worse.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it

They drove in silence for a beat. The containers shifted slightly as the car hit a bump, and Dexter calmly adjusted them again.

Doakes noticed. “Jesus, you holdin’ those things like they’re evidence.”

Dexter tilted his head. “I like to avoid spills.”

Dexter glanced out the window, watching the streetlights flick past.  Annoying. Adoptable. A curious list of descriptors to collect in one evening. But perhaps… not the worst outcome.

The silence stretched again, broken only by the hum of the engine. Finally, Dexter said lightly, “Your nephews seem to like me.”

Doakes’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Yeah. Kids don’t know better.”

 “Maybe they do.”

The rest of the ride continued in silence, thick with unspoken words. Doakes annoyed as ever, Dexter oddly content with the leftovers in his lap.

You dont look a gifted horse in the mouth and thats the same with free food.

 

 

Notes:

Yayyyyyy we did!
I hope it isnt that jumpled but i tried to make dexter play with the kids as close to the show as possible

Chapter 11

Notes:

TW: Abuse and death
! If you know anyone that gets abused or hurt in their home, try to help them or contact authoraties!

From the living room, James Doakes could hear the chaos of crashing and war cries down the hall. The boys had dragged Morgan off not long after dinner and apparently hadn’t let go since.

Doakes sat stiff on the couch, beer in hand, jaw tight.

“Damn kids,” he muttered. “Clingin’ like leeches.”

Jess, sitting across from him, raised an eyebrow. “Relax. They’re kids. They like him.”

“Yeah, too much,” Doakes shot back. He took a long swig, scowling.

Roni breezed in with a glass of wine, leaning against the doorway. “What, you jealous?”

“Hell no.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she teased, sipping. “You should see their faces, James. They’re eating it up. Someone actually playing with them instead of just shooing them outside.”

“They got me,” Doakes said flatly.

“Please. You don’t play. You coach.”

That got Jess laughing. “Exactly. You don’t play, you bark orders. They needed a soldier, not a drill sergeant.”

Doakes set his bottle down a little harder than he meant to. “And Morgan’s what, the damn babysitter of the year? Man’s a creep. Don’t trust him.”

“Creep?” Jess said, brows up. “That man’s been nothing but polite since he walked in the door.”

“Too polite, always smiling like he’s got nothing going on in his head. Nobody’s that damn harmless.”

Jess leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Alright, James. What’s your problem with him?”

“No problem,” Doakes said, tone sharp. “Just don’t like the guy.”

Roni laughed, shaking her head. “That’s not a reason. You don’t like anybody.”

Jess smirked. “Yeah, you’ve got your ‘don’t like’ face on every time we talk about someone new. But Dexter? He’s nice. A little stiff, sure, but… harmless.”

“Harmless,” Doakes repeated, the word like a curse. “That’s exactly what’s wrong. Nobody’s that harmless.”

The older sister scoffed. “Oh my God, listen to yourself. You sound paranoid. The guy eats, he talks, he plays with the boys, and suddenly he’s public enemy number one? What’s next, you gonna accuse him of running a secret crime ring out of the blood lab?”

He gave her a withering look. “I don’t joke about that shit.”

Roni leaned in, her voice sharper now. “James, he’s been nothing but polite tonight. He showed up when you asked him to, he’s entertaining my kids without a single complaint, and Mom likes him. So what’s the real reason you’re being a grumpy ass about it?”

Doakes’s jaw worked, his silence giving them all the answer they needed.

“Exactly. You don’t have a reason. You’re just being you. Mean.”

“I’m not mean,” Doakes snapped.

“You’re mean to him,” Jess shot back.

Roni smirked, swirling her wine. “You act like Dexter personally insulted you. Newsflash, James, not everyone’s out to get you. Some people are just… awkward.”

“Awkward isn’t harmless,” Doakes muttered, but it sounded weaker now, even to his own ears.

“You really need to get over yourself. The man’s fine. More than fine, the boys love him. That should count for something.”

Roni shoot a look at her brother. “Yeah. And if you scare him off with your grumpy cop routine, you’re the one explaining to my kids why Uncle James can’t keep a friend.”

Doakes threw up his hands, exasperated. “He ain’t my friend!”

Jess and Roni looked at each other, then at Doakes. Both shook their heads at the same time, matching smirks on their faces. Doakes glared into his beer, scowl etched deeper than ever. Goddamn Morgan. Always wormin’ his way in where he doesn’t belong.

He pushed himself off the couch and he for the kitchen. The sound of dishes clinking and water running met him as he stepped inside. His mother stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, humming softly to herself.

“Need a hand, Ma?” he asked, voice softer now.

She glanced over her shoulder, her face lighting up softly. “James! You could dry.”

He grabbed a towel and positioned himself beside her, moving with the efficiency of habit. They’d done this a thousand times. She washed, he dried. For a moment, it was peaceful.

“Your sisters still teasing you?” she asked without looking.

“Always,” Doakes muttered, stacking a plate.

She chuckled, the sound warm and knowing. “That means they love you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, but there was no heat in it. He let the silence stretch before finally clearing his throat. “So, uh… what do you think of Morgan?”

Her humming stopped. She rinsed a glass, set it carefully in the rack, and only then looked at him. “Dexter?”

Doakes nodded, trying to keep his face neutral.

His mother tilted her head, considering. “He’s… polite. Quiet. A little awkward maybe, but kind. Good with the boys. Roni says they adore him.”

Doakes’s mouth tightened. “He’s not…he’s not all that, Ma.”

She arched an eyebrow, drying her hands on her apron. “Why? Because you don’t like him?”

“‘Cause I don’t trust him.”

His mother gave him that look, the same one she’d used since he was a kid when he came home scowling after a fight at school. “James, you don’t trust anyone.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” she asked softly, setting another dish in his hands. “Sometimes people are just… who they seem to be. Not everything’s a threat, baby.”

He dried the plate with more force than necessary, jaw clenched.

She reached over, touched his arm gently. “I think Dexter’s fine. He’s a little strange, sure. But he made your nephews laugh. And he looked like he enjoyed it.” She smiled faintly. “Not every man does. That counts for something.”

Doakes stared at her, searching for the opening to argue.  He stacked another plate with a loud clack, his shoulders tight.

“You always do this,” he muttered.

His mother glanced at him, brow furrowing. “Do what?”

“Fall for the act,” he said sharply. “Smile, good manners, some yes-ma’am-no-ma’am bullshit, and suddenly he’s family.”

Her lips pressed into a line. “Don’t you raise your voice at me, James.”

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. The towel twisted in his hands. “I’m not raising my voice. I’m telling you. Morgan ain’t what he looks like. He’s hiding something. I know it.”

She turned back to the sink, rinsing another dish as if to calm herself. “And maybe you’re seeing shadows where there aren’t any. Always looking for danger, even at a dinner table.”

His jaw flexed, the heat rising. “Maybe I learned that from somebody.”

That hung in the air, sharp as glass. His mother froze, her hands in the water, then slowly set down the dish.

“You think I don’t know what your father was?” she asked quietly, not looking at him.

“You let it happen.”

Her shoulders trembled, but she kept her back to him. “If it wasn’t you, it would’ve been me. Or your sisters. You think I didn’t know that?”

“So what? That was the choice? Just let him—” His voice cracked with old fury. “I was a kid, Ma.”

His mother turned, eyes wet, but her jaw steady. “And you survived. You’re strong because of it.”

He shook his head, a bitter laugh ripping from him. “That’s bullshit. I didn’t need to be strong, I needed a goddamn break.”

The kitchen fell silent, except for the faint sound of the boys still laughing down the hall with Dexter. His mother’s gaze flicked in that direction, then back to him.

“Not everyone’s your father, James,” she said softly. “You don’t have to fight every man that walks through the door.”

Doakes’s chest heaved. He grabbed the towel again, busying his hands just to keep from exploding. “You don’t get it. Morgan’s not…he’s not what you think.”

Her voice hardened now. “Or maybe you’re just afraid he is. Afraid he might actually be good, and you don’t know what to do with that.”

The words stuck like barbs. Doakes stared at her, fists tight around the towel, but didn’t fire back this time. Doakes Mother wiped her hands on her apron, and stepped closer. Her eyes softened, though they were still rimmed red.

“James,” she said gently, reaching up to cup his cheek.

He flinched at first, always did, but then her palm settled warm against his skin. For a second, the kitchen blurred, and he wasn’t standing there in his mother’s house at all.

He was nine again, the air thick with the metallic tang of raw meat, the butcher shop dim and cold. His father’s heavy hand had cracked across his face because he’d sliced a cut sloppy, uneven. The sting burned his skin, but the real fire was in his chest, the shame, the helpless rage.

Later, in the back room, it was his mother’s touch that pulled him back. She pressed a cool cloth to his cheek, whispering words low enough so his father wouldn’t hear. Brave boy. Strong boy. You’ll outlast him.

That same hand was on him now, softer but still steady. He hadn’t realized how much taller he’d gotten until he had to lean down.

“You’ve always been strong,” she murmured, thumb brushing over his jaw. “Even when you shouldn’t have had to be.”

Doakes’s throat tightened. He wanted to pull back, to hold on to the anger, but the memory cracked through the armor. For just a heartbeat, he felt small again  He blinked hard, jaw locking, pulling himself upright. “I’m fine, Ma.” His voice came out rougher than he meant, but he didn’t move her hand away.

She gave a sad little smile, as if she knew all the words he wouldn’t say.

They finished the last of the dishes. The weight of everything unspoken hung in the kitchen, the scrape of a plate here, the squeak of the towel there. Neither of them dared pick the fight back up, but it simmered underneath, raw and restless.

His mother finally broke it by pulling two big plastic containers from the cupboard and scooping generous helpings of food inside.

“These are for Dexter,” she said simply, snapping a lid tight.

Doakes’s mouth twisted, but he didn’t comment. Just stacked the clean silverware.

Then she glanced at him, holding up another container. “And you? Want me to pack some for you too?”

He shook his head. “Nah. Don’t bother. I’ll just visit more.”

Her brows lifted, and then her whole face softened into a smile, proud, relieved, glad all at once. “That makes me happy.”

Doakes forced a small grunt of acknowledgment, but the truth was, the sight of her smile knifed through him harder than the argument. She was so damn easy to please. One promise of coming around more, and she lit up like a lamp.

He leaned in, pressed a quick kiss to his mother’s cheek. She touched his arm in return, her smile soft and full of things he didn’t want to sit with right now.

“Love you, Ma.”

In the hallway, he bent down to tug on his shoes. From the kitchen, he could hear Morgan’s awkward, polite voice stumbling through small talk as Jess pressed the containers into his hands.  Doakes exhaled through his nose, jaw flexing. He straightened, waiting by the door with his usual coiled stillness. The longer Morgan lingered, the tighter his hands curled at his sides.

Finally, Dexter emerged with two heavy containers stacked in his arms, offering a little smile of thanks over his shoulder before stepping out.

The drive started in silence, the road lit by nothing but passing streetlamps. Doakes kept his eyes forward, jaw set, the ghost of his mother’s touch still burning against his cheek.

Beside him, Morgan balanced the food containers carefully on his lap, looking every bit the awkward houseguest-turned-prisoner of circumstance. The tires hummed against the asphalt, and the house with its laughter and warmth faded into the rearview.

________

When they finally pulled up to Dexter’s place, Doakes stopped hard at the curb.

“Get out,” he muttered.

Dexter gave a polite little nod, almost amused by the blunt dismissal. “Thanks for the ride. And… dinner.”

Doakes didn’t answer, eyes fixed straight ahead. The other slipped out, careful not to spill his food haul, and shut the door softly behind him. A small wave at the window, more like a jab, really, and then he was gone, the quiet click of his apartment door closing behind him.

Doakes’s hands tightened on the wheel. The second Morgan disappeared from sight, he slammed a palm against it, a sharp crack echoing through the car.

“Motherf—” He cut himself off with a growl, throwing the car into gear.

He drove fast, too fast, his jaw locked, eyes narrowed at the road ahead. Every damn thing about tonight crawled under his skin, his sisters nagging, his mother smiling at Morgan like he belonged, the kids climbing all over him like he was some goddamn saint.

And Dexter, just sitting there. Awkward, polite, harmless. That mask. That fake mask.

Doakes gritted his teeth, knuckles white on the steering wheel. The laughter from the house echoed in his head, mixing with the ghosts of his father’s shop, his mother’s hand on his cheek, her smile when he promised to visit more. It all churned together, jagged and restless.

He pulled into his driveway hard, cutting the engine with a violent twist of the key. For a moment, the silence was crushing. Doakes tossed his keys onto the counter with a hard clack.

He went straight to the kitchen, pulled a bottle of bourbon from the cabinet, and poured two fingers into a heavy glass. The first swallow burned down his throat, a welcome sting that dulled the edges. He leaned against the counter, staring at nothing, rolling the glass between his palms.

His jaw unclenched a little with the second sip. Still muttered under his breath, half-growl, half-sigh. “Bullshit.”

Just downed the rest of the glass, then poured another, but didn’t finish it. Instead, he wandered to the couch, sat down heavy, and let the glass rest on his knee. The TV remote was within reach, but he didn’t bother.

The bourbon warmth seeped in, the fatigue from the day wrapping tight. His head leaned back against the cushion, the glass slipping just enough that he set it on the table before it could fall.

By the time his eyes slid closed, the scowl had softened, but only barely. His last thought, hazy and annoyed, circled back like a broken record:

Goddamn Morgan.

Sleep claimed him on the couch, but sleep didn’t bring him rest. It brought Dexter.

The dream pulled him in. The redhead standing in the shadows, arms folded, that little half-smirk tugging at his lips like he knew every secret Doakes kept buried.

“Even in your dreams, Sergeant?” Dexter’s voice was low, clinical, but there was a curl of amusement under it. “That’s obsessive behavior. Unhealthy.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Doakes growled, but in the dream his voice caught, raw. He reached, and Dexter was suddenly close, lips brushing his ear, smirk sharp enough to cut. “You want me here,” Dexter whispered, mocking and smug. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”

The scene shifted, dream logic, and Doakes was on his back, the weight of the other straddling him, pale skin gleaming in the half-light. Dexter’s hands pressed against his chest, pinning him, his cock hard against the sergeants stomach. That smirk never left his face.

“Sergeant Doakes,” Dexter murmured, voice almost sing-song, dragging out the title like it was something obscene. “All that discipline, all that control… and look at you now.”

Doakes’ hips bucked despite himself, cock throbbing hard, slick with pre. His hands grabbed at Dexter’s thighs, rough, but the labgeek only leaned down, lips ghosting over his jaw, whispering, “Say it. Say my name.”

 “Morgan,” Doakes ground out, teeth clenched.

“Mm. Not quite but it will do.”, Dexter’s tongue flicked against his throat, and he rolled his hips down, grinding slow, making the other groan . “See? You’re easy to read. Easier than you think.”

Doakes cursed under his breath, thrusting up into the heat of the dream-body above him. In the dream, Dexter leaned close, lips brushing his ear again, voice smug as ever. “Good boy, Sergeant.”

He gasped himself awake on the couch, cock pulsing wet into his boxers, sweat cooling on his chest. His breath came hard, his eyes darted to the empty apartment, and the silence pressed down heavy.  Doakes looked down at himself, damp boxers sticking and his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.

“...fuck,” he muttered, voice low, vicious.

His hands curled into fists. He dragged them down his face, groaning out loud, furious at his own body, at his own head. That smirk, that smug voice, the way Morgan leaned in like he owned him.

“Goddamn freak,” Doakes spat, shoving himself upright and stalked to the bathroom, turned the faucet on cold, splashed water hard against his face. He scoffed, turned off the lights and went to his bed and just stared at the ceiling as he layed down. Mind wandering. Wandering to stupid memories.

**********

The smell of raw meat clung to the walls of the Doakes household. Even when the windows were open, even when his mother scrubbed the counters with lemon and bleach, it lingered, metallic, heavy, impossible to forget.

James sat at the table, small hands folded tight in his lap, trying not to fidget. His sisters were already excused from the room, but his father’s eyes stayed on him, sharp and unforgiving.

“Sit straight,” the man barked.

James adjusted immediately, spine rigid as if he were already in boot camp. He didn’t dare meet his father’s gaze for too long, it was like staring down the blade of one of those butcher’s knives.

“Boy,” his father said, pulling the chair out opposite him. The apron was never entirely clean, streaks of red, smudges of fat

“You think you can slack off?”

James swallowed hard. “No, sir.”

The chair scraped violently against the floor as the man stood. His heavy boots thudded across the linoleum. He loomed over James, shadow falling across the boy’s face. The hand struck the table, rattling the silverware. James flinched, but didn’t move, didn’t dare cry. He had learned long ago that tears only fed the storm.

“Stand up.”

James obeyed. His knees trembled but he locked them in place, forcing his body into a soldier’s stance, though he was just a boy. His father paced around him in a slow circle, as if appraising livestock, as if James were another carcass hanging in the shop.

“You’ll learn discipline,” the man said finally.

James’s throat tightened, but his jaw set hard. He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t give his father the satisfaction.

_________

Summer heat stuck to James’s skin as he tried to push the mower across the patchy lawn. The machine was heavy, his arms tired, but he didn’t stop. He could feel his father’s stare from the porch. Halfway through, the mower sputtered and died. James bent to restart it, panic clawing at his throat.

“Pathetic,” his father muttered. He was off the porch in two strides, boots crunching the dry grass. “Can’t even do a man’s work.”

James’s lip trembled. He didn’t mean for it to, but his father saw. A hand gripped the back of his neck, fingers digging in like hooks.

“You think the world cares if you’re tired?”

The mower roared again after his father yanked the cord. James shoved it forward, teeth clenched, tears burning but never falling.

His sisters would creep to his side sometimes at night, whispering comfort, but he waved them away. He didn’t want them near. He didn’t want them to see him broken. The silence after was almost worse than the blows. Because in the silence, James heard himself promise, again and again.

I won’t be weak. I won’t be like him. I’ll never let anyone do this to me again.

Later that night, James heard Roni whisper to Jess in the dark.
“Why’s it always him?” Roni asked.
“Because he fights back,” Jess said softly. “We stay quiet. James doesn’t.”

James pressed his pillow over his head, heart thundering. He hated them for being right, and he hated himself more for not being able to stop.

______

It happened in the kitchen, like so many times before. His father was drunk, the kind of drunk that sharpened his anger instead of softening it.

“You think you’re better than me,” he hissed, shoving James against the counter. The boy was older now, a teenager with shoulders starting to broaden. “Standing tall, looking at me like you’re already a man.”

“Maybe I am,” James spat before he could stop himself.

The slap came fast, ringing across his face.  James’s hands balled into fists. For the first time, he wanted to hit back.

___________

The sound came first, the hiss of leather sliding free from belt loops. James knew it too well. His stomach knotted, his breath caught in his chest.

“Hands on the table,” his father barked.

James hesitated. Just a heartbeat. It was enough.

“Now!”

The crack of leather across his back sent fire racing through his skin. He gritted his teeth, jaw locked, refusing to cry. His sisters were in the next room, he wouldn’t let them hear him.

“Think you can talk back to me? Think you can raise your voice in my house?” Another strike, and another.

James’s hands curled into fists against the wood grain. He forced himself to breathe through the pain, each blow etching the lesson deeper. After the belt, James’s back stung raw. He sat on the edge of his bed, fists clenched, trying to keep his breath steady.

His mother slipped in quietly, a damp cloth in her hand. She never knocked anymore, she just appeared like a ghost, silent and careful.

“Hold still, baby,” she whispered, dabbing gently at the angry welts.

James flinched at the touch, but said nothing. He wanted to melt into the comfort, but shame burned hotter than the wounds. He hated that she saw him like this.

“You’re strong,” she murmured, smoothing his hair with her free hand. “Too strong for him to break.”

He shut his eyes, pretending to sleep so she would stop and leave.

Weeks later, after a night of shouting and a cut across his cheek, she came with the tin of salve she always kept in the kitchen drawer.

“Just let me—”

“No,” James muttered, turning his face away.

“James…”

“I said no.”

Her hand hovered in the air, trembling, before she set the tin down on the table. She didn’t press him. She just sighed, a sound full of exhaustion and sorrow, and kissed the crown of his head. The salve sat untouched until it dried and cracked.

Once, when he was younger, she had pulled him close after the punishments. Held him tight against her chest, rocking as if he were still a little boy. He had cried into her blouse then, hot tears staining the fabric, and for a moment he had believed her when she whispered, “It’ll be okay. Mama’s here.”

Years later, when she tried again, he stiffened in her arms.

“James, please.”

He pulled back, jaw hard, eyes cold. “Don’t. It doesn’t change anything.”

Eventually, after each punishment, she stopped coming right away. She lingered in the kitchen instead, wringing her hands, glancing at the hallway but never stepping through. James sat in his room, staring at the door. Sometimes he wanted her to come. Sometimes he wanted her to leave him alone.

Mostly, he hated that it mattered either way.

One night, after his father pulled his arm over the burner on the stove, his wrist red and throbbing, she entered with her salve again. She reached for him carefully, but James pulled back, standing tall though his knees shook.

“Don’t waste it on me,” he said flatly.

“James—”

“He’s not gonna stop. And you’re not gonna stop him. So don’t pretend.”

The words cut deeper than any belt. She froze, tears slipping down her face. James turned away, staring at the wall. He didn’t see her leave. After that, she never brought the cloth, or the salve, or the whispered promises again. The house grew quieter after

*******

Doakes blinked, feeling the sense of dread and fear hooking into his lungs. He´s at home, in his apartment, in his bed. His father is dead.
With a scoff he got up and reached onto his bedside table and took the gun.

He cleaned his gun like he always did. Methodical, check the barrel, check the chamber, polish the metal until it gleamed. The ritual wasn’t about the gun, it was about control. Order. He needed the rhythm, the predictability.

But tonight, his hands slowed. His reflection in the black steel flickered, and suddenly it wasn’t a pistol he was holding.

It was a belt.

The crack of leather in the air echoed so sharp in his skull that he nearly flinched. He blinked, forced the memory back down, but his body remembered before his mind could cage it. Shoulders tense, breath shallow.

He shook his head and set the gun down.

The apartment was quiet, but inside his skull the silence filled with voices. His mother’s, soft and trembling, whispering. “Stay still, baby. Don’t make it worse.” The sound of her hands fumbling over his raw skin later, trying to soothe him with ointment, with touch. He had wanted it once, needed it but the older he got, the more it curdled in his gut. The softness felt false, like patching up a wound she refused to stop from happening.

He moved to the kitchen. Coffee. To late for it, but he drank it anyway. The bitter taste grounded him. Until—

The smell wasn’t coffee anymore..

The night his father went down was branded into him. His father’s body jerking, collapsing. His mother screaming. And James—just a boy—standing there, wide-eyed. Terrified and… something else. Something he never spoke about. Because in that moment, while everyone else panicked, James had felt something else stir deep in him.

Release and Fascination.

Not joy, not relief. But an awful stillness. Watching the life drain from the man who had terrorized him, watching death wrap its hands around him. Death wasn’t just horror, it was finality. It was the only thing bigger than his father.

Doakes sat at his table now, coffee growing cold in his hands. His reflection in the window was hard, the same glare people always said unnerved them. The truth was, it wasn’t anger on his face. It was that same stillness.

He’d seen too many bodies since then, in alleys, on concrete floors. Soldiers, cartel men, junkies, victims. It was all the same look in their eyes when it ended. And he never flinched.

He never could.

Because long before he was Sergeant Doakes, long before Miami Metro, he’d already stared death in the face. In his own damn kitchen.

And death had stared back.

*____________________________*

The kettle whistled long after she had taken it off the stove. She didn’t notice at first, her hands were busy with the locks. Once, twice, three times, each bolt sliding home with a metallic click. Only then did she sit down, fingers curled tight around the teacup, as if porcelain and steam could anchor her.

The tea was too hot, but she drank anyway. Bitter, scalding. It helped keep her awake. Nights were the worst. Silence was never just silence, it was breathing, footsteps, the jingle of a belt. Even after all these years, her body waited for the sound.

Her mind wandered where she didn’t want it to. To James’ small hands clutching at her skirt, his dark eyes too old even then. To the welts on his back she had tried to cover with ointment and soft words. Stay still, baby. Don’t make it worse. She hated herself for those words more than anything he had ever done to her.  It was only after, when the door had slammed and she came to him, that the sobs broke out. She had held him then, rocking him, whispering promises she couldn’t keep.

******

She stood just beyond the doorway, heart pounding with every crack of leather. Every time, she told herself she would step in. That tonight, she would pull him off James and shout, enough.

But her feet didn’t move.

If she did, the belt might turn on her. Or worse, on Roni and Jess. Her husband was the only one bringing in money. She had none of her own.

So she stayed in the doorway, whispering prayers behind her teeth, hating herself for her stillness. When James lais in bed after, stiff with pain, she knelt beside him with a damp cloth.
“I can’t stop him,” she whispered, shame burning her throat. “But I can help after.”

She hoped he’d understand. She hoped he’d see it as love.

Her girls looked at her differently as the years went on. Jess, the eldest, understood. She held her tongue, kept her head down, and stayed invisible when the shouting started.

But Roni… Roni’s eyes always accused.
Why don’t you stop him? they asked. Why don’t you do something?

She had no answer. Only silence, and the sick knowledge that her daughter was right.

________

She thought of leaving sometimes, remembers the night like it was yesterday, though decades have passed.

The girls were asleep upstairs, the house quiet except for the low hum of the heater and the distant clink of knives from the butcher shop. He had come home angry , always angry and James had done something small, careless, enough to ignite the storm.

She had stood in the hallway, hands trembling, heart hammering so hard it felt like it would burst from her chest. She had packed a small bag earlier that evening, some clothes for herself, a few things for the kids. She had imagined the freedom of stepping out.

Her hands had hovered over the handle, frozen.

If I go… the thought echoed like a warning bell. If I go, he will come after us. He will come after the girls. He will come after James.

And the money, oh, the money. He was the only one who brought in a steady paycheck, the butcher shop their lifeline. She had no savings, no family to help, no place to hide.

Her bag sat heavy in her hands, the fabric stiff with unspent resolve. She remembers the cold metal of the door handle beneath her fingers, the faint squeak of the hinges like a sigh. And then she didn’t move. She tells herself it was courage, that she stayed to protect them. But the truth is that it was fear. Pure, crushing fear.

She remembers how the bag stayed in the closet for months, gathering dust like a lie she couldn’t tell anyone. She remembers James’s face, pale and tense, refusing her touch after every punishment. She remembers her own arms aching from wanting to hold him, soothe him, fix what she could not.

Even now, decades later, she can feel that frozen hand on the door handle, trembling with the impossible choice she didn’t make and the life they all endured because of it.

She remembers the storm that night, rain rattling against the windows, wind howling through the cracks in the old house. The girls were asleep, but James was awake — always awake, always tense, waiting for the next blow.

His father came in drunk, shouting at shadows only he could see. She had stayed in the kitchen, hands clutched tight together, heart in her throat.

Then it happened. The clutching at his chest, the stagger backward, the fall to the floor. She rushed forward, but it was already too late. His body thrashed, gasping, and she froze, the memory of all the years of abuse crashing over her in a single, unbearable wave.

And James, her James. Looked, eyes wide.

There was something in his gaze she had never seen before. Not fear. Not grief. Not relief. Something else. A strange fascination. Like he was watching a creature he had studied his whole life finally revealed in its most vulnerable moment.

She had whispered, “James… please…” but he didn’t move. His eyes were locked on the man who had haunted his childhood, the man who had shaped every flinch, every tense muscle in his body.

She had wanted to scream, to pull him back, away, to not let him see the end of a life. But she couldn’t. She was paralyzed by the mixture of awe and horror in his gaze, by the cold precision in the way he simply stood there and watched.

When the gasping stopped, when the storm outside seemed to hush, she knelt beside her husband’s body, sobbing. James still didn’t approach. He just stared.

She hated herself for crying, hated herself for surviving, hated herself for leaving him alive in her arms for even a second. And she hated James too, in a quiet, helpless way, for the way he had already started to detach, to watch instead of crying.

That night, she realized something terrible, she feared him, almost as much as she had feared his father.

*********

She sipped her tea now, cold already, but she drank it anyway. She wondered, not for the first time, what that moment had carved into her son. What it had done to him, standing there, staring death down without blinking.

And she wondered if, in some way, it had carved into her too.

Because sometimes, late at night, when the locks were checked and the tea was bitter in her mouth, she could still feel the weight of her husband’s shadow. Still hear his voice in the walls. And sometimes, God forgive her, she wondered if James had felt the same awful flicker she had when it ended.

Not grief.
Not relief.
But stillness.

Notes:

Was it to much? Did i make it to dark? I was just having a blast on james childhood and then it spiralled into this big ass snowball of trauma, abuse and hatred.
Let me know on what yall thought.

Chapter 12

The café was too bright for Doakes’ taste, all cozy and sweet with the smell of vanilla syrup. He would’ve preferred black coffee from a diner mug, no sugar, no smiley baristas. But Roni had asked, and he didn’t say no to her.

She slid into the booth across from him, braids bouncing, wearing casual clothes.

“What’s new?”

He snorted, stirring his coffee though he drank it black. “Same old. Work. People getting themselves killed. Paperwork about it.”

His sister tilted her head, studying him. She didn’t look away like most people did. She never had. “You still carrying it all, huh? Like always.”

“Somebody’s gotta.” He leaned back, eyes scanning the café instinctively, cataloging exits, strangers, threats.

Roni sipped her latte, then smiled faintly. “You know… you don’t have to be the wall all the time. I get it. After Dad, after—” She hesitated, but Doakes’ stare told her not to finish. “…After everything. But James, you’re allowed to breathe.”

He gave a humorless laugh. “Breathing doesn’t stop the shit from happening.”

“Neither does strangling it with your fists,” she countered, quick as a whip. She was the only sibling who ever dared push back.

“So, the boys have been asking about you,” she continnued. “You’re still Uncle James in their eyes, even if you don’t visit their birthdays sometimes.”

“Work doesn’t exactly stop for cake and candles,” he muttered, though a flicker of guilt crossed his face.

She waved it off. “They don’t care. They just want you around.” and leaned forward, grin tugging at her lips. “And guess who they absolutely adore these days?”

Doakes raised a brow, wary. “Who?”

“Dexter.” She laughed lightly. “They think he’s the coolest guy. Also said that he is funny, in his own weird way.”

Doakes’ jaw tightened so hard the muscle visibly ticked. “Dexter,” he repeated flatly, like the name tasted wrong.

“Yeah. I mean, can you blame them? He’s sweet, James. Harmless.”

“Sweet?  Roni, you don’t know him like I do. Nobody does. He’s hiding something. And I don’t want my nephews anywhere near that.”

The brightness in her face faltered, replaced with the kind of careful patience she reserved for defusing family fights. “James… he’s just a guy. He makes them laugh, he listens to their silly stories about dinosaurs and space—”

“That’s what makes it worse.” He shook his head sharply. “People like that, always smiling, always too damn polite? They’re the ones you watch closest.”

Roni sighed, a little sad, a little frustrated. “You see monsters everywhere. Maybe because you grew up with one. But James… not every man is Dad.”

Doakes’ gaze dropped to the table, knuckles white around his mug. “Damn lab geek worming his way into everything… always standing around like he belongs. People eat it up. Blind as bats.”

Roni tilted her head. She didn’t need to raise her voice, just one arched brow did the work. “You jealous, James?”

“Jealous?”

“Mmhm.” She sipped her coffee, unbothered. “Sounds like someone doesn’t like sharing the spotlight. The great Sergeant Doakes, upstaged by a doughnut-wielding lab geek.”

Doakes scoffed, harsh and quick. “Please. I don’t need no damn spotlight.”

Roni’s smirk widened. “You sure? Because you’ve been grumbling about Dexter like a man who just got replaced.”

“That’s not it,” he snapped, voice louder than he meant, drawing a glance from the next table. He lowered it again.“I know what I’m talking about. There’s something off about that guy. You don’t see it ’cause you don’t want to.”

Roni leaned her chin into her hand, studying him like he was one of her kids trying to get out of trouble. “Or maybe you don’t want to admit you’re threatened. Not by him exactly—” she waved her spoon in a circle—“but by how people trust him so easy. Something you never got, even when you were right.”

Doakes bristled, silence pressing heavy against his teeth.

Roni only smiled, soft but pointed. “Relax, James. You don’t gotta compete with Morgan. You’ve already got their respect. The boys look at you like you hung the moon, even if you forget to call.”

__________________

Later, driving home with the windows cracked, Roni couldn’t shake the way James’s voice had sharpened the instant Dexter’s name came up. Same damn pattern every time. Her brother didn’t just dislike the guy, he fixated. Always muttering about him, always quick to dismiss him at precinct stories, always twitching when someone mentioned “that nice Morgan boy.”

It was almost funny, in a pathetic kind of way. James, the big, bad sergeant, the man who could stare down cartel thugs without blinking… reduced to something like a sulking schoolkid the moment Dexter Morgan entered the picture.

Roni smirked to herself. If I didn’t know better, I’d say my brother’s got the same problem the kindergartners do—the ones who pull pigtails and push kids off swings. Can’t stand the boy, but can’t stop thinking about him either.

But then her smirk softened, slipping into something quieter. She’d grown up with James’s temper, his constant need to be the toughest one in the room. Most people saw only the bark, the bite. But Roni saw what was under it, the hunger. The clawing need to be noticed, respected, trusted. The things Dexter seemed to collect without even trying.

Her brother was smart, sharper than he let on, and if he said something was “off” about the guy, she believed he saw something. But it was also true that James’s hate came tangled up with envy. Like maybe Dexter was the shadow James couldn’t stop chasing, always on the edge of his vision, always taking just enough light away to keep him in the dark.

She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, sighing. My poor, stubborn brother.

By the time Roni made it back to her apartment, she was exhausted. Not from the day, but from the thinking. God, she wished her brain had an “off” switch. She dumped her purse by the couch, kicked off her shoes, and collapsed into the cushions with a groan. Happy that both her boys had a sleepover at a friends house.

James and Dexter. Dexter and James. The eternal loop.

Her brother’s face when she’d teased him about jealousy wouldn’t leave her alone. And then there was Dexter himself. Roni rubbed her temples.

Okay, cards on the table, the guy isn’t bad looking. Sue me. Quiet, polite, that clean-cut kind of handsome you didn’t usually see hanging around Miami. A little awkward in a way, not charming, but disarming. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone, and maybe that was the trick.

No wonder the kids like him, she thought. No wonder James hates him.

Her lips curved into a half-smile. James, with his sharp temper, clashing endlessly with a man who just… didn’t bite. It was almost poetic, in a frustrating, sibling-exasperating way. Like watching a dog bark at a brick wall.

And yet, beneath all her teasing, Roni felt that twinge of unease. James wasn’t wrong often. If something in him bristled this much around Dexter Morgan, maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t all ego and envy.

But then again, maybe her brother just couldn’t stand that someone else could be both competent and liked.

Roni sighed, dragging a pillow over her face. “Ugh. Enough. Sleep, woman.”

_____________________________________

Miami Bank Meeting, 14:28 p.m.

Roni tapped her pen against the conference table, eyes flicking to the clock on the wall. Fourteen twenty-eight. Two minutes until the meeting wrapped, and she was already plotting her escape route. Numbers, projections, new client accounts, she could juggle all of it in her sleep. What she needed was fresh air, something that didn’t smell like ink cartridges and reheated coffee.

By the time she was out of the glass-walled boardroom, she had her purse slung over her shoulder and her jacket draped across one arm. Her coworkers filed toward the café down the street, but the sea breeze outside tugged at her, salty and cool even in Miami’s heat.

So, instead of following the herd, Roni cut left. Toward the harbor. She told herself it was nostalgia, she’d always loved the water as a kid, that brief calm when you could pretend the whole city wasn’t roaring just behind you.

And then she saw him.

Dexter Morgan.

He stood on the dock, halfway crouched, fussing with ropes along the side of a boat. He looked utterly absorbed, the picture of someone content with quiet tasks, like the world beyond the dock didn’t exist. Roni froze mid-step. Lunch break detour suddenly felt like trespassing. She could turn around, pretend she hadn’t noticed. But her shadow fell long across the planks, and his head lifted.

Their eyes met.

Dexter blinked, expression unreadable for a beat, then the faintest polite smile curved his lips. The kind you gave when you recognized someone you weren’t sure you wanted to.

“Roni,” he said, his voice low, steady, carrying easily across the water.

Roni swallowed, tugging her bag higher on her shoulder, her own smile slipping out more sheepish than confident. “Well, hey. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Roni stepped onto the dock, heels clicking softly against the worn wood. She tried not to glance down at the water sloshing darkly below, James would’ve barked at her for even coming out here in those shoes. But James isn’t here, she thought, lifting her chin. She gestured at the boat, half to fill the silence, half to ground herself.

Dexter waited, hands loosely gripping the rope he’d been tying. He didn’t move toward her, didn’t back away either. Just watched her with that patient, unreadable expression that seemed too calm for Miami.

“So, this your big secret hideout?”

A ghost of a smile crossed his face. “Something like that. She’s called the Slice of Life.”

“Catchy,” she said, folding her arms. “Yours long?”

Dexter shook his head. “Gift. From my dad. Harry.” His voice softened around the name, almost reverent, and for a second Roni swore she saw something flicker behind his eyes, something private, guarded. Then it was gone.

“Nice gift,” she replied. “My dad’s biggest present to me was… well, not a boat.” She laughed, a quick, light sound that covered the strange little ache in her chest.

Dexter just gave a small shrug, almost apologetic. “Harry liked to keep me busy. Said I needed… structure.” He tightened the last knot and straightened, brushing his hands on his jeans.

Roni tilted her head. “So what are you doing here now? Shouldn’t you be—” she paused, lowering her voice as if sharing a joke—“looking at pretty red spills?”

His smile twitched crookedly. “I don’t work full-time. Not exactly. They only call me in for blood. I’m just the blood guy.”

The way he said it, matter-of-fact but with a dry undercurrent, made her lips quirk despite herself. Just the blood guy. Most people would make that sound creepy. He made it sound like he was apologizing for being boring at parties.

“Blood guy,” she repeated, pretending to weigh the title. “You make it sound like a side hustle. People need groceries delivered, dog walkers… and blood analyzed.”

Dexter chuckled under his breath, rubbing at the back of his neck. His gaze darted toward the water, then back at her, as if he was more comfortable anywhere but eye contact. “Yeah, not exactly glamorous.”

“Still important,” Roni countered before she could stop herself.

For a moment, Dexter looked almost caught off guard, like he wasn’t used to being reassured. He shifted, fingers flexing at his sides, and then gave a small nod. “Thanks. So… bank work, right? Doakes mentioned that once.”

Roni arched a brow. “He did? Color me surprised. I didn’t think he paid attention to anything that didn’t involve guns, yelling, or glaring at you.”

Dexter’s mouth twitched. “He glares a lot.”

“Tell me about it. He used to practice in the mirror as a kid.” She shook her head, a grin tugging her lips. “We’d call it his ‘cop face.’”

That actually earned a quiet chuckle from Dexter. “It works. He scares most people.”

“Not you though,” Roni said, watching him carefully.

The redhead offered that mild half-shrug. “Not really. I guess I’m used to him.”

Her eyes narrowed, but not unkindly.

“So… the bank. Must be busy.”

“Oh, it’s thrilling,” Roni deadpanned. “Spreadsheets, meetings, people yelling about overdraft fees. Sometimes I live on the edge and staple things without aligning the corners.”

“And your sister?” he asked, almost like he was afraid of prying but couldn’t help himself.

Roni leaned on the dock rail beside him. “Well, Jess is working as a Hairdresser. And me as you know.” She gestured at herself with mock flair. “Holding down the glamorous world of finance.”

“Sounds like you’re the stable one.”

She huffed a laugh. “Or the boring one. Depends who you ask.”

“Stable isn’t boring. Its good to have a system and structure.”

The words hung there longer than they should have, the sound of seagulls filling the silence. Roni found herself watching him a moment too long, trying to read what he meant or if he even knew what he meant.

So she nudged the conversation back, lightening it. “And what about you, Dexter? Any siblings I should know about?”

Dexter blinked, a flicker of something in his eyes before he smoothed it over. “Deb. My sister. She’s… persistent. I think you may have met her.”

“I did…and Persistent,” Roni echoed, grinning. “That’s polite code for ‘drives me insane,’ isn’t it?”

“Sometimes.”

Roni sipped the last of her coffee from the paper cup she’d brought along, twirling it idly between her fingers. “So, Dexter Morgan, the mysterious boat-owning blood guy. What else do you do when you’re not looking at blood, coiling rope or staring pensively at the ocean?”

He tilted his head, eyes darting away as though the answer might be written on the dock boards. “Not much. Work. Boat. Sometimes I—” He stopped himself, lips pressing thin.

Her brows lifted. “Sometimes you…?”

He scratched at the back of his neck. For a second, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he exhaled, quick and quiet. “I have a cat.”

Roni blinked, then grinned. “You? A cat? I did not have that on my bingo card.”

Dexter’s mouth tugged into that restrained half-smile again. “She’s black. Yellow eyes. Name’s Reaper.”

“Reaper? God, that’s dramatic. What, were you auditioning her for a metal band?”

He shrugged. “It suits her. She… stalks. Waits. Watches. Sometimes I feel like she’s studying me more than I study her.”

“Sounds like you two are kindred spirits.”

That earned her a quick glance, sharp before Dexter looked away again. “Maybe.”

“I can just imagine you sitting here on this boat, brooding with your cat named Reaper. James would lose his mind if he knew.”

Dexter’s eyes flickered at the mention of Doakes, and his smirk faded into something closer to neutral. “He already thinks I’m… odd.”

Roni rolled her eyes. “James thinks everyone is odd. Except himself, of course.”

The other let out a short laugh through his nose, quiet but real. “He’s… consistent.”

“Consistently impossible.”

For a moment, the sounds of the harbor wrapped around them, water lapping, seagulls overhead, a distant horn. She cleared her throat, gesturing at the boat. “So, this is where you hide out when the world gets too loud?”

“Sometimes,” Dexter admitted, gaze shifting to the water. “It’s quiet here.” He paused, and when he looked at her again, there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “And you? Where do you hide?”

That question lingered, heavier than she expected, tugging at a place inside her she hadn’t planned to open during her lunch break.

Roni tilted her head, pretending to think it over. “Where do I hide? Hm.” A sly smile tugged at her lips. “Wouldn’t you like to know, boat man.”

Dexter’s brows lifted, amused despite himself. “I would,” he said softly, almost surprised by his own honesty.

That tiny slip made her laugh. She shook her head and glanced at her watch, then cursed under her breath. “Shit. My break’s almost over. If I’m late, I’ll have three voicemails and a post-it war waiting for me back at the office.”

Dexter gave a small nod, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Then you should go.”

“Yeah.” She hesitated a second longer, eyes flicking to the sleek lines of the boat, then back at him. “It was… nice. Talking to you, Dexter.”

He met her gaze, that quiet, unreadable expression settling back in place. “You too, Roni.”

And then she was gone, heels clicking briskly against the dock, leaving him standing there with the water rippling around the hull of his boat

Dexter stayed rooted in place for a beat too long, watching the space she’d just occupied. Then, as if waking from a trance, he blinked and shook his head.

“Why the did I ask her that?”

The words ricocheted inside his skull, sharper than he meant them to be. He wasn’t supposed to care where she “hid.” That wasn’t data, it wasn’t blood, it wasn’t anything useful. Just… curiosity.

And curiosity got people caught.

Still, a part of him replayed her answer. “Wouldn’t you like to know, boat man.”

“Boat man? That’s… new.”

It shouldn’t matter. She was Doakes’s sister. James Doakes, the human lie detector with a permanent scowl and an uncanny ability to sniff out Dexter’s every carefully staged misstep. Talking to her wasn’t just unwise, it was reckless.

Dexter glanced at his watch, almost relieved. Time to get back to his apartment.

Notes:

Hope you all liked the chapter. Let me know what yall think of Roni :). She´s a mom of two boys, so you cant mess with her.
Also Dexter enjoy the calm while it last, next chapter you will have a wonderful crash out (hehehe)

Also also
“Doakes had a first name! It was Albert - had anyone ever really called him that? Unthinkable. I had assumed his name was Sergeant.”
― Jeff Lindsay, Dearly Devoted Dexter
TF YOU MEAN HIS NAME IS ALBERT IN THE BOOKS XD!!!!!!!!!!!
My life is a lieeeeeee (sidenote, dexters unhingness in the book is mwah!)

My top runner qoute
“It's an odd term, girlfriend, particuarly for grown persons. And in practice an even odder concept. Generally speaking, in adults it described a woman, not a girl, who was willing to provide sex, not friendship. In fact, from what I had observed it was quite possible for one to actively dislike one's girlfriend, although of course true hatred is reserved for marriage.”

Notes:

Idk i hope i dont make them to out of character
i do love to write dexters monologes hehe