(Untitled)

[fireintothesky]

Who: Costigan, Dexter, and Aziraphale and Bourne. PARTY IN THE LAUNDROMAT, YO. ...Henrietta's not invited.
What: THERE WAS A MURDER. ONLY NOT. THERE MUST BE INVESTIGATIONINGS.
Where: The laundromat. It's where the cool kids hang these days.
When: SOME TIME SHORTLY AFTER HENRIETTA KICKED JUDAS'S BUTT, CAME AROUND AND WENT "UHHH, ABOUT THAT GORE--"

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[born_in_blood]

Dexter had been neglecting regular, human routines in favor of sleeping in his room. The oblivion that the Barge had provided him was welcomed, because every time he stayed awake for too long, unwanted thoughts began creeping upon him. Deb. Rita. The kids. Brian. All of it was unwelcome.

When he ran out of clean clothes, he tried to stretch it out for a day or two by simply not leaving his room. The time had come when he needed to eat, though, and he wasn't one for superfluous self-punishment. Everything in Miami may have been his fault, but he wasn't a believer in karma.

He was in the laundry room now, in a pair of sweatpants, a wifebeater, laundry basket in hand. The last thing he expected was the blood. Immediately his mind began to work at what came naturally; blood spatter. He noted the five-foot-three smears of blood where the victim had been pinned to the wall, the streaks where they had struggled their way out of it. The spot where a face had cracked against the tiles, blood dripping from their nose, gathering in small pools. There was a track of blood where the killer had walked away, where they had... well, Dexter wasn't sure what they had done. It seemed there was a piece missing -- they'd just sauntered away, really, leaving a trail of blood behind them. He moved closer to where the line of blood lead, to the smudge on the washer glass, inspecting it.

[lost_undercover]

Costigan entered with as much noise as could be mustered naturally, knocking on the door as he entered and shuffling his feet. His shoe prints still laid blood to carpet and tile as he walked in, frowning at the man. It was an obvious attempt to distract the man from his analysis; or maybe the man wouldn't know him well enough to think that. The inmate considered taking a larger risk. If he punched and started beating on Dexter, then maybe people would start believing him. He could tell the truth to Bourne--that he hadn't killed whoever it was, not that Henrietta had--and get his pills and another knife that way. Or not.

The former cop walked in and grabbed the top piece of Dexter's clothes with nonchalance, dropping the shirt into the blood to begin wiping up the mess. Well, it would certainly grab his attention if nothing else. He didn't look at the man, just going about cleaning. It was all he could really do