Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Things were going. 

It had now been almost six months since Dexter’s abduction. It was strange, to say the least. In some ways, the trauma had lessened and the memories had taken on a dull sheen to them. In other ways, some things were still unbearable, and Dexter had not been intimate with anyone since the attack. 

Not even Rita. Especially not Rita. 

He could see that their breakup had taken a toll on Rita, and in some way, Dexter regretted it. However, there was no way he could or would be her boyfriend. After their breakup, Dexter had faced innumerable questions about it by Deb, as well as constant pressure and guilt-tripping from her to get back with Rita. 

If one put aside the fact that Dexter was not good for Rita, there was also the irrevocable fact that he was changed. He’d been planning to call Rita before his abduction, but the subsequent events had made the mere thought of it unbearable. 

Try as he might, Dexter could not deal with her kindness and her gentle eyes. Somewhere inside him, he was afraid she would see right through him. And even more when she would see the poorly reconstructed facsimile of him that remained. 

He could not deal with physical touch, and much less intimacy. 

He had learned to suppress the shudder when someone put a hand on his shoulder; he had learned to hide the flinch when a passerby brushed his arm; he had learned to lean into Debra’s hugs instead of refusing them; he had learned to repress the burning desire to defend himself when someone surprised him. 

He had not learned to allow someone else’s touch to linger on his skin; he had not learned to get used to someone else’s lips, or someone else’s hands on his hips; he had not learned to touch himself without feeling the slightest hint of shame; he had not learned to muffle his cries as he fought the ghosts in his sleep.

He didn’t need pity, he needed to move on.

So he did.

Current affairs at the Miami Metro PD were calm. There had been no recent leads on the Bay Harbor Butcher, and the lack of suspicious happenings pointing to said serial killer’s activity caused most of the investigation to grind to a halt.

A lot of it had been Dexter’s doing. He’d been more careful in the months leading up to the abduction, especially with the investigation, and he’d done a bloody good job. 

(Bloody was one word for it.)

If he had been motivated by caution before, the lack of killings after his abduction had been motivated by a profound lack of need. Where the Dark Passenger usually screamed in his mind at him to kill, thirsty and indomitable, it was strangely silent ever since that evening. 

Of course, it was still there, lurking in his mind and snapping at people who were too annoying, but the pangs of need had become more tolerable than before. It seemed like all Dexter needed was to get raped one more time for the Dark Passenger to die for good.

Right. 

In a way, though, Dexter had lost even more control. He had developed, due to the unfortunate incident, very specific tastes which could not be sated with his usual pick of dealers and murderers. No, the Dark Passenger now requested rapists, molesters, and any of their garden varieties. 

Nevermind that the Dark Passenger killed them with less cool than before, often taking full control of Dexter and violently ending their lives. He’d had, more than once, to erase evidence from the place he held his victims in just because the Dark Passenger was overenthusiastic in its killing. 

Nevermind, then, that Dexter could not fully separate his victim from his two attackers. More than once, he’d looked at them and imagined their faces in a snarl. More than once, he’d had to let the Dark Passenger take control because it was the only way he could retain whatever sliver of control he had over his memories. 

Recent violent killings by an individual nicknamed the Shepherd Killer had taken up most of the Miami PD’s time. There was no reason for the nickname, other than the fact that of the killer’s five known victims, three of them were related. 

Sarah, Jocelyn and Elise Shepherd. The first two were sisters, and the last one had been their cousin. Investigators had thought that their familiars proximity would be a deciding factor in finding the culprit, but when one, and then another unrelated victim bearing the same MO had shown up, that was a shortcut the Miami PD could no longer make. 

It appeared to be an unlucky coincidence, seeing that they all lived in the same area, but somehow Dexter wasn’t so sure. However, weeks of investigation into the three victims’ family and friends had not given up anything substantial, and even if a piece of information showed up, it was always useless for the current investigation. 

Dexter should not be on the case, but there was nothing he could do to change that. Nobody knew that he had almost been a victim of the Shepherd killers, and if he had it his way, nobody would know.

While Dexter knew that the Shepherd Killer was actually two people, there was no way he could just say that without proof. Attributing it to his instinct would only bring undue attention, especially for a case to which he was so intimately involved with. While he did want to bring the perpetrators to justice, he was just doing his job, and it didn’t make sense for him to risk his hide like that. 

He had been a victim, but he wasn’t stupid either. 

Doakes was somewhat calmer now, even if he did still try to get under Dexter’s skin from time to time. His taunts, however, felt hollow. It was maybe cliché to say that after his assault, nothing could compare, but it was somewhat close to the truth. That is to say, they were still annoying and Dexter very much felt like he could kill Doakes at times, but they did not impact him as much. 

There was one caveat, though.

James Doakes was an observant man, and you did not suddenly lose that sense of observation simply because your target had had a bad time. The small changes in Dexter’s posture and gait—things Dexter was very much aware of, and perhaps a little self conscious about—did not escape the aggressive sergeant. 

“I don’t know what’s up with you, Morgan, but you’re suspicious as fuck about it,” He told Dexter one day, completely out of the blue. 

Dexter tilted his head, analyzing the situation that wasn’t exactly ideal. He…didn’t know what to respond to such an open act of aggression. Before, he would have replied with sarcasm, but the statement was so out of the blue, and perhaps too personal to treat the same way he treated everything else. 

He did not realize he had taken that long to think when Doakes looked at him with a frustrated and smug look in his eyes, “Stay silent all you want Morgan, but I know you’re hiding something. And I’ll be damned if I don’t catch you in the act.”

Fuck you. He thought, unwilling to voice out his thoughts. He thought of killing James Doakes. Very violently. But just as the thought crystallized, just as he could feel the knife in his hands pierce the man’s throat, the thought died a quick and painful death. He could entertain the thought, but he would string it dry and leave nothing but tiredness. Now, his bloodlust only came when he thought of the worst men—those who’d done the same thing he’d suffered. 

It was strange, but he missed that bloodlust. He missed the independence and the power he had over his emotions and the people he imagined killing. Now, though, he had none of that, and had even lost more. He was cursing at the sergeant for a different reason—a reason that was completely unrelated, but a reason which Doakes constantly seemed to bring to the forefront of Dexter’s mind. 

What was even worse was that the things he could normally brush off became unbearable to the point of creating fractures in his carefully constructed identity of an unflappable Dexter. 

Dexter had always spent most of his time alone, and Vince Masuka had become an annoying, if bearable part of his work. Every day, without fail, that man would find new ways to entertain Dexter or make him a little uncomfortable with his crass and borderline insulting jokes. 

He had always been able to take those jokes, and even if they did cross the line of public acceptance, Dexter could not care less. Sure, Masuka sometimes infuriating, but he could handle him pretty well on good days.

On bad days, it was the contrary. He could barely contain the bloodlust and the burning desire to just fuck everything up, just to shut him up. On bad days, now, Dexter wanted nothing less than to kill him violently and make him stop—make him take back all those comments. 

He was not petty or vindictive. 

He was just traumatized, and every small comment grated at hi, ate him up like the big ocean nipped away at the cliffs. Every small comment reminded him of the shame and the humiliation, and the “You love this, sweetheart, don’t you? How can you not when you make these kinds of sounds?”, and Harry’s “Those goddamn faggots, always showing off their unnaturalness”, and the way a tongue slipped at his neck and hips and mouth to make way for hands or maybe a knife carving that one word over and over again in the walls of his soul, and he would wake up, thrashing and with a scream dying on his lips, a and how one time—the only time—he had fallen asleep touching Deb during one of their movie nights, he’d had to stifle his pleas and bite his tongue to make himself feel anything other than the touch of skin. 

Dexter tried to hide it, but he must not have done a good job of it, or maybe Masuka was able to recognize that look of discomfort, because the comments had seemed to double in frequency and intensity. Masuka would often send a smirk his way and shrug when Dexter tried his best to steer the conversation away from those topics. 

Dexter had taken it up to a certain point. 

He had been working on a separate case, helping out for the analysis on a particularly interesting crime. He was already deep in the grove, even humming to himself occasionally, and in general having a good time. 

Well. He should have expected what came next because good things don’t last and life is shit. 

Well. More or less. Maybe very much, actually, considering the events six months prior. 

Someone had entered his lab, and Dexter knew that it was Masuka. He sighed, prepared himself, and pointedly ignored him. But he could not deny the way his mind drifted off, building walls around itself in anticipation—and that in spite of that, he was still surprised when Masuka spoke.

“Oh, you’re working on that case, huh? It’s an interesting one, no? I mean, I could look at those pictures for hours,” He said, a smirk on his face and his tone letting Dexter know what he really meant. It was unnecessary for him to then add, “I know she’s a victim, but damn with a body like that, it’s no surprise she ended up—”

Something in Dexter snapped a little.

Even if this homicide case had little to do with Dexter’s own situation, the mere idea of blaming a victim for an obviously unrelated crime was too much. He did not consider himself morally superior, and he would be the last person to judge someone for their morally grey actions. He did not, and yet he found himself getting up, heart beating frantically and murder at the tip of his tongue. 

He found the Dark Passenger speaking before he could do anything to preserve a semblance of normalcy. 

“Out,” He bit out, eyes blazing. 

Masuka was shocked, almost as shocked as Dexter himself, “Wh—sorry? You know, this is my lab too, Dexter, right?”

He knew and he did not care. He flexed his hands and bit the inside of his cheeks. “Get. Out. Masuka.”

The man did not move, and Dexter—he felt the same helplessness and he wondered, in a different world, if Masuka would not be one of the men hurting him. 

“Uuuh—No? Sorry—”

Those words. He heard them, and then he felt the touch of a man who’d grown attached to the very thing he had sought to break. 

Dexter stalked up to Masuka and, before he could even comprehend what he was doing, pushed him violently. The man put up little resistance, and fell to the ground. 

“GET. THE FUCK. OUT.”

By then, all eyes were on them. Dexter was breathing heavily, murder in his eyes. He could sense Masuka’s fear, but the shadow of his assault hung over him. His mask was slipping. 

Laguerta was stalking towards them, eyes shining with frustration. Dexter did not want to do this. He turned around, not even giving a confused Masuka a glance before retreating to this lab and closing the door—

Only to be stopped by the boots of a certain lieutenant. Dexter did not fight. He let go of the door and, with his back to the wall, leaned against the table, trying to recompose himself. 

He sighed, suddenly exhausted from the exertion. Laguerta looked at him with concern in his eyes, and he hated that. He felt so small. 

“Dexter…is everything alright?” She sidled up to him, her perfume wafting up his nose. Dexter had listened to Deb’s complaints about Laguerta, and how she supposedly had a thing for Dexter. He’d never given it a second thought, but the thought seemed undeniable now. 

Her perfume was too sweet, her eyes were too kind, her voice was soft in a sort of saccharine way that made him want to throw up. 

“Yeah,” He managed to let out, warily keeping an eye on her. “It’s just…Masuka. You know how he is.”

She looked at him again with doe eyes. She was trying to help, wasn’t she? Well, Dexter didn’t need her help. 

“You’ve worked for years, and I’ve never seen you like this before…” She trailed off, eyes searching for something Dexter could not bother to fake. 

His blood was running short, and frankly, he could not deal with this. “Well God forbid I change my mind, Lieutenant! That man,” He bit out, pointing at the closed door and raising his voice, “Is a fucking nuisance, and I just wish he could let me work in peace without his stupid fucking comments every ten seconds!” 

He…was not okay. This incident had taken more out of him than it should have, and Dexter knew exactly why. Things were changing, and it scared him. How could he keep the charade up 24-7 if he reacted to tiny things like this? 

Laguerta seemed to sense this, and in a misguided attempt, to comfort him, approached his hand to his forearm. Dexter had been watching her, so he deftly moved out of the way, but he was sure she noticed. Either way, she seemed insistent on comforting him when her touch was the last thing he could tolerate. 

“Okay. I will talk to Masuka, but try to be more civil next time,” She spoke, seemingly peeved that he had tried to avoid her. None of them spoke for a moment, and then she left. Outside, Dexter could faintly hear Masuka complain about Dexter, but he paid no attention to those small snippets of conversation. 

He dearly hoped that this wouldn’t put Masuka on his tail for some reason or another. As much as he disliked the man’s personality, he could objectively see his work for what it was: damn good. 

The next time they were at a crime scene, though, the mood was almost the same. Everybody was conducting themselves with professionalism, and Dexter could almost think that nothing had happened at all.

Almost. 

Needless to say, everything was different now, and they all knew it. Deb did, in the way her gaze sometimes softened when she looked at him; Laguerta did, in the way she would approach Dexter, offering her shoulder to him; Masuka did, in the way he would say his jokes in a low voice whenever Dexter was around, even if he did not change them whatsoever; Doakes did, in the way he would look at Dexter like he was a puzzle to be figured out. 

Things were going, but Dexter could taste the turmoil every time he rode his boat onto Miami Bay and gazed into the dark and uncaring waters. 

A storm was brewing on the horizon, and Dexter did not know what to do other than pretend.

[…]

“Masuka, Morgan! We have a homicide on the docks. One of the disused hangars,” Laguerta said suddenly, bringing Dexter out of his reverie. 

He had this sinking feeling in his stomach when she mentioned a hangar. It could be any other hangar, it could be completely unrelated, it could be a fluke or even a mistake. 

It could be anything else—but why did Dexter have the feeling that it wasn’t? 

He asked Debra to drive, and she obliged. Masuka was in the back of the car, silent and slightly jittery. As he watched the docks get closer and closer, Dexter could almost see the crime scene with a premonitorial clarity. He did not recognize the buildings around him, but then again it had been dark outside and he hadn’t exactly been conscious nor in any state to do reconnaissance.  

The air got thicker as they approached, bathed in the faint sounds of police sirens and people milling about the crime scene like ants. That did little to comfort Dexter, who, as soon as he got out of the car, recognized the hangar. 

It was not bad luck, he thought with a hollow laugh, it was simply inevitable. He did not know which body he would find there, and although he dearly hoped it was Short, something told him that it was not. All he could do was hope that most of his blood, sweat and semen had been wiped from the crime scene like the Shepherd killers had been known to do.

He could not explain the presence of his DNA on this crime scene without implicating himself either as a victim or as a perpetrator. He wondered if people really thought he was capable of sexual violence. He never thought that he gave off those looks, but then again people were known to change once a seed of suspicion was planted.

The sky was an unhappy grey when he got out. Numbly, he followed Deb across the parking lot and into the scene where he could see Laguerta conversing with another member of the police force. 

“—the body. We’ll have to get a coroner’s report, but I’m pretty sure it’s the Shepherd Killer,” She was saying.

That made Dexter do a double take. So they had left a body—a victim’s body, by the sound of it—near or at one of their previous crime scenes. He had never considered that before, and he wondered if this was simply a one-off thing or if it was part of their MO.

He didn’t want to think that he was somehow special. The Dark Passenger laughed dryly at the irony, and Dexter could not help the chuckle that left his lips. 

Luckily nobody noticed it, too engrossed by the crime scene. 

The hangar doors were open, and the inside was delimited by police tape. There was a naked body.

As he got closer, the memories came back with full force. 

Scream for me, baby. A hand wandering all over him and in him, drawing out with twisted pleasure nothing but humiliation and shame. A body against his, biting and clawing—the sound of flesh and hips snapping against his backside. A voice screaming and whispering in his ear—oh yes baby please you love this so much.

His step faltered. He took in a shaky breath, fighting the tide. He could do it. It was nothing. They couldn’t get him. They were not here with him, whispering and hurting—

He was thankfully interrupted and drawn out of his panic attack by the sound of Masuka saying “Damn…”

And, well, he wasn’t even that out of hand at this instant. He really was just voicing what everyone thought, because… well… it was carnage. 

There was blood on the floor, all dried up but still vibrant against the dull grey of concrete. There was a chair, the same chair Dexter remembered, and if he closed his eyes just long enough, he could remember the way it bit into his flesh. There was also a toppled over table with surgical instruments littering the floor. Surgical and others. 

Forensic had begun numbering the evidence, but the bulk of the police force was around the body.

Her skin wore death’s pallor, and the way her body slumped against the chair, only tied by plastic restraints, was almost comical. She had obviously tried to fight back, and her wrists were raw with proofs of her struggle. Her body was also a map of suffering and her face was twisted in a desperate cry. 

There was no peace to be had, though, because still in death she would not be laid to rest. There would be the pictures of bruises, cuts and bites. There would be the autopsy and the inevitable words—the inevitable but accurate painting of hours of beatings and rape. There would be a call to parents and a futile attempt at gathering DNA. 

He felt slightly sick when he looked at her body. She was a different victim, but somehow, the fact that she was in the same place he’d suffered in made everything different. There was a certain beauty to her, a certain indescribable aura of shattered hopes emanating from her corpse. 

Had he looked so broken, on that chair in the hangar and at their mercy?

And then for a moment, he was not there. He was with them and their bodies were so close, so achingly warm and violent, their hands drawing out unwanted sounds of pleasure from his tormented body. He was once again all theirs—theirs to torture and ruin. There was a voice in his ear whispering its sick pleasure and making him forget his name, offering a pitiful ecstasy in exchange for his autonomy. 

You love this so much, don’t you, little slut?

He stumbled ever so slightly as his camera flickered to life. He inhaled sharply, and he was hit by the usual stench of rotting flesh. 

Nobody noticed him—except one James Doakes.

As soon as Dexter had made that false move, Doakes had looked him up and down, as if hoping for a revelation. He would find none, but Dexter thought that he was a little too tense and a little too bothered. He stood there for a moment to gather his thoughts—

“You alright there, Morgan?” He asked, although not out of concern but out of malice. “You seem a little…pale. This bring back any memories?” He finished with a smirk and suspicion clear in his eyes. Normally, Dexter would say something, anything. It had almost become a game for Dexter. See how far he could get Doakes to go until Laguerta or Deb inevitably interfered.

Admittedly, it was not a smart thing to do with the one man who saw the most out of the entire police depertment combined. Admittedly, he’d enjoyed it in the past. The game of cat and mouse was a change from the usual monotony, and James Doakes was an occasionally fascinating.

“Nope. Just the smell,” He said tightly. He did not fight like he normally would, instead choosing to retreat—a tactic he’d used in most of his confrontations with Doakes in the past six months. 

Retreat, don’t reveal anything and repeat. 

He walked away from Doakes and towards the blood stains around the body. She’d been slashed in the throat, most likely in a hurry. It was risky, of course, but looking at her body, even if she had somehow been able to escape, she wouldn’t have put up much of a fight. She’d bled out on the cold concrete, alone and in pain, with the knowledge that she couldn’t do anything about it. 

From the looks of it, this was probably Tall’s work. Dexter wasn’t so sure about what happened to Short following the confrontation between both serial killers, but he didn’t dare hope that he’d died. Her nails were scrubbed clean, and even though her body showed evidence of sexual assault, Dexter could bet that they wouldn’t find any DNA evidence on her body. That was a marker of Tall’s work, Dexter could confidently say. It was clear to him now that Short was an initiate, while Tall was the more experienced one. 

However, Dexter did find some interesting blood stains a couple feet away. They were faint in normal light, almost as if they had been cleaned out, but under UV light, it was apparent that there had been a confrontation. Dexter knew that it was Tall stabbing Short and the ensuing struggle. He did not kid himself, however, because he knew that he was most likely still alive. 

He snapped pictures of it, and reconstructed the scene. It seemed like Tall had escaped mostly unscathed, considering Short’s blood trail that stopped abruptly and pooled not far from the hangar door. He did not, however, know what happened after that. 

He heard Masuka’s voice ring out against the hangar’s tinny insides. “Got you, motherfucker!”

He turned around and walked slowly, steadily, towards the rapidly growing crowd of officers.

“Yo, Dexter, guess who had their fun?” Masuka said when Dexter approached him through the sea of officers. He waved a gloved hand holding a dirty and bloody cloth. It was slightly crusty, and it took Dexter a second to comprehend.

“You have got here your prime piece of DNA evidence. Someone,” He said wiggling his eyebrows, “Is gonna have it coming.” He ended with a sly grin.

Dexter started photographing the blood and the surrounding scene. There wasn’t much for him, however, so it seemed like he could only stay there and try to survive Masuka’s distasteful jokes. 

“Damn,” The balding man said upon further inspection. “From the amount of jizz on this, looks like she was a good—”

Dexter turned around sharply, a glare in his eyes and fury in his voice. “Do you really have to fucking do this now, Masuka?”

“Dude, chill! I’m just…” He waved his arms unhelpfully. 

“Just come here, Masuka,” Laguerta’s voice rang out. He snorted derisively and threw Dexter a dirty glare, taking the rag in the evidence bag with him.

Dexter sighed. This was not ideal. He simply hoped that whatever the Shepherd Killers had done to clean up their DNA also applied to his. Otherwise, he would be having some serious issues.

[…]

Back at Miami Metro, they were back at the drawing board. Newspaper snippets and crime scene pictures littered the cork wall. 

Dexter was in the room with Debra, Masuka, Laguerta, Angel and Doakes, as well as one other officer who was busy wheeling in today’s evidence. 

“So. Victim number six pops up. Same MO, same type of victim, we can confidently assume it’s the Shepherd Killer,” Laguerta said. “Morgan, what can you tell us about the victim.”

 “Female, early to late twenties, Caucasian, seems to have died of blood loss from a blade wound to the carotid artery. She was found naked, showing signs of sexual assault and beatings both pre-mortem. There are no current leads on who she is, but she’s in a pretty good shape so I expect we’ll find her soon enough in the missing persons report or by DNA testing.”

“And what about the crime scene, Dexter?”

He swallowed and blinked before getting into the preliminary analysis he’d been able to make. “So, for the blood near the body, it’s definitely consistent with a blade wound and the victim subsequently bleeding out. The method of killing, though, doesn’t really match previous scenes. If I had to guess, I would say that the killer was probably in a hurry.”

Laguerta hummed pensively, while Doakes let out a snort and crossed his arms all while looking at Dexter with suspicion. “Of course that would be his guess,” He muttered under his breath even though everyone could hear it.

“As for the blood in the other area of the hangar, I believe it is indicative of a struggle. Considering the amount of blood that was cleaned, I think that it’s not the victim’s blood…” Dexter trailed off, trying to get the others to reach the same conclusion he knew was right. 

“Get to it, Morgan. Spill the fucking beans,” Doakes spat out aggressively.

“Well, if we consider the fact that the blood and the DNA on the victim was obviously cleaned, we can conclude that whoever did it was feeling good enough. And I think that if it was our victim, she would not have been able to bleed so substantially around where her body was. And if it was our perpetrator, I believe we would have found more DNA on the victim. In addition, the table being overturned as well as the various objects around it are indicative of a struggle. Since the victim and the perpetrator did not fight, then there must obviously be another one,” Dexter said with finality. “It’s not the Shepherd Killer. It’s the Shepherd Killers.”

Silence. Silence all around. Deb and Laguerta looked troubled and pensive, while Masuka and Batista were nodding. Doakes, as expected, jumped on the opportunity the harass Dexter again for a perfectly reasonable conclusion. 

“Ain’t that a little far-fetched, Morgan? How come you seem so familiar with the scene, huh? You got somethin’ to tell us? Insider’s knowledge, perhaps?”

Dexter snorted and kept his cool. He was unflappable, having recovered from his previous moment of weakness. 

“I’m just making a logical conclusion, Sergeant. Sorry, is helping advance an active investigation beyond my pay grade?” Dexter said sarcastically.

“Being a fucking creep is!” He whirled around at Laguerta. “Maria, don’t you see how this guy acts all the time? Don’t you see how his ‘valuable insights’ can only come from someone familiar with being a fucking perp?”

“Whoa, back down, Doakes!” Shouted Deb with narrowed eyes. “You imply something about my brother again and I’ll make you eat your words!” 

Laguerta clapped her hands suddenly, letting out a disappointed sigh. “James, please. And Dexter,” She whirled around to look at him insistently. “Thank you for your insight, but please don’t encourage this childish behavior. And Morgan—no infighting, please. Let’s all focus on the case.” 

Dexter could feel Deb’s anger at the unfairness, but thankfully she did not say anything. 

Masuka stepped forward, presenting the bag containing the rag. 

“We did some preliminary analyses on the rag, mostly on what’s on it, and I can say with confidence that this has some really solid DNA evidence. We found a bunch of blood—type O-plus, so that doesn’t give us much help—and semen. It looks like the Shepherd Killers,” And the use of plural did not fall unnoticed to all of them. “Used this rag to wipe away traces of their crime. If we can identify who this semen belongs to, then we can find who the killers are. And there’s a lot of genetic material here.”

Laguerta nodded, and gestured for him to continue. “Again, there’s little to no DNA evidence on the body to find the perpetrators, but this girl seems to have suffered less than the other victims, so I’m not sure what’s up with her.”

Deb spoke up, “Could be that she was special. Maybe they knew her.”

“Nah,” Said Doakes. “With how they left the victim’s body—and I mean with easily identifiable—I don’t think the killer would be so foolish.”

“Well, I’m not so sure on the exact dates, but I’m pretty sure the altercation happened before the victim’s murder—maybe even before she was kidnapped. Maybe only one of them was involved this time.”

Dexter had a flash of inspiration as he pulled up pictures of the multiple surgical wounds littering the victim’s body. “These wounds are much more apparent on this victim, and it took me a while to realize why. If you look at the others, you can see they’re there, but that they’re obscured by bruises and bites. I think our perpetrators have personalities.”

He the pulled up a picture of the bites and the bruises in victim number 2. “If you look her, the bruises are very messy and often vary greatly in depth. “Perpetrator number one is short-tempered and probably new to this. He’s much more emotional and prone to falling prey to his passion. He’s your typical sexual deviant and predator. Perpetrator number two, however, is much more cold and precise. Most likely, he is the one doing the surgical cuts. He’s probably a psychopath with sadistic tendencies. His involvement with sexual crimes is most likely related to his need to torture someone. Without the presence of perp number one, he was able to do admire his work. That’s why our victim is so clean.” 

Laguerta nodded, all while Doakes snorted and muttered something akin to “Clean, my ass.” under his breath. 

“Vince, how quickly can you get the DNA on the rag?” 

“Uh, with the backlog of lab work I’m doing right now, probably two weeks? But if I put it at top priority, probably three days tops.”

“Okay. Three days, and then we’ll catch this bastard.” 

Something in Dexter was afraid, and he just hoped that everything wouldn’t come crashing down at the same time.

[…]

Two days later, Dexter entered the precinct with a box of donuts in hand. His time had been occupied with writing the report about the crime scene he’d just visited, as well as preparing to be a witness for another case in court.

Just as he passed security, they turned to him. His blood froze, and with it, his step. 

Their faces with a mix of angry, serious and disgusted. They looked at each other, and one of them took the box of donuts from his hand and put it to the side, not turning his back to Dexter, who was presently confused and dreading what they would say next. 

He knew what was going to happen.

One of them approached him from the back, cuffs in hand. He put his hand on his shoulder just as Dexter raised his hands in the air. The unwelcome and rough touch made him almost flinch. He bit the inside of his cheek to ground himself. The pain was almost welcome in the tide of panic and the rushed flow of thoughts and plans constructing themselves only to be choked by the memories that assailed him.

A pair of hands pushed him against the nearest wall. He braced himself for the impact, and when the officer put his foot between his legs, brushing slightly against the back of his thigh, he could not stop a visible flinch and a protest forming at the tip of his tongue. His voice was nothing but panic as he said, “Wait no—”

And then it fell with the toll of a bell in the courtyard announcing another victim of the plague, announcing death’s scythe readying to cull the ones soon to hang from their necks, their profoundly and evidently damning sentencing.

“Dexter Morgan, you are arrested for the murder and rape of Courtney Polaski. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to talk to a lawyer for advice before we ask you any questions. You have the right to have a lawyer with you during questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you before any questioning if you wish. If you decide to answer questions now without a lawyer present, you have the right to stop answering at any time.”

Silence. The world stopped for a second to look at Dexter and his tense, fraught form. The sun glared at him and the wind brushed against him with an angry noise. The world stopped, and everybody looked at him with renewed disgust.

Nevermind that he was supposed to be considered innocent until proven guilty—he could already see it in their eyes, in the way they told themselves ‘I always knew there was something off about him’, in the way they whispered between themselves, and in the way their eyes roved over him. 

Nevermind that the very accusation hit him like a truck and took the wind out of him. It killed him, hit him right where it hurt the most, and almost made him laugh. He’d never been the type, and frankly Dexter didn’t think he had that sort of air around him. 

Nevermind that the irony of it all was resounding and so, so bitter. He knew that he shouldn’t speak, and most importantly of all, he knew that they had already made their minds about him. His years of service and his carefully—painstakingly—constructed facade meant nothing in the face of sheer human disgust and indignation. 

One of the officers holding him closed the elevator doors. The air was thick with tension and their barely concealed disgust. Thankfully, they managed to keep some semblance of professionalism in front of him, because otherwise—Dexter wasn’t so sure how he would react. 

A laugh, a scoff, any single noise could sway them in the wrong direction. 

It was a good thing, then, that Dexter was good at muffling his cries. 

The doors opened, and then he was paraded through the precinct, one slow step at a time. In the end, it was a deliberate choice, and there was no doubt in his mind that by doing so, they were making sure everybody knew of his supposed involvement. 

He catalogued the reactions and found more disgust, mild curiosity and indignation. There were some glances at his workstation, which was decorated with pictures of blood spatters, and the subsequent realization. The way they looked at him—like he was a freak, exactly like Doakes looked at him—was not new, but it was unusual. It was disconcerting, and Dexter wasn’t sure that he would get used to it. 

He wondered if that was how they would look at him if they knew he was the Bay Harbour Butcher. 

The officers holding him were close, and they did not care for his discomfort. They did not care for his minute reactions and the unwilling flinches they brought out when their legs brushed his. They did not care, and Dexter could not fault them. 

As they approached the room where Dexter could hear Laguerta’s voice, and see Deb, Masuka, Doakes and Batista, he had the distinct feeling that he would not like this. 

He was not worried about Masuka or Batista, but he knew that Laguerta would be keeping an eye on him. He knew that Doakes would use this to taunt him, so sure he was about Dexter’s guilt. He knew that Deb would be shocked, and that she would not believe he was guilty.

Her firm belief that he was innocent and her willingness to defend him right up until insanity was welcome at best and fucking stupid at worst. Right now, it was slightly welcome, all while making Dexter acutely aware of how precarious his position was. 

Her support was welcome, but he knew that the evidence would be damning and all it would do was make her look like a fool, and make him look like he was guilty. Either way, Deb would defend him until the truth came out, and either she was reassured in his innocence or shattered in his guilt. 

He did not have to worry about this because he knew he was innocent, but that did not mean that he wanted to deal with her pity. 

All his life, he’d been stable and dependable. Being the victim, being broken was not an option. Harry had said as much, and every kill, every emotional outburst (or lack thereof) had only served to confirm this. 

“We got results from the rag,” Laguerta’s tired voice filled with tension rang out. “The dried semen was identified as belonging to someone in our database.” 

He entered, flanked by two officers, the door hinges creaking slightly. Once he crossed the threshold, everything would be over, and everything would be coming at him at speeds he did not want to imagine. 

Immediately, eyes turned to him. Deb’s mouth opened immediately, but Laguerta cut her. “It belonged to one of our own—Dexter Morgan.”

Chapter Text

His name rang out with a deafening silence. Nobody said a word as the door closed behind them. Thud. Almost mocking him, as if it were sealing his fate. 

What right did they have to look at him as if he were guilty? 

It was an irrational thought, and perhaps Dexter was also angry—irrationally so—that it had happened to him in the first place. He had accepted it somewhat, but a part of him was in denial. That part wondered why he had decided to stake out the area on that night, why he had not fought back, why he had not done something—anything—as they used his body over and over again—

The anger boiled, simmered and then stewed, but it was more at himself. 

God. Blaming himself. Was that the level he was now at? Somehow, he had thought that when the time came, that when the inevitable eventually happened, he would take it with a stride and accept his faith. 

Maybe he just hadn’t accounted for the fact that it would come this soon, when he was till raw and unprepared for this amount of scrutiny. If they had been asking about murder, about him being the Bay Harbor Butcher, he could deal with it. He had scenarios on how to escape, however unlikely it was that he was caught. He had excuses, he had false leads—he was prepared. 

“Dexter?” Deb asked, voice inquisitive and slightly smaller than usual. The combative edge he was so used to hearing adorn her voice was gone, replaced by that of doubt. 

He looked at her, and searched for something to say. 

But they were asking him about rape and sexual assault, and while these words didn’t scare him, while the mentions could not hurt him and did not make him flinch, there was an unshakeable weight to their accusations. They were asking him to explain, and he could only incriminate himself or reveal the fact that he’d been used. They were asking him about something he had suffered, all while implying that he was the culprit, all while assuming that the pictures of the dead body did not make him think of the very ones he took of himself. 

It was damning evidence, that was sure, but that alone could not build a case. At least that was what he told himself. He would have to face reality one way or another. 

“Care to explain this, Dexter?” Laguerta asked, voice hard and unkind. That was to be expected, of course. After all, crimes of sexual nature usually did bring up more disgust than murder. And even more so considering the fact that this seemed not to be an isolated case. 

He did not speak, looking at the evidence bag that she had slid forward. The rag with blood and semen. More specifically, his semen, and most likely his blood as well. 

He did not know if he had been framed, but it sure looked like it. Why would they leave such a blatant piece of evidence out there, even if they had been pressed to leave? Why would they do that if they had bothered to clean him up the numerous other times they had forced pleasure out of him?

Deb stepped in, fury radiating off her in waves. Her jaw was tight, her fists balled, and her breath labored. She stared at the offending rag, almost as if her mere gaze could make everything go away.

The silence was suffocating. Her stare was digging into him, searching his face for an answer. She would find none. Dexter had built and kept up his mask for too long. 

“Dexter,” She asked, her voice taking on a brief, breathless edge. “How—How did your DNA end up there?”

He did not have to lie to answer her. Perhaps it was the only truth he would be telling her today. One of few, and yet it did not reassure him. It only showed him how much the Shepherd Killers had on him, and how little it took for them to ruin him—even more than they already had. 

It was ironic, and Dexter was tempted to call it tragic. Here he was, between a rock and a hard place. He could deny and risk getting investigated, or he could tell them what had happened and face their suspicion, their denial, and the inevitable realization accompanied with pity and a forever changed image of him. 

It was ironic, and if Dexter had been in a worse place, he would have been tempted to cry. He had recovered, yes, but that memory of sheer exhaustion had not left him. 

“I don’t know,” He said, simply. She waited for an answer, something more, an indication of his guilt, surely. But he gave her nothing.

He had nothing left at this instant except his skin, his bones and a secret gnawing at him. 

“Okay,” She said, then turned to Laguerta, who was watching the exchange with focus and narrowed eyes. Doakes was also doing so, but his gaze was tinged with suspicion. Batista and Masuka looked at each other, slightly confused. “Then there must be a logical explanation! A mix-up, a false positive…hell, maybe he was set up. This…this isn’t normal, and I know Dex would never do this. Maria, you can see he’s not lying, can’t you?” She asked with a hint of desperation. 

She replied, voice hard. “The worst criminals often are the ones right in front of us, Debra.”

“No, no, no—You cannot be implying that my brother—Dexter—is responsible for this. This—this is just DNA evidence, if could have been planted, it could have been a mistake, a cross-contamination—anything! You can’t arrest him just because of this! It’s circumstantial evidence at best, and if you allow this…mistake to happen, then you wouldn’t just be putting an innocent person at the mercy of the media—it would be one of your own. And if Dexter goes to jail, then—”

She cut off abruptly. Her eyes brimmed with tears shone in the light. Her chest hitched up and down, and she stared at Dexter with an indescribable expression of indignation, anger and horror. 

“Then what, Morgan?” Doakes butted in, voice laced with venom and accusations. “You know something we don’t, huh? Afraid they’ll start looking too deeply into his activities? Afraid they’ll unearth his dark, murderous secr—”

She exploded. “Shut the FUCK UP DOAKES!” She stepped towards him, confrontation seeping off her in waves, at every loud and determined step she took. “You do not know my brother. You have always, always gone after him, unable to let go of you fucking obsession with him!” She poked a finger in his shoulder. 

“Maybe…just maybe, you should look beyond your little game and ask yourself if Dexter would do this. Honestly, truthfully, forgoing any prejudice, ask yourself if he is capable of hurting a woman this way. Because honestly, I don’t buy it, and the fact that you don’t even question it is appalling!”

Everybody was silent for a moment. Dexter was uncomfortable, but he had to endure. He had no other choice. 

“Dex,” She said, voice now calmer but still with an undertone of desperation all throughout. “Did you…God, I hate having to ask you this, and frankly it’s fucking ridiculous, but…do you have anything to do with the case?” 

A simple ‘no’ hung on the tip of his tongue. It should have fallen naturally, but suddenly Dexter was back in a metal chair and bound, and there was someone in him, someone telling him how much he liked it, how great a job he was doing, how good he was, taking it like a little slut—

He needed out. He needed—

He tried to calm his breath, and he audibly swallowed, an action not lost on anybody in the room. 

“I do not,” He said simply, already knowing that he had slipped up enough. 

A wave of horror swept over the room. Dexter could see the very moment his guilt was confirmed for them. He saw the moment Laguerta’s eyes widened in realization, the moment Doakes’ jaw tightened further, the moment Masuka huffed simply, the moment Batista’s eyes took on a sheen as if he had lost Dexter forever. He saw the moment Deb furiously started denying it. 

“Dex,” She breathed out, speaking his name like a prayer. “I fucking believe you, okay? You—there’s a logical explanation, and I’m going to get to the bottom of this. I fucking swear on my life that I’ll prove your innocence.”

Doakes let out an ugly and bitter chuckle. The sound grated on Dexter’s nerves, but he prepared himself inevitably for his words. They always hit harder, now. 

“Weren’t you the one who proposed that there were two killers, Morgan?”

Ah. Fuck. 

Had he known that he would be framed, he would not have done that. Had he known that his DNA would be found on the crime scene and that he would be the prime suspect in a rape and murder case, he would not have done that. 

But he had not known, and what was done was done. There was nothing but the universe’s entropy and inevitable end, just like there was nothing but the unstoppable force that was the ticking of the clock. 

“You call that proof?” Debra bit out, eyes furious and searching. “What you have is circumstantial at best—”

“You call DNA evidence circumstantial? C’mon, Morgan, please don’t tell me you don’t see it in his creepy fucking—”

“Enough.”

Laguerta was fuming, eyes burning with a cold sort of fury. She looked at Deb and told her, “You’re off the case for now, Morgan.” And when his sister started to protest, she gave her three words: “Conflict of interest.”

“And Sergeant Doakes, I expect more professionalism from you.” Her tone left no space for argument or concession. In this moment, her word was law. “Now all of you, out.” 

A strange procession left the interrogation room. Deb, who kept glancing back at Dexter, searching for answers. Doakes, whose face had probably not morphed from the smug expression it liked to wear at all times. Masuka, who was muttering something akin to “Geez, Dexter”. Batista, who looked slightly sick and mostly grim. 

That strange procession opened the door and gave Dexter a glimpse of the police department. He saw a couple of disgusted faces, some curious ones, and more importantly, he could hear his name floating in the air. 

It was just both of them, now, and Dexter was suddenly reminded of that moment when Laguerta had talked to him in his lab, in that space that had been too cramped for a man running from the past and a woman who evidently wanted to come after him. An ugly thought crossed his mind, and he wondered if she would take the opportunity to take what she had always wanted.

Bile rose in his throat at the thought. Why am I thinking like this? 

Ever since the abduction, dangers had appeared more prominent, and dangers had birthed out of innocent gestures and touches. Thoughts like these often came unbidden, and they would make him go through a thousand improbable scenarios until he was forced to realize that this was a result of his trauma. 

“Dexter,” She asked, voice grim and hard. “I am asking you again, now that your sister and everyone else is away…Did you have anything to do with this?”

He did not ask for a lawyer. “No.” He did not particularly want to. 

“Do you know why we would find your DNA at a crime scene?” Alea iacta est. 

He stared at her, and dully wondered what that gaze would turn into if he told her the truth. “Not at all.” Chances were she would not believe him. 

“What were you doing the night of the 5th may, two weeks ago?” 

“I think I was at home.” For once, that was the truth. And yet…

“You think?”

Silence. He shook his head. “Am I being arrested yet?”

Her gaze broke down ever so slightly. There was a flash of pity and perhaps anger, and then it was replaced by her veneer of professionalism. He wondered, if he told her and showed her his wounds, if she would sport that same look. 

Would she even believe him? 

“You…are our main suspect. Unless you can provide us with further information, you will be placed in a county jail.”

He did not answer. He simply shook his head, and he felt her frustration radiate across the room. The chair was getting uncomfortable now, and the cuffs were biting into his wrists. He wanted to avoid this as much as possible, because he was sure that once he lost himself in his memories, he would not be able to come back. 

It would not be long before he felt a warm breath at his neck, and then hands wrapping themselves around his throat. 

The door opened, and Dexter was led out of the room. He looked straight in front of him, pretending not to notice the stares and the whispers. One part of him wanted to protest and scream, but the Dark Passenger was licking its wounds again, prowling in his mind but unwilling to take control. 

Unlike the Dark Passenger, Dexter had things to lose, and even though they were half-battered and bloodied, he still clung to them. 

Otherwise, who would he be?

[…]

By now, Dexter would have been at home sleeping, or on one of his nightly prowls. These days, though, it seemed he could not catch a break. 

He had been plagued by nightmares recently, and his nights were mostly spend staring at the TV or reading a book until exhaustion took over. When he did go on his hunting trips, he took more precaution than ever, conscious of the many ways he could fuck up—and the many ways he could be fucked up. 

Now, though, he was alone. 

Alone and slightly fucked up. Alone and immensely fucked. Alone with his thoughts and all the demons that came with them. 

The wall was yellow and slightly flaky. He ran a hand over it, thoughts running through his mind at a hundred miles per hour. 

He should tell them. He should show his bruises, give them the pictures, hand over the DNA evidence and expose his soul to the entirety of the Homicide Department. He should open his wounds, let blood fall on the tiled floor, and let them trace his scars with shaking hands. He should let the words fall from his lips, the shame color his cheeks, and tears flow out of his eyes. 

“I was—” The words died the moment they saw the roof of his mouth. No matter what he told himself, he could not say it out loud. Every time he did, he saw the faces of his captors, their jeers, their bodies and their teeth.

He tried to think of ways to show them without speaking the words, but all that came were scenarios, each one more humiliating than the other. There was no getting out of this situation, no forgetting it, and certainly no brushing it away like he had done everything else. 

The crude “sweetheart” painfully and irrevocably carved into his back by Tall’s hands served to remind him of it. Every morning, he woke up and saw the words on his lower back in pink, raised skin, and hated himself for running his fingers over it, feeling the words and the pain again. 

They had licked at those letters with fervent and perverse pleasure, reveling in his pained cries. They had told him that name again and again, poisoning it so that every time he heard someone else say it, he could not suppress the inevitable flinch coursing through his body, nor the occasional echo of Tall’s voice. 

Other than that, nothing remained of his encounter. He did not know whether to be thankful or angry. On one hand, it made things unbearably difficult to prove what had happened. On the other, it made Dexter’s life slightly easier to live. The marks of the two men’s passage had faded to time, which was about the only good thing that he could say about the whole situation. 

There were hesitant steps on the floor, suddenly snapping him out of his reverie. He knew who it was long before he saw her. 

Her face was filled with anguish, rage, and a hint of worry. Her hair was slightly messy, and her hands were balled in fists. He could see her knuckles, and he didn’t want to get hit by them. He did not think she was here to beat the crap out of him, but then again, he could be mistaken. 

(He’d had a streak of bad luck lately, and she could soon be another edifice in the ruins of his life.)

“Dex,” She said, voice shaking. “This is fucking ridiculous. I mean, accusing you of all people? You’re a nerd, not a serial killer, and certainly not a serial rapist. God, it’s so fucked up.”

The breath she let out was harsh, and the gaze she threw him was almost expectant. Dexter did not say anything, mostly because he did not want to, and he had nothing to say. He could not tell her what he could not tell the others, though that was no fault of hers. 

It was always him. 

“Uh, Dex?”

He forced the answer out of his mouth. “Yeah?”

“Aren’t you going to agree with me?” She looked alarmed, to say the least. 

It was fucked-up, but not in the way she wanted it to be. She wanted to have her nerdy, dorky and awkward brother—not a man accused of a violent crime. She wanted many things in life, Dexter mused, and none of them were realistic—at least not the ones concerning him. He just wanted to breathe a little. 

He let out a bitter laugh. He saw the way she looked at him, almost desperately searching for signs of his innocence. 

“Yeah, Deb,” He intoned, deadpan voice laced with sarcasm and anger. “It’s fucked up.” 

Her face crumbled. “Were…were you involved in it? In this,” She gestured around her, “Shitshow?”

He could lie to her, but he felt like Deb deserved an ounce of truth, even if it was only ever half of it. He weighed the pros and cons for a second, but his mind had already been made up. What good would come out of her continuing to defend him like her life counted on it?

Nothing. That was why he chose to let her go. 

(He could not tell himself that it was because he was scared of telling her the truth. He wasn’t afraid of shame. He wasn’t.)

“You remember when I came back, a couple months ago, all beat up?” He asked, sounding almost timid if not for the reverb of the cell. 

Silence. He looked at her, and he could see her denial from miles away. She did not believe him, but he was sure she heard the truth in her words. 

She took a step towards him, body brushing against the cell walls. She was angry, but Dexter was sure it wasn’t towards him. He feared the day she would be angry at her. 

“Don’t say that, Dex,” She pleaded. “It’s…it’s not what it looks like, and I’m sure—fuck!” The curse bounded along the walls. Dexter curled into himself a little more. She was confused, in denial, and absolutely shaken. “You…you’d never do that, Dex.”

“Don’t lie to me,” She whispered.  

There was nothing else to say. “I’m not,” He whispered. She stared, and then all came crashing down on her. 

“Fuck! I’m going to get you out of there, Dex, I promise. Whatever it takes, I’ll do it.” 

Dexter did not want to look at her again, so he turned away. 

It was a strange state of being, that of being stuck between a rock and a hard place, and yet choosing the cliff at the edge of the battered path. 

He could defend himself, could offer proof of his condition, could cry and could put his shame on a pedestal while hoping to be let go, but it was unbefitting of a man who was the Bay Harbor Butcher. There was nothing he could do against the parasitic and warm shame that threatened to tear him apart. 

Better be a monster than a nameless victim. 

In the end, it all came to this, and he was glad that he had not died back then. They would have found his body in the middle of a hangar. Deb would have seen his bruises, his bites, and their marks on his cold and decomposing husk. The Miami Homicide Department would have to live with his name forever in the list of victims. His death and suffering would be shouted in the newspapers, the secrets he fought to protect exposed in the light of a cremation chamber. 

He only got his head off from where it had been resting against the wall when he heard a new pair of steps approaching. 

“Look who’s getting comfortable!” The voice taunted. Dexter turned around to take a look at Doakes even if he did not need any confirmation on who it was. “I hope you learn to like this,” Doakes seethed. “Because you’re going to be there for the rest of your life.”

He just stared at him, and even if he was well aware that it was just begging for Doakes to continue. Hah. Begging. He’d done quite a fair share of that. 

“No answer, Morgan? No snarky comment, huh?” At Dexter’s silence, he crossed his arms. He was quite obviously frustrated, but Dexter would not entertain the man.  

“Fine,” He bit out, seeming to have finished harassing Dexter. “But I know you’re up to something, so don’t think you’re out of my sight, Morgan.” 

He walked out, leaving Dexter alone. 

Night fell, and with it, sleep came. 

Chapter Text

It was midday when they finally came to fetch him. His night had not been particularly restful, but that was to be expected. He was roused out of his staring into the distance. 

“Morgan, come with us,” The officer said, her eyes just as hard as yesterday. He could vaguely place her face somewhere in his memories, but he frankly couldn’t bother to travel down memory lane. 

She was accompanied by another officer, his face also neutral and betraying no feeling. It was difficult, however, to ignore the sheer disdain seeping off of them. Every movement betrayed their inner turmoil, and it wasn’t easy to ignore it. 

He went with them, ignoring the way their grips were a little too hard. 

The walk to the interrogation room was just as dreadful as the last. He did not meet many people, but those he did threw him glances that did not hide their thoughts about him. It was tiring to ignore and file away their reactions. It was even starting to get to him, which was a bad sign, especially considering he probably had a long day ahead. 

He was unceremoniously shoved into the interrogation room and told to sit, hands cuffed and resting in front of him. At least they hadn’t cuffed him to the table, he thought wrlyly. Small victories. 

Laguerta stepped in, accompanied by Doakes. Just great. If yesterday was anything to go by with, he was going to be having a very exhausting day. 

He sat down and faced his executioners. He composed himself, attempting to act as if everything was alright. And it was. He was innocent of this crime, so he had nothing to hide. (That was categorically untrue, and if the investigation into the Bay Harbor Butcher had taught him one thing, it was that he was not as invisible as he would have liked.)

“So, Morgan. Can you tell us, now that you’ve had time to think long and hard in jail, where you were on the night of the 5th May?” Doakes’ voice was unflinching and absolutely convinced of his guilt.

If only they knew. 

Dexter had in fact thought long and hard about that night. Yesterday, the most he could recall about that day was the crushing fear and sensation of choking as he woke up from an invisible hand around his throat. 

It was not pleasant, but he dove into that feeling and went backwards. 

He had ordered pizza, a medium-sized one. He had eaten half of it, and the rest the next evening. What shop? It was a Pizza Hut. Yes, he’d called them. Around what time? Around 7:30, because he liked to relax a little and eat in front of ABC’s True Crime episodes. (At that, Doakes let out an annoyed snort.) And before that? He had just signed off on a blood report for the beheading case, the one where the cousin was the culprit. Before that, he’d been at court and had given his testimony for another case. Which one? The dead hooker. 

Doakes muttered something under his breath, but Dexter was too far away to hear him. 

He had eaten lunch with Debra. At the place next to the station. Did he have a receipt? Yes, he did. Probably in his wallet, which was at his desk. What did he order? A Reuben, with fries on the side. No drink? Water. What had he done that morning? He’d analysed some blood spatters and had started a couple new reports. Nothing particularly interesting. What time had he woken up? Maybe around 7:00. And when had he left? The 8 o’clock news had not come by on the television before he’d left, so most likely around 7:45. 

“Alright. Thank you, Dexter.” She flipped through the pages of the case file, most likely looking at the times and if his alibi worked. Dexter hoped his alibi would work. Wouldn’t it be ironic that his extracurricular activities be discovered during an investigation on a crime he had also been a victim of? 

The world had a strange way of turning. 

Then, she sighed. Her shoulders were tense, her expression serious, yet slightly less aggressive than at the beginning of the interrogation. He hoped that it meant he had an alibi for the victim’s time of death. 

What else could he say? They would investigate. They would get a warrant. They would search. They would find. His whole carefully constructed empire would fall with one gust of wind, and there would be nothing he could do about it. His denial of involvement in the Shepherd cases would get ignored or—worse—treated as an admission of guilt. 

He did not fit the mold, but the justice system had its downfalls. It had its cracks. Its flaws. Dexter had long exploited them, but he was now finding himself in the same claws he had viewed as tools for his less than legal activities.

If he was lucky, they would find nothing and he would be let go. Perhaps they would dismiss the DNA as a fluke or a contamination mistake.

She closed the file and started getting up, gesturing at Doakes to follow her, all while purposely not looking at Dexter. Something in him twisted. Usually, he was good at reading people in these types of situations. Hell, he was great at reading the same colleagues he was deceiving. 

Key word: usually. Today was not a great day, he was anxious, and he had not slept well. There was also the issue that his whole life practically hinged on whether or not LaGuerta decided to dig deeper. 

He was left in the interrogation room alone, with a sharp glare from Doakes reminding him to stay on his toes. He loved that guy. 

He drifted in and out of his thoughts, trying very hard not to fall into the nightmarish multitudes of trauma and, most likely, PTSD. He tried, and on a good day, he could do it. On a bad day like this one, where everyone was looking at him, and where he had no room for mistakes, he felt whispers in his ear, and—if he slipped far enough—hands on his skin and a bite on his neck. 

He desperately tried to ground himself, but in a room like this—designed to break and to remove any possibility of comfort or rest—there was nothing to hold onto. He was slipping, and his arms were aching, his fingers bloodied, and his whole body begging for release. The walls seemed impossibly high, impossibly smooth and oh so imposing. 

Why did he have to fight so much? And for what? A miserable existence to which he could never truly belong to? A half-lidded life buried in secrets and wants nobody could understand? A lifetime of deceit and masks? An impossibly large couple of decades of sleepless nights and flinching?

Maybe all of this would be better if it was over. Gone. Erased. He could do it, and they wouldn’t find him in time. He would run, go to his boat where he kept extra supplies, and he would overdose on sedatives before they found him. If he couldn’t get there in time, maybe he would provoke the officers chasing him into shooting. Hopefully, it would be fatal. If not, then he could still go at it with the hope of bleeding out quickly enough. 

Bang. Dexter turned his head, snapping out of his reverie just in time to see Laguerta come in, followed by a decidedly disgruntled Doakes. He didn’t know if that was a good sign or not, but he could only take it as such. 

Both of them sat down, and with a grave look on her face, Laguerta spoke. “So we’ve reviewed your alibi, and what you said seems to check out with what we were able to confirm. As of now, you are cleared for the murder and assault of the latest victim.” Relief coursed through him. “However,” And the air seemed to take another ten bars of pressure. “You still have no explanation for why your genetic material,” And there he did not know why she was avoiding the word. “Got to the crime scene.”

Why didn’t she just say the word? Why avoid the word—the cold, glaring truth?

It was like seeing his own denial looking right back at him, drilling into his psyche. She did not think him traumatized—not like he truly was. Could it be that she was testing him, seeing if he reacted with contempt at her obvious skirting of the topic? Or could it be that she was genuinely disturbed by the fact that he could be implicated in such a case?

The thought was strangely comforting. Perhaps it was a sign that his pretending, his mask and his lies had fooled her—and perhaps were still fooling her. It was a testament to the masterful craft he had honed during his formative years, and perhaps even a testament that he did not appear as inhuman as he really was. 

(And maybe, just maybe, he could one day become something other than what he was right now. 

His way of living was risky, dangerous and bound to end in disaster. He had long resigned himself to living a short life, that he could not imagine dying of old age or of illness. 

Eventually, it would have to stop. Perhaps the man that came out on the other side would be free of the Dark Passenger. Perhaps he could learn to feel other than the beast Harry had always said he was.)

“I don’t know,” He told Laguerta with a flat voice, eyes betraying nothing of his inner turmoil—at least he so hoped. At her insistent gaze, and at Doakes’ judgmental exhale, he repeated his defense. “I really don’t know. I did not know the victim prior to her murder, and I have not engaged in sexual intercourse with anybody recently.” Lie, his treacherous brain whispered. Liar, you know you did. But he did not falter. “I have no idea how my semen got there, but I can assure you that I would never take part in such depravity.”

Adrenaline twisted his sentences and flourished his words. He would have to work on that quirk. No use if people could hear when he was flustered or nervous. 

“So what you’re saying is… you were framed?” Dexter blinked at Doakes’ furious words. “Do you seriously think anybody in law enforcement would believe that? Are you a fucking dumbass?!” Doakes shouted. Dexter flinched ever-so imperceptibly back, mildly surprised at his level of vitriol. Maria made a placating gesture, but Doakes just turned to her, disbelief written in every line of his body. “Can you fucking believe this guy, Maria? Does he think we’re stupid? Nobody wants to frame a forensic analyst, much less a creepy-ass lizard of a man named Dexter-fucking-Morgan!”

This was kind of funny. In hindsight, Dexter should have expected it to go like this. It was strangely comforting, knowing that Doakes would be inevitably pulled back by Maria, like a Rottweiler on its chain leash getting pulled back by its owner, who happened to be a little tired of the same shit. 

Laguerta cleared her throat. “Well, we certainly can’t rule out any possibility, and Dexter’s alibi has so far proved itself to be true. And… All those reasons are precisely why someone with your level of…shall we say, vitriol could have decided to frame him.”

At Doakes’ incredulous stare and rising temper, she stared back with hard eyes. “I’m letting you stay here for the interrogation because I have faith in your professionalism, and because I value your input. Do not think that I am not willing to replace you with someone else.” Doakes stilled, eyes searching Laguerta’s face. There seemed to be an implication there, and Dexter idly wondered if the two had ever been romantically involved. She certainly did have some degree of control over and understanding of him that could only be born from an intimate relationship. 

Brushing off the battle of wills, she turned back to Dexter, who had been mildly entertained by the whole debacle, and supremely annoyed at Doakes’ incessant suspicion of him. “Don’t think, however, that this clears you in any capacity. You’re still our primary suspect, and DNA evidence doesn’t lie. Until we get more out of you, or you volunteer some explanation as to why your DNA was found on the crime scene, you won’t be cleared. Is that understood?”

It made sense, of course. If she spoke a little more harshly, most likely to remind him of the severity of what he was being suspected of, Dexter did not fail to notice that he had regained some control over the narrative. 

He nodded, saying nothing. She scrutinized him for a long second, and then she got up, taking the manila folder with her. Doakes stayed a second more, glaring at Dexter with the fury of a man who was convinced he was right. 

Not today, bucko. 

“Don’t think I haven’t got my eye on you, Morgan. I’m going to figure you out, and everyone will know who you really are.” 

The sergeant left on that frankly aggressive note, leaving Dexter to be led from the interrogation room. Blessedly, there was almost nobody in the halls to the holding cell. The police officers uncuffed him, closed the door, and turned the lock. 

Their steps resounded off the walls, the echoes of their whispers loud enough for Dexter to hear. With time, that, too, faded away. 

Silence regained his lonely world, and he was nothing but a dwarf star—a corpse of something that had once been majestic and whole. 

Chapter Text

“…sources within the Miami Metropolitan Police Department confirm that a member of the police force has been put under arrest on suspicion of involvement in the Shepherd case. The latest victim, Courtney Polaski, was found just a week ago in a previously abandoned hangar. At this time, Miami Metro PD has declined to comment on this new development, simply saying that the investigation is still ongoing. Families of the victims have been demanding more transparency, citing…”

“…violent and systemic nature of these crimes is endemic to psychopaths and sexual deviants. We know that both types of people can often be seen in some law enforcement positions due to the undeniable power they give an individual over another. And that is a problem, not only when we’re talking about serial killers or serial rapists, but also anybody else in the profession who abuses their power, leading to a staggering amount of abuse and crime not being reported. How do we remedy this, you may ask? Well it’s obvious that our system is flawed and…”

“…everything that’s been happening, how are women, young women supposed to go out in the evening or even have a social life? I think that this is shocking but undeniable proof that our society is unsafe for women, and for oppressed people, and for minorities. Why is it that our bodies…”

“…clearly a symptom of society’s decline. We have given up traditional values for the illusion of equality and freedom, when all we are doing is promoting sexual and moral deviancy, the work of the devil—”

“…has always existed, but with today’s increased media coverage, some will try to use this as an excuse to say that the progress we have made during the past couple of decades is the cause…”

“…our daughter’s murderer. We want justice for her, and we will not give up. We deserve to know the details of this case. We deserve to know about the suspect they have. We deserve to see him and look at him in the eyes, and ask him why he did this.”

“…obviously the work of more than one person. I have contacts in Miami Metro who told me the same thing, you know…”

“…and she was only just turning 25, full of joy and hopes for the future, and everyone around her said that the world was a better place with her in it. She was only just turning 25, and her birthday was three weeks away when she was walking back from a late night meetup. She was only just turning 25, and then she disappeared, leaving behind friends and family and pain. She was only just turning 25, and she was the first to be found naked, bruised, bitten, tortured and defiled. Welcome, listeners, to the Archive of the Damned, your true crime podcast. Today’s episode is sponsored by…”

[…]

True to her words, Laguerta did not let up. 

She came to fetch him in the early hours of the morning, when sleep was still holding him tight, whispering in the endless confines of his mind, and mingling with the nightmares and the musty air of the cell.

He was laying there, alone with his thoughts and this whole fucked-up situation, the echoes of the two men’s hands ghosting over his lips and his thighs, biting and taking, an endless maw crying out for more more more, baby, look at you taking it, so good, you little whore. 

Her steps breached through the endless fog of memories, both a blessing and, inevitably, a curse. 

(Because he was already so broken, and she could not see that. His disguise held, or maybe she did not think him capable of handling such a thing. He didn’t know which one was worse.)

Her expression was serious but not unkind, and he could see that, somehow, something had changed. Maybe Deb has done or said something. Maybe Laguerta had investigated further into his history. Maybe she was still waiting, expecting something for her kindness—

And that was pushing him off the edge, and he didn’t want to be taken there because what would be waiting for him, what would she expect of him—

Would she be gentle and sickly sweet, or would she demand with that authority he knew she possessed, and take and take because all he was good for, it seemed, was to be taken from—

Oh. Okay. 

Okay.

Dexter breathed in, calming his mind and his thoughts, pulling himself out of the endless spiral. He was safe. He was safe. Sometimes, though, his mind was not aware of that fact. 

(His rational mind was certain that Maria would never try anything. His instincts still saw a potential threat who would not be against abusing her power because human beings were scum.)

He was sat at the table, in front of Laguerta. He stared at her, schooling his face. His heart was falling back into its normal rhythm, and the sea was calming, waves gently falling back. 

“I’m sure you remember the conversation we had yesterday, Dexter. While I do believe what you are saying has some truth to it, you must answer to the entirety of the evidence incriminating you.”

He swallowed. “I understand.”

She cleared her throat, a tight smile flitting across her face, politeness warring with her ineffable sense of justice. “Very well. Then I’m sure you’ll be able to look at these pictures.”

She pulled out a manila folder, the same one as yesterday, except that it was very full. Setting it on the table, she opened it and pulled out its contents. 

There was a part of Dexter that feared what was coming next. Had she somehow gotten his pictures? Had Deb gone to his apartment and found the evidence? Had Laguerta somehow connected his prior injuries to the Shepherd Killers?

Upon seeing what the pictures consisted of, he realized that his panic was for naught.

Dozens of snapshots of the latest Shepherd victim, Courtney Polaski, as well as the accompanying elements. 

(The table; the overturned chair; the bloodstains on the floor; her naked body lain on the floor like one would leave an old doll; her empty and glossy eyes; the shredded skin at her wrists and ankles; her white skin like a field where blue and purple hyacinths bloomed in rows and fields, deflowered and defiled; her nails rubbed clean and oddly resplendent under the flash of a forensic camera; her swollen and bloodied lips slightly parted, practically a picture of her last breath exiting her tired lungs.)

Ah. So she was going with the method of attrition, trying to get a reaction out of him by showing him every picture, in aching detail. 

The worst part was that it would, inevitably, work. Not for the reasons she dreaded or suspected. No, it would work because he was tired and constantly on the edge of a breakdown and sometimes he thought that he was still in that hangar, at the mercy of the Shepherd Killers. 

She started with the first picture. Courtney Polaski’s body, still laying the way it had been found. Her skin was pale against the wounds that littered it. She seemed to be sleeping, if not for her open and seeing eyes—eyes that almost seemed to stare into him, accusing and dead. 

He stared back at her, observing the way death’s parlor had turned her into something vaguely beautiful. She was a landscape of destruction and depravity, every wound a reminder of human fragility. She could have been so much. 

He could have also been so much, and he was never one to glorify his killings as if he was doing God’s holy work—no—he was doing the dirty work, plunging his hands, willing as they were, into the crevices of darkness. But he could have been something else, something other than the broken man that sat in that metallic chair. He could have been self-assured, unflinching, capable of survival. 

(Sometimes, all he wanted to think of was the void and the sweet, sweet nothingness of death. Nevermind that it meant leaving everything behind. Some parts of him were selfish and all too willing to let everything and everyone down—

Harry and his vigilante serial killer project, Deb and her firm belief in his rightness and the only family she had left, Rita and her tired-but-hopeful eyes all too willing to forgive and forget—

What a fucking mess.) 

Dexter said nothing, his face betraying none of what he felt, save for the ever so slight twitch of his eyes, and stared back expectantly, as if asking What do you want me to say?

She narrowed her eyes. “And this isn’t bringing up any memories? Even just a passing recollection? Perhaps someone you asked on a date, a previous neighbor? ”

“No. Nothing at all.” Liar, liar, liar. 

She let out an unsatisfied noise, her mouth forming into a moue he had seen so many times. (And one of those times, she’d looked almost expectant, and she’d obviously been interested, and he hadn’t. Nothing more had come of it, but she was always less harsh and more favorable towards him, forgiving of his slights. Before, that had not bothered him. Now, her favoritism made his skin crawl. What if she expected something, anything, too much.)

She pulled out the next picture. A particularly graphic one of her right shoulder marred by the maws of a particularly vicious beast. 

He felt Tall’s mouth on his shoulder, violent and unforgiving, unwilling to let go and burrowing into his skin, almost brushing against his bones. Such a vivid and radiating pain going up and down from his shoulder to his hand, as he shook and writhed and cried, nothing but a slut and a victim and a sweet sweet prize. 

He felt his body shudder, even as he did his best not to show any reaction. He knew Laguerta had seen it from the way her eyes were roving over him, scrutinizing and judging him—wanting to figure him out. 

He chided himself for seeing his colleague instead of his interrogator. How could he forget the sheer power she held over him? It was a fact of life, but one that he had momentarily forgotten between his musings and his flashbacks. 

“You could try to analyse the bite. See if it matches with any other bites in our crime database. Whoever these guys are, they’re obviously quite experienced.” 

Laguerta stared at him, annoyance momentarily breaking through her mask of coldness and disavow. “You don’t need to tell us how to handle our own investigation. Of which you are, at this time, the main suspect.”

Dexter forced a light laugh, “Sorry, instincts and all.” He didn’t sound sorry at all, and the insincerity burned at him, but he couldn’t bring himself to care how it looked.

He was sixteen, and Harry was showing him how to clean up after a murder. The saran wrap and the gloves, the outings Deb always wanted to go on, one knife and then multiple, more tools and more potential evidence. “Dont show anything. Don’t be suspicious. You’ll never live a normal life; the sooner you accept it, the better.”

The overturned chair, digging into his back and his hips. Resting on the concrete, cold and resplendent under the flash of forensic cameras and the light flooding the hangar through the door pried open. Cold and stainless steel, burning, and oh she must have been despairing, thinking of her family, and still human enough to lack the strength to fight on. Still human enough for her body to decide enough was enough, and escape however much unscathed she could be, into the deep dark of death. Still human enough to be mourned and loved and missed. 

He was ten, and the Passenger was just starting to poke its head, growling and hungry all the same. He was starting to feel, in bursts of anger and irritation, and maybe he wasn’t so different now. 

Dried blood around in between her thighs, a dehydrated pink combining death’s pallor and the chafe of two bodies against hers in slow and torturous movements, whispers floating in his ears and filth flowing from their mouths. A low and painful heat stabbing and twisting, defiling and dirtying, hitting him over and over again. In that point—in their shared suffering—they were as similar as they could be. 

Just a year ago when he’d been at Deb’s place, she’d told him, in a moment of uncharacteristic softness, her eyes twinkling, that she was always there for him no matter what, and—

“You like acting like you’re all fine alone, but sometimes you need me. That’s what a sister’s for, Dex.”

“I know,” He’d said. He hadn’t understood why she would mention it now, of all times. 

“You can tell me anything, you know? Anything.” She’d said with conviction, and for a second, an echo of warmth had bloomed in Dexter’s chest before dying its slow death. This is what it could feel like, he had thought with something akin to regret.

He’d only stared at her passively, wondering why she was saying that

A bluish purple painted around her neck, the skin still slightly inflamed, a color that approached a would-have-been-red-if-she-had-been-alive. Her matted hair glaringly stood out against her neck, a garish sort of brown that smelled of sweat and blood. One or two hands pulling at his hair as they went in, unforgiving and violent and burning and thrusting. A slaughtered beast, eyes glassy and beaten, empty looking onto the pattering of raindrops on aluminum roof tiling.

Just a week ago, retching into his toilet, bile acid against the back of his throat, shaking like a wet cat, barely able to hold onto the edges before another memory assaulted him. The ghost of fingers digging into his occipital triangle, scrambling for purchase against his bloodied and sweaty skin. 

Every single following picture brought a taste (salty and intrusive, or iron-rich and astringent), a smell (the characteristic smell of sex and of their rancid breaths), an image (blurred vision and flickering eyelids, aching for it to end), a sound (a backdrop of whispers against the rhythmic slapping of skin against skin), and touch (nails biting into the soft flesh of his inner thighs, drawing a gasp)—

Laguerta saw every single slip-up, and she noted it meticulously. Already, he could see her coming to conclusions building up the reactions to a quasi-certainty of him being guilty. He felt horrible, and she wasn’t even done yet. 

When Dexter saw the next picture, red on relatively unblemished and pale skin and words carved into something that was not made to be cut, he felt sick. 

SWEETHEART carved in her skin with what was most likely a scalpel. The letters were shaky and jagged, as if Tall had had other preoccupations, and nothing like the consistent, deliberate lettering on his lower back. He’d been sending a message. Perhaps a plea for help. Maybe a threat. 

The scarring itched, suddenly making itself known again, and then Dexter was fighting the instinctual reaction to scratch it, and then the memories crashing against him with the full force of everything he had lived and managed to suppress. 

He remembered the sharp and precise pain drawing itself across his skin with a shocking clarity, cutting through the haze of the constant and thrumming sensations, drawing out a low cry of pain, all he could manage at that time. The way the cold metal had almost been a relief, anything to distract himself from the body-deep ache eating away at his psyche. 

It had been a sensation to focus on as his body was stretched, bitten, cut and owned. A reminder that even through all this, he was still a human being deserving of—

So lovely, look at you writhing and begging for it, and something digging into his lower back, hard and insisting, taking it so well aren’t you, little slut, and everything blanking out as he shuddered, the pleasure overriding the pain and coming in waves and waves as he shook, oh now you’re enjoying yourself, so selfish—

He had been halfway between pleasure and pain, torn asunder, mind completely wiped, part of him begging to die, another part begging for more more more please, oh god I’m going to—

He had traced that scar, had taken a picture of it the best he could, and in the latest hours of night, would find himself tracing those words, unable to voice out what he needed. The worst part was not the memory, the flashbacks, but the desire to close his eyes and forget it all. 

Not that the scar brought him any kind of comfort, but rather that he could not find the strength to forget it. One second he was a victim, and the next he was cattle, branded for his master’s sale and consumption. He was nothing at that moment, and even now, the specter of the nothing he’d been came back to haunt him. 

And he couldn’t do anything to stop the absolute deluge of hands roving and carving, and the mouths biting and licking, and everything hurting and aching, and the deep certainty that this would never leave him, never ever, that he was always going to be theirs, nothing at all, just a hole to be used. 

And then there was a hand on him, and the whole world shifted—

[…]

Tall was staring at him, eyes somewhat unkind, something akin to concern in them. His hand lay on his arm, gentle but firmly commanding. A master’s claim of ownership. 

And Dexter?

Dexter was spiraling, wondering how he had gotten here, why everything didn’t hurt, why he wasn’t doing anything. The only answer was that it was going to get worse. It was going to hurt like it had never hurt before, and it was all Dexter’s fault for being too goddamn blind, unable to look past the trauma, a fool to get himself caught again unguarded and oh so vulnerable.

His mind was still reeling from the unexpected shift, and the touch was still there, silent in its menace and firmness, keeping him glued to the table. He couldn’t breathe. He had to get out of here. He didn’t even know where he was. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. 

He could not do this again. Not again. No, not again. Please, anything but this. 

But he couldn’t move, and so he was here again, watching it play out like a movie. His breath caught in his ribcage, fluttering against his heart nervously. He was dreading—or maybe something like terrified—the next couple of hours, but he could not find in himself the strength to fight back. 

He was so weak. 

Harry would be ashamed of him. 

He couldn’t hear Short or see him anywhere else. But then again, he couldn’t see or hear much of anything, what with his heart pounding in his ears and the way his vision had suddenly blurred with the tell-tale sign of panic. 

The worst part of it was that he could not curb his reaction. Everything was out there for Tall to see and revel in. 

The way his eyes could not move from their wide-open position. 

The way his hands curled into a fist, knuckles white with fear. 

The way his throat moved uselessly, his Adam’s apple spasming against the hold of his esophagus, mouth dry and unable to open, his silence a steady and stalwart promise of secrecy and suffering.

The way his body tensed in anticipation, remembering the way rough shoves, the hands falling painfully on his skin and bones, but also the sharp, jagged touch along his neck, drifting to his chest and his thighs, waiting to nestle into his tight, slutty warmth—

(Eyes rolling to the back of his head as the pain assaulted him, and he couldn’t think because of the stretch, the sheer girth of it, pushing relentlessly, demanding to be let in, to get a taste, anything at all.)

The way he was now savoring the last air he thought he would ever get to breathe, unable to take another breath, knowing that if he made the wrong move, he would find himself shoved forward and taken and tortured and railed onto the cold metal of the table, played and prodded and completely at their mercy. 

The way a tear slipped, unbidden and salty—the last warrior standing in the field where their brethren had stood and been slaughtered, one after the other, mourning the utter devastation left in the wake, crying out for things they would never get to see, bleeding under the dusty skies as the crows started to descend—making its slow way down, a long and torturous death—

“Dexter?”

How? How had they known his name? His head was hurting, and he all he wanted to do was sleep or cry, or maybe even both, curling up into a ball. It shouldn’t hurt this much, not now, not after all this time. 

And then the world shifted—

[…]

He snapped his head, and through the film of tears, he saw her. Laguerta. 

Her face was contorted in an expression of genuine concern. Her hand was on the table, near his arm, finger slightly flexed as if she had been holding something. 

He could see her eyes, wide open and flooded with concern, with an undercurrent of calculation. He could see the evidence pile up, and he didn’t want her to know. He didn’t want to feel or see her pity, however blurry it was.

But he couldn’t stop the wave of fresh fear and the souring of his mouth. And there was little he could do to stop another tear from slipping down his face. His body was slow to catch up and just understand that he was not there anymore. 

(He didn’t want to think that, somewhere, his mind was half-convinced this was not real.)

Whatever she had wanted to say seemed to die in her mouth as he let out a gasp, his screaming lungs greedily sucking in air. 

Another fresh wave of tears fell from his eyes. He blinked but did not move his hands, now unclenched, but fingers still twitching against his palms. If he didn’t address the tears, then maybe she would let it go. 

He’d been a fool to think that. 

“Dexter,” She spoke softly, as if afraid of spooking him. “Did,” And Dexter knew what would happen, what she would ask. It was almost comical then, that his heart fell at hearing those words. “Did something happen to you?”

Oh. There were so many things he wanted to say. 

The Shepherd Killers. 

I was raped.

They hurt me. 

I have pictures if you don’t believe me. 

I can’t stop thinking about it.

Why didn’t they just kill me instead of torturing me?

Or even a simple Yes. 

But everything was too fresh, and even though the attack had been some time ago, he was still reeling from the waking dream. His skin felt tingly, his heart was all out of sorts and he could feel his control slipping.

The Dark Passenger seemed to have died somewhere along this journey of recollection. It was a pale imitation of itself, lurking in the corners of his mind, a corpse left to rot at the mercy of a murder of crows. 

Funny how dead things had a tendency to show up at the most inconvenient times.

Everything was falling apart, as they usually did. Only now, he was at the top of the tower, and the ocean sung forlorn, beckoning and hungry. 

There was always that place where no one would find him.