Chapter Text
There was a butterfly resting on the flower in front of him.
Delicate. Fragile.
It shimmered in the afternoon sunlight—blue wings opening and closing slowly, like eyelashes.
Dexter kept very still, lying on his stomach in the grass, watching it. He tried to time his blinks with the butterfly’s wings, but it was trickier than he thought. He wanted to communicate to it that he was the same in some way. Safe. That he wasn’t going to hurt it.
He breathed carefully through his nose. Quiet and slow. He didn’t want to scare it away.
Last week, Max Palmer had caught one in a jar during recess. He brought it inside and waved it in everyone’s faces, bragging about how he’d managed it.
And then he shook the jar—hard—over and over until the butterfly went still.
The other kids had screamed at him to stop, but he just kept going. Dexter sat in the back of the classroom with his hands pressed tightly over his ears, silent as Miss Whitmore rushed around the classroom, trying to calm everyone down. She took the jar from Max and put it on her desk, but Dexter couldn’t stop staring at what Max had done to it—how it was left mangled and lifeless at the bottom of the jar.
One of its wings ripped clean off in the violence.
Dexter wondered how Max would feel if someone ripped him apart. If someone trapped him in a jar and left him there.
He’s been having dreams about the incident ever since.
A gentle breeze rustled through the grass, bending the stem of the flower closer. The butterfly swayed with it, close enough to kiss the tip of Dexter’s nose with its wings. Dexter almost went cross-eyed trying to look at it.
It’s pretty isn’t it? Just like my little Dexter.
The voice carded through his mind—soft and warm.
He didn’t know who she was, but he liked it when she talked to him.
Harry said he should try not to listen to her—because she wasn’t real, and she wasn’t good for Dexter—and Harry didn’t want Dexter to get confused.
Dexter supposed Harry was right. Because Harry was always right. But Harry couldn’t hear how nice her voice was, the way Dexter could. Maybe if he could hear her, he’d understand why Dexter liked her so much.
Across the playground, his father’s voice was a low murmur, mixing with Miss Whitmore’s. Too far away to make out their words. But, Dexter knew they were talking about him—about how he’d stopped talking after Max killed that butterfly, maybe. Or about how he didn’t play with the other children.
It’s just that, Dexter didn’t have anything to say—and the other kids didn’t like to play with someone who didn’t talk.
The earth dipped beneath him as Harry approached and for a moment, Dexter thought about reaching forward and cupping the butterfly in his hands just to keep it from flying away—but then—that would make him just like Max—
The thought made his stomach turn and he got up quickly, scaring the butterfly away on purpose—far away from him, far away from anyone like him.
“Hey, Dex. What are you doing?”
Harry crouched down in front of him, taking his hands and pulling them apart. Dexter had been wringing his fingers without realizing it. Harry examined them—red, twisted. He tutted quietly.
The butterfly flew in between them, a flash of blue just at their eyes and then away again, up into the sky. Dexter watched it go.
“Miss Whitmore told me about what happened with Max,” Harry said.
Dexter just looked at him.
“Is that what you’ve been having nightmares about?”
Sometimes, Dexter wasn’t sure if Harry was asking him trick questions or not. Because Harry asked him lots of questions, and always told him there were no wrong answers. But there were. Dexter could tell the difference between answers Harry liked and answers he didn’t.
“Is that why you stopped talking again?” Harry continued when Dexter still didn’t answer. Dexter stared down at Harry’s shoes. “Did it make you sad? What Max did to that butterfly?”
Dexter didn’t know what sad felt like. So, he shook his head.
“Maybe, it made you remember something. Maybe, something scary?”
Dexter shook his head again. He didn’t have memories like other kids did. He just had Harry.
A few weeks ago, Emily from two desks ahead asked him what he did for his birthday last year and he said he didn’t know—because he didn’t. She said that was weird, and Dexter guessed it was. He didn’t ask her what she did for hers.
Harry’s hand went up to his hair, brushing through the strands across his forehead. “You know, Dex. It scares people when you stop talking like this. It makes them uncomfortable. You don’t want to make other people uncomfortable, do you?”
Dexter didn’t really care about other people—he didn’t know why he should. It’s not like they cared if he was uncomfortable.
“No,” he finally said, because that was what Harry wanted to hear.
“Good, son. That’s good.” Harry sighed, looking out at the playground—the other kids laughing and climbing. Running around and chasing each other. He looked back at Dexter. “Can you think of any reason why that butterfly made you so upset?”
Dexter shrugged his shoulders and Harry nudged him. “C’mon. Words, Dex. Like we just said.”
“I don’t have any.”
“Any what?”
“Words.”
Harry sighed, again, shifting on his feet, like his legs had grown tired from crouching for so long. He sat down crossed-legged instead and pulled Dexter sideways into his lap, an arm around his shoulders to keep him balanced.
“Maybe you can tell me how it made you feel? You said it didn’t make you sad—so what did it make you?”
Dexter looked down at his hands again, curling his legs up into Harry’s lap. He leaned into his chest, pressing his ear against his heartbeat. “I don’t know.”
“Did it make you angry? Did it make you think about anything in particular?”
Dexter thought about that ripped off wing again, how it looked separated from the rest of the body. How he wanted to reach into the jar and take it out and hold it. Just the wing. Run his finger gently over the bright colors and see if any of them rubbed off.
He wondered if that made him bad—like Max.
“I don’t like Max very much,” Dexter whispered, forgetting all about the questions Harry had asked him before. He looked up, worried Harry wouldn’t like what he’d just said.
“Well, what he did was very wrong.”
Dexter stared at him. He didn’t sound disappointed.
“It was?”
“Of course it was, son. Maybe that’s why you got so upset. Because you knew it was wrong.”
Dexter didn’t remember thinking much at all. Only that he wished it wasn’t happening.
“The girls were screaming, too,” he added, quietly, “when Max was shaking the jar. It was really loud.”
Harry didn’t answer for a moment. His hand came to rest on Dexter’s knee and he squeezed gently. “That must have been scary, son.”
“Not really.”
Dexter reached forward and traced the lines on the back of Harry’s hand. It reminded him of raindrops running down the car window, chasing each other down the glass. He liked tracing those lines, too.
He doesn’t mention about the other thing he’d heard—a loud roaring in his ears, like a big machine—because he suspected that was another thing only he could hear. And Harry wouldn’t like that.
“It wasn’t scary?”
“No,” Dexter shook his head, focused on the lines now. “I just wanted them to stop.”
— - -
The morning Callahan’s body is found, Dexter wakes to find a single blue flower resting in the palm of his hand—placed carefully over his scar.
He stares at it, still half-asleep, as he brings it closer to his face.
The blue is vibrant, almost unnaturally so—deep indigo, or maybe cobalt—the color interrupted by a deep, dark red that bleeds out from the center like a wound. Like the trickle of blood beneath plastic.
He strokes a gentle finger over one of the petals—velvety and fragile. Like a butterfly wing.
Pretty.
He jolts, the last remnants of sleep falling away, as he suddenly remembers—
—the soft click of a door.
It hadn’t been a dream.
He rises slowly, still holding the flower, careful not to crush the petals where they brush softly against his scar. He brings it up to his chest, cradled against his sternum.
Brian was here, he thinks, the feeling heady. He was right here.
In the kitchen, his gaze draws automatically to the freezer. The normal hum of it is louder than it should be, filling the room—drawing him in—reminding him that he still hasn’t gotten rid of Mark Fallon’s hands.
He’d thought of throwing them in the ocean a hundred times—but it just hadn’t seemed right—with everything going on with the case. With Deb, and Doakes. And him.
He opens the door, deja vu washing over him, and isn’t surprised to see that the hands are gone. In their place is a small note. Dexter picks it up, heart pounding in his ears.
Barbie—
I’m sorry I had to take back my gift. But I promise, it was for a good cause. Let me tie up loose ends and it will all be over soon.
—Ken
P.S - It’s a blue hibiscus. Mom used to grow them in our garden. They were your favorite.
— - -
Three hours later, Dexter walks into a motel room off Route 1 and feels Brian’s presence like a scent in the air.
Vince opens the freezer, and Dexter exhales at the sight—shoulders sagging, eyes widening as feeling courses through him. A sensation like relief. Like feeling—taken care of.
He doesn’t look back at the body on the bed—the latest victim of Brian’s devotion. It would only ruin this. For now, he just—breathes.
A good cause, Brian had written.
Dexter doesn’t think he’s ever been someone’s good cause before.
There’s a smile that flits across his face before he can stop it.
— - -
Back at the precinct, the station is buzzing with the high of closing the case.
Dexter sequesters himself back in the forensics department, sitting next to the printer just outside his lab. Photos from the crime scene are spread out on the table before him—more printing steadily from the machine next to him.
Callahan’s file rests on top and he stares down at it, trying to ignore the murmur in the back of his mind that sounds a lot like Harry.
He may be new to this whole feelings thing, but it doesn't seem fair to him that the good ones should be so fleeting, and the bad ones like a nausea that just never goes away.
Across the bullpen, Doakes is staring at him.
Dexter would think he’d be used to the feeling by now, but the prickling sensation never really fades. The weight never really gets lighter. Doakes stands next to Maria and Deb, who’s got this exhausted, relieved smile on her face. Like a runner who’s just crossed the finish line of a long, grueling race.
Dexter looks down at the file again, thumb flicking the corner back and forth.
It’s over now, he thinks. If anyone deserves to be happy about this, it should be her.
After he’d left her and Doakes in the alley that day, he’d told himself that it didn’t have to change anything. That Doakes might’ve tattled about the club, but at least he kept his mouth shut about Brian—which was the only part that really mattered. In the grand fucked up scheme of things, Deb finding out about some stupid, drunken mistake, shouldn’t have even mattered.
And yet, it just—stuck.
She looked at him like he just didn’t make sense to her anymore. Like what happened with Fallon had changed him. And unlike the Brian shaped elephant in the room, this—she wanted to talk about. She tried. Over and over.
But what was there to say?
If it had been up to him, he never would’ve told her in the first place—and she knew it. It was written all on her face every time she looked at him that she knew it.
And besides that, there was a part of him that was just so—angry with her.
Betrayed.
Even though she hadn’t done anything wrong. Even though he was the liar, and all she ever did was care about him. It was like there was this sick resentment inside him that just grew and grew. Insidious, like a virus. And it was fine to feel that way about fucking Doakes—but feeling that way about her just felt wrong.
It didn’t make sense to him.
But then, Harry had explained to him enough times that feelings didn’t always make sense—but that real people felt them anyway.
People are complicated, Dex. It’s just part of being a person.
Dexter never thought he’d feel so much like a fucking person.
It was like Doakes and Deb knowing about that night was somehow worse than the shitty night itself. More violating, more humiliating. Like they’d reached into him against his will and taken it from him. Held it high above his head, so he couldn't get it back.
And it made his skin feel hot just to be around them, crawling—like every secret he’d ever had was just there for them to read—whether he wanted them to or not. Written across his skin in bruises and scars that other people had left behind.
He’d been out of his depth, pulled beneath the current.
But then, Brian came back and he just—
It’ll all be over soon.
—made it stop.
For a moment, he’d made it stop.
“Yo, Dex!”
Vince rushes over, Angel in tow, and Dexter sets down Callahan’s file, fingers drumming on the table. The mugshot stares up at him, and after a second of hesitation, he flips it face side down.
“Vince, what can I do for you?” He rolls his chair closer, nodding at Angel in greeting. “Angel.”
"I heard I missed a crazy scene this morning,” Angel says, grinning. “I had to drop my kid off at school, otherwise I would’ve been there. I tried to get out of it, but Nina—”
“Yeah, yeah, we get it. Your wife’s got your balls in a cup,” Vince interrupts, turning to Dexter with a conspiratorial smirk. “Hey, you got the you-know-whats?”
“The whats?”
“The hands, man,” Vince implores. “Come on.”
“Hands?” Angel looks between them. “Oh shit, you guys found the hands? From the Fallon case?”
“In fucking pieces.”
Dexter’s mouth twitches—unexpected irritation going through him at the idea of his gift being brought out for Masuka’s seedy show-and-tell.
Your gift, Dex? Harry asks, his feeling obvious in the tone.
Dexter spins his chair toward the evidence freezer behind him. Spins back.
“Technically, we’re not supposed to touch them until they’ve been logged.”
Vince rolls his eyes. “Yeah, and technically no one can say I don’t have a nine inch dick if they haven’t seen it. Come on, Dex. Don’t be an evidence prude on me. Put out, baby.”
Dexter gives him a flat look before sighing and rolling back to the freezer. He pulls out the tray holding the segments of Fallon’s hands—all bagged separately—and brings them back to the table.
Vince wriggles his fingers like he’s picking out a donut. He grabs one of the larger bags, holding it up to Angel and pointing out the jagged, ripped flesh on the wrist.
“Gnarly, right?”
Angel gets closer even as his lip curls back in disgust. “That’s fucking disgusting, bro. Why’d he cut them all up in pieces like that?”
“He was probably high, man. Guy was a fucking junkie.”
Angel quirks an eyebrow. “Was?”
“Suicide,” Vince reveals, giddy. “Turns out the killer was one of Fallon’s earlier victims. Aaron Callahan.”
“Oh shit.”
Dexter turns away, grabbing a new batch of photographs from the printer.
“Yeah, after Fallon you know…” Vince trails off and absently, Dexter wonders why he doesn't just say it. He says everything else. “Dude’s life like completely fell apart. We think he saw Fallon in the club that night and just couldn’t cope.”
Dexter flips through the new batch of photographs.
Angel lets out a low whistle. “Shit. I mean, some son of a bitch ever tried that shit with me? I’m chopping off a motherfucker’s hands and then some.”
“Right?” Vince leans in. “I’m just surprised Callahan didn’t chop his dick off, too. You know what I mean.”
They snicker between themselves and Dexter forces a bland smile when they look at him to join in, setting aside a photograph of Callahan’s body, sprawled across dirty motel sheets.
Angel and Vince think that Callahan took his revenge and dignity into his own hands—but the truth is that Brian did that for him.
The only thing Callahan did was give up.
Morbidly, Dexter wonders what he would’ve done if he’d been in Callahan’s shoes—if Doakes hadn’t stepped in, if Dexter had been truly unable to fight back.
He likes to think he’s too detached for the sort of downward spiral that befell someone like Callahan—drugs and bad habits to cope—but now, he isn’t so sure.
He thinks about the blue flower, pressed gently into his palm. Brian—standing over him after he’d placed it there.
He’d never let that happen to me.
Next to him, the printer chirps and another photograph drops down into the tray—a close up of the lethal injection site on Callahan’s arm—messy, with a ring of failed attempts surrounding it. Like he’d been out of his mind with desperation—shaking, unsteady—just wanting it all to end.
At least—Brian had done a good job making it look that way.
“Dexter.” He looks up at Angel and notices Deb approaching from across the room, Doakes a step behind her. “You got that far away look, hermano.”
“Sorry. ” He slides the photograph to the bottom of the pile. “Just—lost in thought, I guess.”
“Daydreaming about chopping someone up?” Vince jokes, picking up another bag and shaking it. Dexter winces, taking it from him gingerly and putting it back in the bin.
“I would never do that, Vince.”
“Who’s getting chopped up?” Deb asks, arriving with Doakes. “Hope it’s Masuka.”
Doakes doesn’t bother with a greeting, busy checking his phone while Vince and Angel catch up with Deb. Dexter eyes him warily. They haven’t really spoken since the incident in Dexter’s lab—when Doakes accosted him and Dexter bit him—like some sort of animal.
He suppresses a shudder. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t get it out of his head. Like it was just sitting on a shelf in there, preserved.
Like canned soup, he thinks unhappily.
Doakes clicks his phone shut, stuffing it in his pocket and crossing his arms. Dexter’s gaze lingers there—for a moment, half-expecting to see a bite mark.
He turns away quickly when Doakes catches him staring.
“So, what’s the status on the prelim report,” Doakes asks, talking over Vince without hesitation. He addresses the group, but Dexter is pretty sure the question is for him.
He has no problem staring me down from across an entire bullpen—but asking me a direct question, is somehow too much?
“Aye, it’s always work with this guy,” Angel says before Dexter can answer, pointing at Doakes and shaking his head. “Come on, you didn’t even let us congratulate you and Deb on closing the case.”
“Fine.” Doakes rolls his eyes. “Fucking congratulate us, then.”
Angel gives a small bow of deference, undeterred. “Congratulations, guys. You did good.”
“Yeah, congrats Deb,” Dexter says, his words coming out quieter than he means. Deb catches his eyes, expression softening when she looks at him. She takes a breath, shoulders dropping, like Dexter saying it has finally made it real.
“Thanks, Dex.”
Turning back to the group, she lets out a shaky, tired laugh. “Honestly, I’m just glad it’s fucking over.”
“Sometimes shit just works out,” Angel says, patting her on the shoulder.
Doakes looks down at Dexter but doesn’t say anything, eyes flickering down to his left hand and then away again.
“Yeah, sometimes it does.”
Deb nods at Vince. “Guess this means your theory is officially wrong, Masuka. Looks like I owe Doakes ten bucks.”
“Oh shit, you bet on me?” Vince perks up. “And took my side? Don’t get me all hot and bothered.”
“God, you’re gross,” Deb sighs, making a face. “HR should have the power to detain you.”
"Please, as if this beast could be contained," Vince scoffs. "Besides, as far as I’m concerned—my theory still stands. Touch my bitch, you die? Never said you couldn't be your own bitch. Self-bitching counts.”
Angel snorts, shaking his head.
“Seriously, Masuka?” Deb asks, lip curling.
Doakes huffs, arms flexing across his chest. “That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said, you fucking moron.”
“What?" Vince grins, doubling down. "I'm just applying logic—you let someone do you like a bitch—I think you’ve basically self-bitched—"
"Callahan didn't self-bitch himself, fuck face. He was raped." Deb snaps, voice suddenly icy. She glares at Vince, and the group goes quiet.
Dexter stills as Vince’s grin falters. Angel leans away from him, like he wasn’t laughing a second before.
“Well, yeah—” Vince stutters. “I didn’t mean it like—”
“I don’t give a fuck how you meant it,” Deb fires off. “What happened to Callahan was fucked up. And yeah—maybe he shouldn’t have gone all Kill Bill but—fuck. He didn’t deserve any of this. From everything I’ve read in his file he had a shitty fucking life and now he’s got a shitty fucking end.”
No one says anything.
Dexter chews at the inside of his cheek, the crawling sensation starting to come back. He rubs his thumb over his scar beneath the table, trying to stop it.
“Hey—but uh—at least he got his revenge,” Vince offers, lamely.
But—
“Did he?” Doakes asks, and Dexter looks up at him, the sergeant taking the thought right out of his mind. “From where I’m standing, motherfucker’s dead without a single person left to give a shit. Debra and I have been making calls but all we got is the answering machine of his last caseworker and an old foster parent who doesn’t want anything to do with him. That sounds like revenge to you?”
Dexter’s throat tightens.
Brian really had chosen the perfect victim.
Someone with unquestionable motive. Someone no would miss—someone already circling a dangerous drain.
“Guy had a rough life,” Doakes continues, and Dexter can feel his heavy gaze again. “Some people never recover from that kind of thing.”
Dexter mulls that over.
What if Callahan never moved on? What if he never got better? If Brian hadn’t intervened, who’s to say he wouldn’t have just killed himself a month from now—a year? At least this way his death could do something. Could actually be—
For a good cause? Harry cuts in. After everything I've taught you—you’re really trying to justify this, Dex?
Dexter breathes, looking out into the precinct—bright sunlight streaming in through the windows.
There’s a tug in his chest that is starting to become frustratingly familiar—the moment before his heart starts speeding, before his breathing turns shallow. He balls his hands into fists, knowing the shaking won’t be far off. He doesn't want to be here when it starts.
He stands, fighting off a wave of dizziness as he does. Somewhere in the back of his head, he remembers that he hasn’t eaten since yesterday.
Around him, the conversation has moved on, but Deb shoots him a glance. Doakes, too.
“You good, Dex?”
"I uh—" He scratches his head, his own voice sounding slow and far away, "—I think I left my phone in the car. I’m just gonna—"
He doesn't wait for a response, slipping past them and out of the bullpen—where it had suddenly begun to feel hot and suffocating—wanting out, wanting fresh air—wanting to be alone.
— - -
Out in the parking lot, fresh air and sunlight hit like a drug. He stumbles to his car at the far end of the lot—away from the others, away from the traffic of Miami Metro.
His hand hits the hood as he rounds to the far side, facing the marina. He feels like he might be sick, but there’s nothing to throw up. The sound of traffic behind him mixes with the ocean, like a wall of white noise wrapped around his head.
He takes a deep breath leaning against the side of his car, but it doesn’t help. His stomach rolls with nausea.
This wasn’t like Fallon’s death at all.
Brian had killed someone innocent. Someone who hadn’t deserved it. The type of person Dexter imagined himself defending—a photo he’d hold up to someone strapped to his table.
And, of course, Dexter has known from the start that Brian was killing people for him—that it was wrong—and depraved. But for a moment, he’d just felt—it’d made him feel—
—saved.
He bends over, hands braced on his knees. His head is spinning, the ground with it, and he blinks, taking deep breaths.
Feeling this much is exhausting—it shouldn’t even be happening—
But Brian seems to have cracked him open in ways no one else ever could—like it was easy work. Like it wasn’t something Harry tried to do for years—something Dexter himself had always secretly longed for—knowing the whole time he just wasn’t capable.
But he realizes—at least in some fucked up capacity—he is.
Maybe he always was.
A childish, naive part of him begins to wish, like a mantra in his head, that none of this ever happened. That he’d just dealt with LaGuerta’s protective detail and laid low enough to get Doakes off his tail. He wishes he’d never baited him at that stupid bar with Angel and Vince. He wishes he’d never let Fallon touch him—wishes he'd never fucking liked it. He wishes Brian never saw and that Deb never found out.
And—
And he wishes more than any of that, that he’d woken up this morning.
That he could’ve seen Brian for himself—talked to him—been left with more than just a flower against his scar and a note that just isn’t enough.
He’s not here to save you. Harry appears, standing over him with his arms crossed. That isn’t what this is about. It’s about owning you. About turning you into something he wants.
He wants me already, Dexter thinks, spitefully—resentfully.
Is that why he left you again? Why he refuses to see you?
Dexter swallows hard, feeling like air just isn’t reaching his lungs the way it should.
He sees the shipping container clearer than he’s ever seen it before. His mother’s body spread out in pieces—the officer that stepped over it to get to him. Harry. Brian stares after him, covered in blood, reaching out for him as Harry carries him further and further away.
No—
He shakes his head, forcing out the images. Biney screaming his name, Dexter screaming back.
I can’t—he pants, wondering how many more times he’ll have to see it in his head. I can’t—I can’t—
He sinks down to the ground, back against his car, and it feels slightly better down here. Like the chaos had been a storm happening above him. A wind tunnel he could simply duck beneath while he waits for it to pass.
He stares out across the parking lot as his harsh breaths slowly start to even, feeling the sun beating down on him. In the distance, he can see boats buoying gently in the marina. A cool breeze drifts from the ocean, and he closes his eyes, letting it brush over his sweat-slick skin.
When was the last time he went out on his boat? Before Brian?
Maybe he could take Rita, and the kids—
He swallows, remembering. No, he couldn’t do that.
He thinks about sailing out alone and never coming back. There’s no destination in his head—just—an infinite stretch of nothing. Rolling waves and fresh air. Silence. Emptiness.
It was an image that used to soothe him when he was younger, too young for Harry to let him sail out on his own—a daydream he’d described to him once, that had only made his father sad. A reaction he hadn’t understood.
Harry reappears at his side, hunkering down to sit with him against the car. He doesn’t say anything, just waits.
You say he’s a monster, Dexter says. But, so am I.
But you never would have killed Callahan, Harry argues. No matter how much easier his death would’ve made your life.
No, but—
But Brian did, Harry says—almost gently this time, You know what that makes him, don’t you? What he fits?
The Code. Brian fits it better than almost anyone.
Dexter knows it—the same way he’s always known it. But for once, it isn’t enough. Not anymore. How could Brian ever be beholden to something as impersonal as Harry’s Code? Brian was anything but impersonal. He was his brother. He was his.
I can’t kill him, Dexter thinks fiercely. I won’t.
It’s like a vow, blooming inside him, like a drop of blood pressed between glass. Set in stone. A promise.
I know, Harry says, but it isn’t the disappointment Dexter had been expecting—it’s something solemn. Sad, and understanding. I know, son.
Dexter takes a deep breath.
So, what will you do?
Dexter leans forward, pressing his forehead against his knees.
He doesn’t know.
— - -
There was another butterfly in Dexter’s backyard.
This one was orange with black around the edges. He laid on his back in the grass, scooting under the mango tree so the sun wouldn’t hurt his eyes. The butterfly fluttered around the leaves and he held out his finger, hoping it would fly to him.
You have to be patient with it, Dex. Like how I’m patient with you.
Sometimes, it wasn’t the nice woman who spoke to him. Sometimes, it was another little boy.
Harry had been even more insistent lately that Dexter shut the voices out. He said it was really important that Dexter try to do that for him. But the little boy was nice, like the lady. Maybe, Harry didn’t realize that because Dexter wasn’t very good at explaining things.
Sunlight shone through the wings of the butterfly, like little beads of gold.
Dexter imagined them dropping like rain onto his face, running down his cheeks like tears. He hadn't ever cried before—at least not that he could remember—but he wondered sometimes what it would feel like.
It had been a few weeks since the incident with Max and Dexter was starting to talk in class again—Miss Whitmore had been very insistent on it. She liked to ask him lots of questions, just like Harry. Like whether or not he was happy, or if everything was going okay at home. She asked him if Harry was nice to him—and said Dexter could tell her if he wasn’t. She was sorry she had to ask, but she was just so worried about him. Dexter didn’t really know why.
Inside, Harry was talking to her on the phone.
Dexter watched him pacing back and forth through the sliding door, voice muffled by the glass. He’d sent Dexter outside because he said it was going to be a grown-up conversation, and he’d talk to Dexter after.
Dexter looked back up at the butterfly and thought how nice it must be to have wings—to not have to talk. To float around outside, every day around flowers and up high in the trees. If Dexter were a butterfly, he’d like to be blue.
The backdoor slid open and he looked up as Harry beckoned him back inside.
They went into the living room and Harry picked him up so he could sit him on the couch. He pulled the ottoman over and sat in front of him, which is something he only did when he had something serious he wanted to talk about.
“See any butterflies out there, Dex?”
Dexter nodded, wishing he’d just get to what he really wanted to ask.
“That’s nice. What color was it?”
“Orange.”
“Is that your favorite?”
“No.”
“Which one is your favorite?”
Dexter shrugged, even though he knew. Harry took a breath, like he always did before talking to him like this.
“So, that was Miss Whitmore on the phone. She told me that you’re doing very well in class, but that you told her you weren’t happy. Is that true?”
Dexter looked down at his knees, nodding slowly.
“Why?” Harry asked.
Dexter shrugged. “Because she asked.”
“I meant why aren’t you happy.”
Dexter shrugged again and Harry put his hands on his shoulders to keep him from doing it. “Come on, we talked about the shrugging, Dex. Even if you don’t feel like it, you have to use your words. Can you try to answer me?”
Dexter squirmed, wiggling until Harry let go.
“Can I go back outside?”
“No, Dex. We’re talking,” Harry admonished. “Can you please talk to me? Are you always unhappy, or just right now?”
Dexter wanted to say always—but Harry seemed like he wanted the other answer instead.
“Just right now.”
“Ok. Then, can you tell me what does make you happy?”
Dexter shook his head.
“C’mon, Dex. There’s gotta be something. Anything.”
Dexter thinks about it. He’s not sure what Harry wants him to say. There isn’t very much he likes.
“What makes you feel good?” Harry tried again.
“Good?”
“Yeah. Like you’re all ok. Maybe like you’re lighter. You know, in here,” he tapped Dexter’s chest. “Like you’re not so sad.”
“I don’t get sad.”
“I know, Dex, but—well, what do you usually feel?”
Dexter kicked his feet together. “Nothing.”
Harry paused, his shoulders slouching and he gently held Dexter’s ankles in his hands so he’d stop kicking, thumbs rubbing absentmindedly over the bone. Dexter went still.
“Is there anything better than nothing?” Harry finally asked.
Dexter thought about it. Not feeling good, exactly—but not feeling bad. Not feeling scared or confused or like something was wrong with him.
“I like going on the boat with you.”
Harry smiled. “I like that too, son. What do you like about it? The water?”
Dexter twisted his fingers together, remembering the knot Harry showed him how to tie with the rope. The one he said most kids Dexter’s age couldn’t do—but Dexter got it on the first try. Harry had been so impressed.
“I liked tying that knot. With the rope.”
“Oh yeah? You were good at that, Dex. We’ll go out again soon. I can teach you to tie more.”
“I don’t really care about tying knots.”
“You don’t?”
“No. I—” Dexter started pinching the skin on his knee, letting it turn red before letting go. He watched the blood rush out until his knee was pale, and then he did it again. “After I tied the knot just like you showed me, you said—”
“I said good job.” Harry’s voice went deeper with understanding, something more serious in his tone.
“Yeah,” Dexter nodded. “And—and after that you said—”
“I said I was proud of you.”
Dexter’s chest already felt lighter at the words, his heart thumping inside him. Is that what Harry meant by good? Being told he was good—was that the same as feeling it?
“I like…when you think I’m good.”
Harry held his hands, pressing his thumbs into Dexter’s palms.
There was a scar on his left hand that Harry had been rubbing cream into, trying to get it to go away. Dexter didn't know how he got it.
“You are good, Dex. You are.”
Dexter liked hearing it, but he didn’t really believe it. Because he’s seen good people—and he wasn’t like them at all. Miss Whitmore was good, because she smiled and took care of everyone. And Harry was good because he took care of Dexter and helped people in his job.
But Dexter also knew that parents told their kids they were good no matter what. Max’s mom hugged him when she picked him up and told him how good he was, but Dexter knew for a fact that wasn’t true. Because Max killed butterflies, and hit people and called them names. He called Dexter names. And Harry said that was bad.
Dexter didn’t want Harry to lie to him, he wanted him to think he was good for real. Because Harry said real was the best thing anyone could be—the best thing anyone could give or have. And Dexter wanted it.
“Do you think you can try something for me, Dexter?”
“Ok,” Dexter agreed.
“Do you think you could try smiling?”
Dexter frowned. “Why?”
“Because I think it’ll help you, son. Learning how to smile is important. Remember what we talked about a few weeks ago? About not wanting to make people uncomfortable? Why talking was important?”
Dexter nodded.
“Well, smiling is important, too. Even when you don’t feel like it. It makes people like you. And if you do, maybe people will stop asking you so many questions. I know you don’t like those.”
Dexter thought about it. He didn’t really care about other people liking him. Just like he didn’t care about making them uncomfortable. But Harry wasn’t other people.
“You’ll…like it if I smile?”
“Yes, Dexter. Of course.”
“If I make it look real?”
“I’ll be proud of you, son.”
Harry leaned forward, framing Dexter’s face with his hands, thumbs stroking over the apples of his cheeks. Like he was brushing away layers to get to something real. Something inside Dexter that he couldn’t quite see.
“Come on, Dex. You can do it,” Harry murmured. “Give me a smile.”
Dexter tried, the movements feeling forced on his face and Harry smiled instead.
“See how my eyes crinkle? That’s what a real smile looks like. Can you try again, for me?”
Dexter tried again, thinking about going out on the boat, and the butterfly that was probably still fluttering around the mango tree out back—wanting so badly to do it right, that for a moment, he thought it actually worked.
Harry’s grin widened and he squeezed Dexter around his arms, brushing the hair from Dexter’s forehead and kissing him there. Dexter’s chest went light, heart thudding faster than it’d been before.
“Good job, Dexter! Just like that.” Harry ruffled his hair. “You could fool anybody with that one. It was perfect.”
Dexter’s smile faded. He hadn’t gotten it right after all.
Harry tapped him lightly on the chin when he started to look at the floor.
“Hey, it’s ok. We’ll practice,” he assured him. “And maybe one day, it’ll feel real for you too, Dex. Okay?”
Dexter just nodded, but his mind turned itself over, wondering what good was real if he couldn’t even tell when it was happening?
— - -
When Dexter was younger, it used to feel like his mask was suffocating him. It was rigid and unresponsive, like hard plastic against his skin. He hated that he had to wear it—that Harry made him.
But eventually, he grew into it and it became all of the things Harry wanted it to be for him—familiar, protective, a way for him to exist in a world he probably was never meant to exist in. And Dexter was grateful, because sometimes, he couldn’t even feel it at all.
And now it’s changed—again.
Everything’s changed.
And it all just feels—wrong.
Not in the moral sense—not in the ways Harry had taught him to measure wrongness. That kind, he could understand. Could wrap his underdeveloped, stunted mind around.
It’s just—this wrongness is different. Off. Like reaching for a light switch and finding only wall.
He starts to feel like there's this outside version of himself—different from the mask—going to work, interacting with people, smiling, talking. And beneath that person, there's another him entirely who's just watching it happen.
Sometimes, he thinks the outside-person must do a very good job. He works well with Vince. Grabs tacos at the food truck with Angel. Enjoys morning coffees with Deb.
But other times, it feels like that outside-person—the one that’s casual, and convincing, and normal and fine—disappears. And it’s just the inside-him—pulling all the wrong levers and ropes, left in charge of a body he no longer knows how to operate.
And there’s no controlling it. No rhyme or reason. It just—
He curses as the pipette slips from his hand.
—happens.
Glass shatters at his feet and it feels like there’s a similar shattering happening inside himself. A leaking vial of unmarked emotion, a chemical spike in his chest that defies logic and reason.
He breathes, trying to settle the shaking in his hands. He doesn't understand why this keeps happening to him. Or how to stop it.
He glances up—Doakes is already looking at him, chair swiveled at his desk, a file on his knee that he hasn’t been looking at for a while now. Their eyes meet.
Dexter doesn’t bother with one of his fake smiles—there’s no point with Doakes. Because it’s always him, isn’t it? Catching Dexter when he slips—lingering in doorways—at the end of halls. Watching him throw half-eaten lunches in the trash behind Deb’s back. The only one looking when he lets his smile drop after the last donut has been handed out.
If it weren’t Doakes, Dexter might find his consistency almost comforting. Like a lone lighthouse in a storm—if that lighthouse hated his guts and existed solely to flash creep motherfucker in morse code out into the night.
It’s too much to say Dexter appreciates it—but, even the way it irritates him is better than nothing. A familiar burn that, from time to time, reminds him that he’s real—even though he doesn’t feel like himself, and no one else feels like themselves either.
Last night on the treadmill, he’d had this vision in his mind that just kept playing over and over. What if I just fell off right now and broke my head open? Right there on the floor?
It wasn’t suicidal ideation—he liked living as much as the next person.
But he’d read a story once about a woman with agoraphobia who never left her home. And then one day, she’d tripped on her way to the kitchen and cracked her skull open on the counter. When she woke up, she was just the same as she was before, her faculties intact, her memories untouched—but the agoraphobia was completely gone.
“That must have felt amazing,” Rita had said when he’d shared the story with her a few months ago—smiling to herself at the thought. “What a miracle. To wake up and just—have it gone. Still yourself, just lighter.”
Fixing the one thing that was broken.
It reminds him of Deb downing Advil for a headache, jokingly asking how it knew to go to her head and not her foot or something. Not that I’m complaining, she’d say.
If Dexter cracked his head open, it probably wouldn’t do any good. There was too much in there already broken. The miracle wouldn’t know where to start.
He crouches down on the floor to sweep up the glass—and wonders if waking up brand new was really what he wanted.
Or if he just wanted to feel like himself again.
— - -
Dexter tugs at the plastic, making sure it's secure. He’s not sure why he hadn’t thought of this earlier. Maybe because his Dark Passenger disappeared the night of Fallon’s murder and hasn’t been back since—but Dexter doesn’t mind being the one to make the call this time.
He hasn’t killed anyone in weeks.
He turns back to his tools, running his fingers softly across the blades.
Richard Hendricks had been an easy man to track down, and an even easier man to subdue. Slow, and stupid—the type of villain who preyed on kids because they were small enough to make him feel big.
Dexter had found him buried in Callahan's file. Beneath the petty theft, beneath the drugstore violence and school write-ups, there had been a disregarded report about abuse—a note attached by his caseworker that only said Callahan liked to lie.
It didn’t take Dexter long to track down similar reports after that. Other problem kids that no one believed. Many of whom got out of the system, and Hendricks’ house, only to end up in rehab centers or prisons—if they hadn’t killed themselves before that.
He doesn’t quite fit Harry’s code—but given the circumstance, Dexter thinks he’s allowed.
Hendricks starts to stir on the table and Dexter’s heart spikes—adrenaline in the way he’d wanted it. The anticipation flowing through him so dark and familiar—it almost makes him giddy.
Yes.
This is what he wanted. This is what he’s needed.
He catches Hendricks up to speed with brusque efficiency—why he does what he does, the reasons Hendricks has found himself here, on his table, tonight. He stuffs a wad of cotton in Hendricks mouth when he starts to yell.
Leaning over him, palms on the table as Hendricks shouts and cries, Dexter feels breathless. Exhilarated. Hendricks must see the Passenger glinting in his eyes—because he flinches back violently, struggling in earnest for the first time since waking up.
There’s a tug at the corner of Dexter’s lips and quickly, he grabs a fresh blood slide and scalpel.
He speaks to Hendricks softly—evenly. Without having to filter himself, the words come easily, without any effort at all. He wonders if this is what speaking feels like to other people.
“Usually, I like to at least pretend that what I’m doing is for the greater good,” he murmurs, focusing as he slices a neat line down Hendrick’s cheek. “A public service,” he muses. “Justice—for victims like Aaron—or for the dozens of other lives you’ve ruined…”
He pulls away, pressing glass together and watching the blood bloom like a flower.
“But I confess, Mr. Hendricks—I think tonight might just be about me.”
He’s holding his knife above Hendrick’s chest before he realizes it, no memory of picking it up—fingers flexing impatiently on the handle.
“You can’t possibly understand how much I need this,” he says and plunges it in.
Silence.
For a moment, he thinks that something has gone horribly wrong.
Because blood is pooling from the wound, and Hendrick’s body is jerking on the table—and Dexter is seeing it but he isn’t feeling it.
There’s a chasm inside him, wrenching wide—and he braces for that promised flood of relief, for the world to snap violently back into place, for sense, for balance, for anything—but it doesn’t happen.
Nothing happens.
The knife clatters to the floor and he stumbles back, hitting the plastic lined wall behind him and sliding down to the floor.
“I thought—” he stops, not knowing who he’s speaking to.
You thought what, Dex? Harry asks quietly in his ear. That this would fix you?
He looks up at Hendricks from the floor and for a second, it isn’t Hendrick’s on the table—it’s Deb. Strapped down. Unconscious. Brian standing over her.
Dexter blinks.
Hendricks is gurgling on the table, still alive somehow.
He pushes himself back up off the floor and stands over him, staring—waiting.
He doesn’t grab his knife to make it quicker, he just waits it out. Hendricks locks eyes with him—wide-eyed, gasping as his life drains out of him—and when it does, and his body stills completely—
—Dexter still doesn’t feel anything at all.
— - -
After dumping the body, Dexter drives back to his apartment in silence, the windows rolled down as the sun begins to rise.
He parks his car in the lot and kills the engine, sitting there with his hands still gripping the wheel.
The sun on the horizon rises slowly, pushing long, dark shadows out from his fingertips, from the palm trees surrounding his apartment—globs of black stretching over his skin, across the cramped interior of his car. He watches them grow and shrink as the leaves sway in the wind.
There’d been no satisfaction in dismembering Hendricks body. No peace as he’d dumped the pieces of him into the ocean. The silence in his head had felt like a roar—or like some sort of punishment. The steady, unaffected beat of his heart like a betrayal.
If he felt anything at all, it was just that same, persistent wrongness—washing back over him like a tide. Pooling into the cracks and crevices inside of him—so deep it feels like it can never be siphoned back out.
It’s not how he wants to feel, but the longer this goes on—the more he feels like what he wants just isn’t possible.
Like who he was is no longer an option.
He grips the wheel tighter until his scar starts to hurt, pinching against the leather, stinging. Part of him wants the wound to open back up—just to see if he still bleeds. He thinks of the bodies the Ice Truck Killer had left him. Emptied and hollow.
Brian changed everything.
And then he fucking—
—left.
He lets go of the wheel, falling back against his seat and stares out at nothing.
— - -
When he gets up to his apartment, the quiet comfort of it is almost enough to soothe the crushing disappointment of the kill. He walks to the AC unit and adds Hendricks’ slide to the box, clicking it into place and closing the lid without lingering on it.
It doesn’t feel right, but by now, he hadn’t expected it to.
He walks back to his bedroom for a quick change of clothes and just barely manages to catch himself before stepping on the blue hibiscus, lying on the floor where a breeze from the window must have blown it.
His heart stutters as he bends down quickly to scoop it up, something forlorn unfurling in his chest as he examines the wilting edges. He realizes he would’ve been upset if he’d crushed it.
— - -
He’s halfway through pouring the resin when Deb lets herself, quietly, into his lab.
He'd stolen the kit from Vince's desk on his way in this morning—though, he couldn't remember why Vince had it.
“What are you doing?” Deb asks.
Dexter doesn’t respond immediately.
It’s impossible to ignore the careful way she’s speaking. Even her entrance had been painfully conspicuous. No barging, no cursing, no ranting about work. Dexter’s used to her hovering, but now she holds herself back, leaning against the door a few feet away. Giving him space.
It reminds him of when they were kids. One of the only times Harry had lost his temper. He’d yelled at Dexter loud enough to make him flinch and knocked over a chair—though Dexter thinks that was mostly an accident. Still, he’d retreated to his room, silent and shaken. When Deb slipped in a few minutes later, she had this look on her face—like the one she has now—kind of lost, kind of worried. But, determined none the less. To take his side—to bully him into letting her, if she had to.
Dexter sets down the bottle of resin, tapping the tear shaped mold a few times to get out the air bubbles. He places a single blue petal down in the center, cut carefully from the flower Brian had left him.
“Just…” He adjusts the petal slightly with forceps. He’d thought about preserving the entire flower, but something about this felt more fitting, “…working on something personal.”
“I didn’t know you liked flowers.”
“I don’t. I just—” Dexter pauses, focusing as he pours the next layer of resin, watching as it crawls out towards the edges of the mold. It was your favorite. “—liked this one.”
Deb doesn’t respond, but Dexter can hear her gearing up in the silence, words she’s been practicing in her head. The talk she’s been wanting to have with him for weeks now.
If he weren’t so exhausted, he’d probably put up more of a fight. Shut her down, as he’s gotten good at doing.
But he feels hollowed out by last night’s kill—too exhausted for pride or resistance—to skirt a surrender that’s been bearing down on him for weeks.
Besides, there’s a certain peacefulness in giving up—in knowing you’ve been caught.
There was only so long that Dexter could’ve avoided her.
“So, I wanted to talk to you about the Fallon case. Now that it’s over.”
“Ok,” Dexter says, evenly, adding another layer of resin to the mold.
“I just want to say that I know closing the case doesn’t change what happened. To you.”
Dexter sets down the bottle and taps at the mold again, shaking out more air bubbles. He almost forgets to answer. “Ok,” he says, after a beat.
Deb barrels on. “I don’t want you to think that it doesn’t matter anymore—just because the case ended.”
Dexter frowns. “But it doesn’t matter.”
“Jesus, Dex.” Deb takes a grounding breath, like she knew he was going to say that and is reeling in her frustration. “Yes, it does. Someone tried to assault you at a—”
“I wouldn’t say assault—”
“But Doakes said—”
“Doakes over-exaggerated,” Dexter sighs, finally looking over at her. The conversation in the alley still stings like she’s thrown salt on it. “You’re really going to believe him over me?”
Deb looks down, chewing her lip.
“You know what, yeah, Dex. This time, I am.”
They lapse into silence, Deb’s words floating out in between them like a body in the water. Dexter doesn’t know what to say. He’s not used to a Deb that doesn’t trust him, that doesn’t believe him. The only reason they even work as brother and sister is because she’s so easy to lie to. Because she trusts him more than anyone else.
How can he ever be close to her, if he can’t lie?
“Right, well. There isn’t really much I can say to that.”
Deb nods sharply, still looking down. “Yeah, I mean I guess I believe what I believe. Right? I’m not saying you’re lying. I just—” she stops, switches direction. “Listen, I wanted to talk about something else, too. Something Danny, that bartender told us.”
“Deb—”
“No, c’mon. Just let me try talking to you before you cut me off, okay? Danny said that the guy Fallon was with that night—that it started off a lot more mutual than it ended.”
Dexter pauses, mid-reach for the UV light. “Are you saying it’s my fault?”
“No—Dex. No. I’m saying—I’m trying to say that just because you were into it at the start, doesn’t mean it’s ok that he—”
“I know it’s not ok.”
“Do you? Because what you said the other day—”
“What did I say?”
“That you would’ve let anyone do anything.”
Dexter stills. He’d forgotten he’d said that.
“I was…upset.”
“I know,” Deb says quietly. “I just haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”
They’re quiet for a moment. Dexter turns back to the lamp, fiddling with the cord and snapping it on. It shouldn’t take long to cure the petal. He moves it carefully under the lamp.
“I didn’t mean it.”
“Yeah, but,” Deb pauses, shaking her head, “I’m worried you did.”
“I didn’t.”
“Ok, ok,” Deb says, but Dexter can tell she still doesn’t believe him. “I’m just worried you’re not, like, processing or whatever.”
“Maybe, I already did. How long am I meant to process it? It’s been weeks. I’ve moved on.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“Deb, you can’t just tell me how I feel—”
“If you’re so fine, why aren’t you eating, still? Or sleeping?”
“I am.”
She lifts the lid of his trashcan, his half-eaten sandwich from lunch sitting on top like a little traitor.
Dexter looks at it. Looks at her. “It was a shitty sandwich—”
Something in Deb’s face shifts.
“Dex, please—” she says, voice completely changed. “I just—I want you to talk to me. Are you going to make me beg? Because I fucking will.”
Dexter looks away sharply, thinking about how easy it was to talk to Hendricks and how impossible it feels now.
“I am talking to—”
“No, you’re not,” Her breath catches, brows pinching in, and it all starts pouring out of her. “Ever since I found out about what happened that night, it just feels like—like you’ve been—disappearing. And I get it, because you’re you and you’re fucking—private, or whatever—and I know you didn’t want me to know—but, I do know. And I’m fucking sorry I know. And I’m sorry I got weird about it, I just—I didn’t know how to talk to you or help you—”
“You don’t need to help me, Deb—”
“Yes I do! I fucking do! Because our whole lives, you’ve always been the one who was there for me, through all of my shit and now—now you fucking need somebody. Ok? You fucking do,” she gestures at the trash, a convenient prop to make her point, before barrelling on. “And I’m sorry for freaking out on you—I was going to do this all fucking calm and collected or whatever—and be patient and shit. But I’m still me. So that was never going to work. I just—I need you to talk to me, Dex. Because you're—you're here but you're not here and—” she sighs, shoulders dropping, the rest coming out reluctant and sad, “—I don't know how to get you back.”
Dexter stares at the petal under the lamp.
That makes two of us.
The lamp beeps and he busies himself taking it out—listening as Deb takes a deep breath behind him, putting herself back together, wiping at her eyes and beneath her nose.
He doesn’t know what to say. His mind turns itself over and over, but without the option to lie—I’m right here—he just comes up blank. He clicks off the lamp.
You have to talk Dex, Harry’s voice echoes in his head—the real him—from Dexter’s memories, even when you don’t feel like it.
Gently, he starts peeling the petal out of the mold.
“Dexter.”
He runs his thumb over the new shiny surface—missing the delicate way it’d felt before.
“I—” He starts, feeling like there’s something lodged in his throat. He swallows. “It’s hard for me, Deb. You know that.”
“You have to try,” she pleads, and it’s like Harry’s right there saying it with her—and Dexter is five years old again and staring down at his hands, sinking into the cushions on the family couch, wishing he could disappear.
Except this isn’t Harry asking him why he doesn’t play with the other kids at school—or why he kicked Max on the playground—
Because Dexter is older now, and he’s done a lot worse than that. He’s felt a lot worse. He’s killed people, he’s hurt people. He’s a bad person—or he’s not really a person at all.
And Deb thinks she wants to hear about that—all the bad things in his head, but she doesn’t.
Harry used to make them play this game, when they were kids. Deb had this phase in middle school where she hated all of her friends, and apparently they hated her back. And she’d just talk shit about them, on and on, until one day Harry got sick of it and said, Ok Debra. From now on, you get one bad thing.
And he ended up making all of them do it, and Dexter usually lied on his turn—or made something up. But sometimes, later—on the porch or sitting in Harry’s truck—Harry would look at him and say it was ok to say the real bad thing. And Dexter would tell him. Only him.
He looks at Deb, thinking about all of the things he told Harry, that he could never tell her.
But Harry’s been dead for a long time, and even though the game mostly just exists now as a way to get him to shit talk LaGuerta when Deb’s tired of doing it on her own—C’mon, Dex, one bad thing—
Maybe, he could try. Maybe that's all she needs.
“One bad thing?” He asks, meeting her eyes.
Her lips quirk, a small smile that bleeds into the rest of her, relief sinking her back against the wall.
“Yeah,” she says, eyes softening. “One bad thing.”
He looks down at his hands, a bad thing already resting there in his palm. He turns the blue petal over a few times, smoothing his thumb over glossy resin. There’s so much red tape in his head, he doesn’t know where to start. So, he just speaks.
“I know you probably won’t believe me, but I really don’t think about the—” he pauses, her word for it feeling awkward in his mouth, “—altercation, all that much.”
“Ok,” she breathes. “That’s ok.”
“It’s more the—” he falters, realizing he’s actually about to say something honest, “—what happened before. The uh—stuff you said.”
Her expression is careful. “That you liked it?”
Heat blooms at the back of Dexter’s neck, and he realizes he’s feeling—really feeling—something he hadn’t meant to. He’d only meant to appease Deb, but now there’s this squirming sensation in him that just makes him want to be alone.
I told you to share your fake feelings with Debra, not your real ones, Harry’s voice in his head, Never your real ones.
“Shit,” he mutters, closing his eyes briefly, pressing his forehead against his fist—feeling like there was some sort of shock collar wrapped around his throat, triggered by crossing a line he hadn’t even known was there. “I’m sorry, actually—can we not talk about this? I know I just said I would—I just—” He breathes out, pulse quickening beneath his skin.
“Um—” God, he wants to die.
A door slams out in the bullpen, cutting through the sudden roar that had been happening in his head.
He and Deb look up through the blinds to see Captain Matthews storming out of the station. Another fight with LaGuerta about the Ice Truck Killer, probably. No leads in almost six weeks.
Dexter takes the moment to gather himself, to step back inside—away from whatever ledge he’d been toeing.
Deb speaks up, gently.
“I do want you to talk to me. But we don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to, Dex. I just want you to know—whatever you are—it’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with you. There’s nothing you could be that would turn me away.”
Dexter swallows—thinking about the way Brian looked at him in the garage, saying the same thing—but knowing the truth. He thinks about being held down by Fallon and liking it. He thinks about how Fallon kissed him, how he bit him and made it hurt. How he’d like that too.
And then he thinks about how killing Hendricks had felt like nothing—and how that awful feeling has been sitting in him all day and how he has this urge to kill—again and again and again—until it feels like it used to.
“Dexter.”
He looks back up, startled, lost in his head again. “Sorry.”
“It’s ok. You are ok. You got it?” Like she can just will it true.
If that were a possibility, Harry would’ve wished him into a real boy ten times over by now.
“Thanks, Deb.” He rubs his hands down his face, and finally—the tension begins to lift.
Out in the bullpen, he catches Doakes’ inquisitive glare and rolls his eyes. The familiar irritation is almost like a relief.
“Christ, what does he want?”
Deb follows his gaze, lips quirking up in the corner. “Is it too weird to think he just wants you to be ok?”
“Believe me, that’s not it.”
“I don’t know,” Deb muses. “He did punch a guy for you.”
Dexter’s tongue goes to his cheek, shaking his head. “Yeah, I think he just likes to punch, Deb.”
Deb shrugs. “Maybe. But I’m glad he did. Aren’t you?”
He doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t look like she was expecting him to.
They spend a few more minutes together making dinner plans, complaining about work. She seems lighter than before, the way people do when they’ve said the things they’ve been needing to say. Bolstered. And Dexter wants to feel that way, too—mended, put together—but he just doesn’t.
He squeezes the petal in his hand and tosses the rest of the flower in the trash.
— - -
Saturday morning, Dexter wakes up to cloudless, gray skies—Miami’s vibrancy desaturated into something quiet and reflective.
It’s nice not to have to go into the station today, but without it, he doesn’t really know what to do with himself.
Dinner with Deb last night had gone as well as it could. It felt sometimes, like talking with her was a skill he was having to re-learn, like something he used to be good at before, but then lost in some terrible accident. But, he owed it to her to try.
He had thought he was empty before—but he’s learning now that there is a difference between pleasantly empty and hollow. And that numbness is a different kind of empty entirely.
Brian killed Callahan to help him, and Dexter feels like all he’s done is waste it. He just keeps—
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, staring out at the ocean from his window. There are docks right outside his apartment, but a little further down there’s a long strip of beach—empty this early in the morning.
He decides to go for a run.
— - -
It’s chilly for Miami this early in the morning and the damp, salty breeze is harsh against his face as he runs alongside the water.
He’s close enough that the tide licks at his ankles when it washes in deep. He shouldn’t run so near to the ocean, but he wanted to be close to the sound of it—that great, violent, crash.
He’s on his seventh lap, up and down the shore, and there are alarm bells ringing in the back of his head, telling him he needs to stop—that he's pushing himself too hard—but nothing is louder than the ocean—than the gulls flying overhead, than ship horns blasting in the distance.
It drowns out the warnings in his head—that the burning pain in his lungs is nearing a threshold, that his heart isn’t built to beat this fast for this long, that he won’t be able to walk tomorrow if he tears up all the muscles in his calves.
But it’s only a body. The real him is—
He falters, breath finally catching. He keeps going, but the dam has already been broken.
Dex, Harry speaks to him. Dex, you need to stop, son.
Dexter keeps running.
You’re going to hurt yourself.
He winces as pain shoots up his calf, legs starting to feel heavy and wooden.
Dexter, Harry tries again. This isn’t something you can outrun. Killing Hendricks didn’t work. Do you really think this will?
Dexter tries to ignore him, but he sees it without meaning to—his knife plunging into Hendrick’s chest, the waiting, the terrible nothing that followed.
It should’ve worked, Dexter thinks—chest aching in a way that has nothing to do with his lungs. I did everything right. It should’ve—
Did you?
The tide surges on his left, tripping him momentarily, but he keeps running, feet pounding on the sand.
Harry’s trying to make him doubt himself—but all Dexter has ever tried to do is live by Harry’s code—to follow his rules—to do everything Harry ever asked of him.
You have to try, Dex. Even if you don't feel it, you have to try.
And Dexter had. He’d learned to smile on cue, to say the right things, to make people comfortable, even if he wasn’t. Harry might as well have taught him to breathe when he needed air—to drink when he was thirsty.
Maybe Hendricks hadn’t fit Harry’s code to the letter, but he was still a despicable, scum of the earth, child-abuser—Harry could hardly fault Dexter for that. One slip out of hundreds, out of decades, and it all falls apart?
He’d done everything right.
You know what you did, Dex, Harry says quietly. What you keep doing.
The burning in his lungs has gone past pain into something else, and he tries to ignore Harry. To focus on the feel of sand beneath his feet, the water as it washes in—
He thinks of Brian before he can stop himself—cruel and obsessive and manipulative and tender—who has Dexter’s blood, and his history, and his memories—who wears the truth out in the open in a way Harry never could.
There are no smiles Dexter has to force or emotions he has to fake to earn Brian’s devotion—it’s simply his. He thinks about how hard it was to speak to Deb—and he can only imagine how different it’d be with Brian.
Because there was no one bad thing with Brian.
Brian was made of bad things, hundreds of them, thousands—and he knew Dexter was, too. And Dexter didn’t have to measure them out in bits of relief here and there, whenever Brian was ready to hear them—because Brian would have them all.
He understands what Harry’s saying. That the slip he made was Brian. His moral failing of the highest degree. That everything he’s experiencing now is just punishment he could avoid if he’d just do the right thing.
But his mind flashes back to the kill—and he realizes with searing certainty—
If Brian had been there, it wouldn’t have felt empty at all.
The beach begins to blur around the edges as he runs—the water, the sand, the pale morning sky, all bleeding into each other. A burst of wind blows flecks of salt water into his eyes, but he doesn’t let it slow him down. He blinks, the water running down his face like tears.
He thinks about that stupid fantasy he used to tell Harry about—sailing out alone, nothing but silence and waves. And how he hadn’t understood why that made Harry so sad, but—
But he understands it now.
The clarity he’d been missing from the kill washes over him.
And he realizes—in a way that makes the earth tilt before him—what this wrongness inside him has been the entire time.
He’s so fucking lonely.
His legs give out beneath him and he crashes, hard—body rolling as his hands and knees skid painfully across rough, wet sand. He can feel where his skin has broken as salt water rushes into the wounds, stinging.
He curses, head hanging low, barely able to hold himself up on his hands and knees. His fists clench desperately in the sand, breaths coming in loud, shuddering gasps that burn on every inhale—that not even the ocean can drown out.
He curls into himself, feeling like it will never stop—missing his brother from a place in him so far back, it feels like a memory. A splinter from a forgotten childhood, that has slowly worked its way to the surface—infected, unable to stay buried any longer.
He has this ache in him that he can’t remember ever feeling before—a desire for someone to be there.
He thought missing Brian would just feel like missing Brian—but it isn’t like that at all. It bleeds. Into Deb. Into Harry—the real one—who might’ve lied to him his entire life, and kept him from his brother and the truth, and trained him like a dog—but at least he was there—
—and he thinks of Doakes—there that night at the club, there in the alley afterward, there whenever Dexter turned to look—
What the fuck, Dexter thinks, furiously, betrayal rushing through him, wanting Doakes out his head, hating that he’d thought of him at all. What the fuck, what the fuck—
Desperate enough for fucking anyone, he supposes, feeling pathetic and gross—
And he thinks about how Brian never would’ve come back if Dexter hadn’t been so stupid that night. How he might’ve waited weeks—maybe even months—
And now—now that it’s all done—now that Brian’s killed the man that hurt him, and framed another just so Dexter wouldn’t have to deal with the fallout—
How long will it take now?
A wave crashes over him, soaking him through to the bone, and he shakes and shakes. He would move, but he can’t feel his legs—only the burn where his cut up knees are digging into the sand.
He presses down deeper, pain skittering through him, and he thinks about doing it again.
Another club, another man with a temper—Dexter knows better than most how easy they are to find. He thinks about what he could let someone do to him, how much he’d let them hurt him—how much Brian would let someone hurt him—
He’d told Deb he hadn’t meant what he said—but maybe he really fucking did—
Jesus Christ.
He stops, squeezing his eyes tight enough to see spots. He shifts his weight back onto his ankles, pulling his knees as much as he can from the sand.
He can’t breathe.
It feels like loneliness is bursting at the seams inside him—growing and growing and growing, pressing his lungs into his ribs, and his heart up into his throat, and it’s growing so fast he thinks he might—
His hand slips in the sand where it’d been holding him up, but before he can pitch forward, strong arms wrap around him, dragging him back up to his knees.
He blinks, but there’s so much water in his eyes—so much—
He thinks someone is speaking to him, but it’s muffled—it’s coming to him down a long tunnel.
“…gan…Morgan...breathe…”
He jerks back when he realizes who it is.
“No,” he manages, attempting to scramble away. Not getting very far. “No, no, no.”
Doakes comes after him on instinct, but stops himself. He puts up his hands. Doesn’t touch him. But he doesn’t leave either.
“Leave me alone,” Dexter gasps, over and over, eyes trained on the sand and the water beneath him, blurry through the spots in his eyes. He keeps saying it until the words no longer mean anything to him.
“Ok,” Doakes says, but he doesn’t move from Dexter’s side.
He keeps saying it, again and again—and Dexter realizes that he can feel a heartbeat beneath his fingers, a rising chest beneath his hand. He’d grabbed Doakes, meaning to push him away—and had held on instead.
He stares at his own hand, clenched in the fabric of Doakes’ shirt, and he lets the solid weight of the other man ground him.
He doesn’t let go for a long time.
— - -
Afterwards, he lets Doakes lead him back up the beach.
He’s slow and weak, and he doubts he’ll be able to walk tomorrow, or even the day after, but at least he can breathe again. The sun breaks through the clouds, bright and warm, and by the time they make it up the dune, their clothes have already dried.
Doakes insists on bandaging up his knees and treating the abrasions on his palms, but Dexter doesn’t want to let him into his apartment. He expects Doakes to snap, but he just says okay, and leads Dexter to his car instead.
He has an entire kit in his trunk, which Dexter guesses makes sense for a military man. He opens the passenger door and has Dexter sit there, feet on the ground outside. He rifles through the kit until he finds what he needs.
“You want to do this yourself?”
Dexter nods, holding his hand out. But when he tries to open the disinfectant, his hands are too weak to even twist the cap. Doakes takes it from him without a word, along with the knee wrap and the gauze and kneels in front of him on the pavement.
He’s surprisingly gentle and Dexter can feel his eyelids growing heavy as he watches him work. Quietly, without a word. Focused. Methodical. He takes his time.
“Hands.”
Dexter opens his eyes, realizing he’d drifted off. He turns his hands palm side up and offers them to Doakes, too. His knees are wrapped tightly now, the wind no longer smarting against the open cuts. Doakes even took care to clean up the blood that had slid down to his ankles.
Doakes inspects his hands, choosing the right one first, where the abrasions are angrier. He’s just as methodical as before, carefully rinsing out the sand and dirt, before disinfecting and applying a cream Dexter doesn’t really know the purpose of, but feels nice regardless.
Dexter quietly goes boneless against the seat as Doakes moves on to his other hand. He traces Dexter’s scar once before stopping himself, abruptly. He looks up at Dexter for his reaction, but Dexter can barely keep his eyes open. He doesn’t say anything and Doakes goes back to work.
Dexter’s eyes slip closed again, and he basks in the sun which has turned the gloomy morning into something warm and breezy. At the other end of the lot, someone’s got their radio on, playing Radiohead through tinny speakers. And back closer to his apartment, he can hear wind chimes knocking softly together in the wind.
The steady, careful press of Doakes' thumb moving across his palm—pressing gently along the lines of it, checking for anything he might have missed—is the last thing he feels before he drifts.
— - -
When Dexter wakes up, it’s to the quiet, barely-there, hum of the radio. Some kind of sports coverage, but Dexter couldn’t say who. The car rocks gently as it glides, windows down, smooth and fast, through the night. Shadows and yellow light dance across the dashboard as streetlights go by.
Doakes is looking out at the road, steering with one hand, holding a burger in the other. He fiddles with the radio before noticing Dexter’s awake.
“Sleep good?”
Dexter frowns and asks why Doakes didn’t wake him up. Doakes just shrugs and reaches into a bag, pulling out another burger. He hands it to Dexter and says he’ll drive him home now.
Dexter eats quietly, going faster when he realizes how hungry he is. How nice it is to have an appetite again. When he finishes the burger, he feels like he could eat two more.
He lays back in his seat, looking out the window. Marsh and saltwater grass stretch out for miles on either side of the road. They’re all the way out in the Everglades.
“So, you just drove around all day?”
Doakes doesn’t respond, just looks at him and shrugs again. Like it’s not worth talking about. He points at a second drink in the center console.
“Got you a drink, too.”
— - -
Even though he’d apparently slept all day, Dexter is still exhausted when Doakes drops him off.
“Here, let me help you.”
Doakes makes a move to grab him, but Dexter pulls back, telling him he can manage on his own. Doakes stops and says Okay—as he’s been doing all day. But Dexter catches the annoyed twitch of his mustache—just a small glimpse of the sergeant Dexter is used to—and finds himself reluctantly amused.
— - -
There’s a package waiting for him on his kitchen counter when Dexter lets himself into his apartment. He supposes he isn’t entirely surprised, but his tired heart limps up into his throat regardless. He picks up the letter first, chest tightening when he sees his name, this time.
Dexter—
I saw you on the beach this morning. I've spent all day thinking about what would push you to do something like that. And I’ve spent even longer thinking of ways to make sure you never do it again. But maybe I’m the one to blame.
I realize now how abandoned you must feel. You must think I’m never coming back for you. But I am. I can’t tell you when, but you must know it is all I think about.
I thought I could give you something to tide you over—to remind you that you’re not alone. I found these at our father's house the week before you showed up to clean it out. Surprise—he didn't die of a heart attack.
Hold out for me a little longer, and be good Dexter. Please.
—Biney
P. S - Call me when you’re ready.
Dexter sets down the letter and opens the box. A burner phone and an envelope sit inside, innocently, without fanfare. He flips the phone open and finds a single number in the contacts. His thumb taps against the call button, but he doesn’t press.
He turns the envelope over and reads the label: Laura and the kids—Summer—1973
—-
He calls Brian an hour later.
The phone rings and all he can see is him and Brian, laughing with ice cream smeared on their faces—sprawled on the couch, eyes bright and hands tangled together—his mother, hugging him close to her in the garden—the three of them squished together on the porch swing—
Memories rush in like a flood—the bear with the missing eye, the toy car Brian fixed with toothpicks and tape—
“Hey, little brother.”
His throat goes dry. He hasn’t heard Brian’s voice in six weeks.
“I—” He opens his mouth to speak, but finds that he can’t.
“Dexter?”
Dexter just breathes, ragged into the phone. An exhale that will have to speak for him. It’s been a long day.
“It’s ok,” Brian says, voice soft. He understands. “You don’t have to say anything.”
So, Dexter doesn’t. But he doesn’t hang up either. He sits with the phone to his ear, listening to Brian. His soft, even breathing.
He falls asleep with the phone pressed to his ear.