time yet for a hundred indecisions (1/2); dexter; R
Title: time yet for a hundred indecisions (1/2)
Ch Title: like a patient etherised upon a table
Fandom: Dexter
Rating: R (language, sexuality, incest)
Pairing: Deb/Dexter; mentions Deb/Rudy, Dexter/Rita
Summary: Dexter is having some issues with personal space since Deb moved in.
Set between Seasons 1 & 2. Huge spoilers for S1.
You know, you’ll ruin her.
*
“Back the fuck off my brother, he just saved my life! He’s a fucking hero! I want you to treat him that way, goddammit!”
Dexter pulls her aside. The scene is good cover for Doakes (for now) but Deb is clearly upset. Upset doesn’t feel like the right word…
He watches her shake and can see all the holes where this tore through her. He would feel anger if he could, maybe sadness. But as it stands, there’s nothing; as usual.
*
He stared at her occasionally. Harry always missed it: at the dinner table, during a movie, at the beach. He can remember the aquarium glow the television cast across her face, staining her skin a pale blue-green and her hair an inky black.
Everything about her was perfect; she seemed to react properly to everything, as if Harry had written her every line of dialogue and choreographed her actions to simplistic, deadly accurate humanity.
She was everything he wanted to be.
*
“I can’t. Not Deb.”
“No, no, don’t say that.”
“I’m very…fond of her.”
He had chosen her. He chose her. In the end, it had been nurture over nature. Psychology over biology. Fiction over reality. It felt so…sentimental.
Later though, in the ambulance, it hadn’t felt sentimental. It had felt animal. He wanted to curl around her, hide her, tear that ring, that shitting, fucking ring, off her finger.
He had thought about how easy it would be to slide his thumbs into the waistband of her borrowed sweats, to jerk down the zipper on the jacket, flaying the dark open to expose the pale, white dune of her midriff. He could press his lips there. (slightly up and away from her hip)
They broke apart and Dexter noted (concernedly, of course: it was Debra) she had no idea how perfect she was, the embodiment of all of Harry’s ideals, the faithful disciple. She was simply...real he thought. She’s real.
*
They were seventeen. They were fighting.
Well, Deb was fighting.
Harry was ignoring her, paying too much attention to him, business as usual. Deb was crying, strands of her long brown hair sticking to cheeks and her glasses fogged from the heat of her face. She was furious, though he could tell she wanted to be screaming at Harry, not him. He felt sorry for her.
She paused in her tirade (why can’t you act normal? why can’t you have friends?), her breath hitching in angry sobs. Dexter reached out and touched her cheek, wiping away some of the tears and brushing her hair off her face.
He suddenly realized they were too close.
They both leaned in. Her lips, chapped and rough, were so close to his. He could feel her hot breath on his skin. She brushed her nose against his. He wanted to kiss her. He had kissed girls before, but it had never felt anything like this, with this promise of sweetness. This promise of being real.
Without thinking he pushed forward and just as his lips touched hers, she pulled back.
“I can’t.” She turned away, a fresh wave of tears breaking on her face. She ran from him. But she never told Harry, not ever.
*
“Dex.”
“Dex.”
“Dex!”
He wakes up to see Deb standing over him.
“Can you…could you come sleep with me?” He stares at her. She looks away from him, tucking her hair behind her ear.
“I know how it sounds…I just can’t sleep. I just keep thinking…and I can’t stop fucking thinking you know?” He nods. He does know.
She turns and walks back into to his bedroom and he follows her. Harry is in his head, telling him how he needs to protect Deb, to protect her from himself. He’s a monster, isn’t he? He killed his own brother.
Because he would have killed Deb.
Dexter looks at the pale skin on Deb’s coltish legs and where it disappears into the baggy grey fabric of her shorts. He could pull them off of her in one tug. He could bite her hip, sucking at the spot where the bone stretched her skin thin. He could slide her t-shirt up her belly, up over her breasts-
He lays down. Deb lies next to him, turning her back.
“Deb?” He reaches out, touching her arm. He waits for her to flinch away. But she just lies there, shaking a little. “Deb?” She lets out a muffled sob. Gently, as gently as he can, he turns her over so she’s facing him. She’s crying and she mumbles “Dex…” and twines her long, thin arms around his neck, hiding her face against his shoulder.
He doesn’t know what to do, so he holds her. He knows this is usually comforting to Rita.
Rita…
He’s not sure if this is infidelity.
*
“You know, you’ll ruin her.” He and Harry were sitting alone behind the house. They had been doing yard work and had taken a break for Harry to drink a beer.
Dexter felt a pang of panic go through his belly. “Who, Da-” He’s cut off with a stern look. “You know damn well what I’m talking about Dex.”
“Dad, I swear, I-” Harry silenced him with another look. “Whatever this is, however you feel, you bury it, understand? Debra has a bright future. One day, she’s going to make some man very happy. But it will never be you.” He takes a swig of his beer.
“Don’t worry, son. One day, no one will remember this. Not even you.”
Harry smiled at him, the benevolent, all-knowing God.
*
There’s a wall between them. It’s as thin as air and as impenetrable as a fortress.
She runs, all day, she runs. She runs when she can’t sleep, when she can’t eat. She runs when she can’t go outside. Dexter lays awake all night, listening to the sound of the treadmill. He stares at the ceiling, letting the seconds tick away into dawn. Two weeks since he’s killed his brother. Two weeks since Deb was destroyed.
He gets up and quietly walks over to the door of the bedroom. It’s opened a crack. He puts his eye to it. Deb’s ears are plugged with her white earbuds. The sound of heavy guitars leaks out of them.
*
They were fourteen.
Deb has snuck the tape past Harry in her pocket. Dexter sat on Deb’s bed, watching her fumble as she took it out, dropping the cassette box on the floor as she shelled the tape from it. It clattered as she slapped it into the player.
She was so excited for him to listen to it. He didn’t really know why, music didn’t really do much for him. He watched her press play and frantically dance, jumping up and down, playing air-guitar and banging her head, flipping her long hair into huge circles.
“C’mon Dex, don’t you like to dance?” She extended her hand to him. He stared at her, unsure if he should take it.
*
Personal space is key for the professional serial killer.
Dexter thinks this as he picks up Deb’s dirty clothes off the bathroom floor, avoiding touching or looking at her underwear. When he sees the rest of the apartment, it occurs to him that this is just the tip of the ice burg.
He sighs heavily, tossing the ball of clothes into the laundry basket.
*
“God, Dexter, what the fuck is your problem?”
“I-I-I-” He was stuttering at her, trying to only look down at the floor.
They were sixteen.
Dexter had walked into the bathroom while Deb was in the bathtub. He’d seen her right away, but she hadn’t seen him. Her head was thrown back, her hand between her legs. Dexter could hear her jagged breathing. He watched her eyelids flutter and then she let out a moan. He looked straight down at the floor, his face flushing.
To this day, Dexter cannot remember making any noise at all, but he must have, because Deb opened her eyes. She saw him and shrieked.
“GET OUT!” She covered her breasts with her hands, fury etched into every line of her face. She stood up and snatched a towel off the rack. Dexter was paralyzed with fear. To him, Deb might as well have been a charging elephant. He was rooted to the spot, even as she clumsily slapped him across the face.
She pushed him, trying to cover herself with the towel at the same time. She opened the door and pushed him out.
“God, Dexter, what the fuck is your problem?”
“I-I-I-” He stared at her, unable to speak. “I-I didn’t see…” She slammed the door in his face. He retreated to his room, unable to tear his eyes off the floor.
She didn’t talk to him for a week. But when Harry asked her what their fight was about at dinner that night, Deb simply said that Dexter accidentally walked into the bathroom while she was in there. He had looked at her across the table, hoping that she would make some sign to him, indicating that all was forgiven.
It never came.
*
If asked, Dexter doesn’t think he could explain why he had to kill Brian. Brian had been his friend, Brian had been his brother. When Brian had looked into his eyes and mocked the code and had the audacity to ask him why, Dexter had told him it was for Deb’s safety; for his sister’s safety.
She’s not your sister…
Everyday he remembers the feel of his brother’s skin giving way to a blade. Everyday he sees the betrayal in Biney’s eyes. And everyday, he looks at Deb, wounded, holy and full of a kind of grace he knows he will never achieve, not in this life and regrets nothing.
part 2; 'decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse'
notes: titles taken from 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock' by T.S. Eliot
Ch Title: like a patient etherised upon a table
Fandom: Dexter
Rating: R (language, sexuality, incest)
Pairing: Deb/Dexter; mentions Deb/Rudy, Dexter/Rita
Summary: Dexter is having some issues with personal space since Deb moved in.
Set between Seasons 1 & 2. Huge spoilers for S1.
You know, you’ll ruin her.
*
“Back the fuck off my brother, he just saved my life! He’s a fucking hero! I want you to treat him that way, goddammit!”
Dexter pulls her aside. The scene is good cover for Doakes (for now) but Deb is clearly upset. Upset doesn’t feel like the right word…
He watches her shake and can see all the holes where this tore through her. He would feel anger if he could, maybe sadness. But as it stands, there’s nothing; as usual.
*
He stared at her occasionally. Harry always missed it: at the dinner table, during a movie, at the beach. He can remember the aquarium glow the television cast across her face, staining her skin a pale blue-green and her hair an inky black.
Everything about her was perfect; she seemed to react properly to everything, as if Harry had written her every line of dialogue and choreographed her actions to simplistic, deadly accurate humanity.
She was everything he wanted to be.
*
“I can’t. Not Deb.”
“No, no, don’t say that.”
“I’m very…fond of her.”
He had chosen her. He chose her. In the end, it had been nurture over nature. Psychology over biology. Fiction over reality. It felt so…sentimental.
Later though, in the ambulance, it hadn’t felt sentimental. It had felt animal. He wanted to curl around her, hide her, tear that ring, that shitting, fucking ring, off her finger.
He had thought about how easy it would be to slide his thumbs into the waistband of her borrowed sweats, to jerk down the zipper on the jacket, flaying the dark open to expose the pale, white dune of her midriff. He could press his lips there. (slightly up and away from her hip)
They broke apart and Dexter noted (concernedly, of course: it was Debra) she had no idea how perfect she was, the embodiment of all of Harry’s ideals, the faithful disciple. She was simply...real he thought. She’s real.
*
They were seventeen. They were fighting.
Well, Deb was fighting.
Harry was ignoring her, paying too much attention to him, business as usual. Deb was crying, strands of her long brown hair sticking to cheeks and her glasses fogged from the heat of her face. She was furious, though he could tell she wanted to be screaming at Harry, not him. He felt sorry for her.
She paused in her tirade (why can’t you act normal? why can’t you have friends?), her breath hitching in angry sobs. Dexter reached out and touched her cheek, wiping away some of the tears and brushing her hair off her face.
He suddenly realized they were too close.
They both leaned in. Her lips, chapped and rough, were so close to his. He could feel her hot breath on his skin. She brushed her nose against his. He wanted to kiss her. He had kissed girls before, but it had never felt anything like this, with this promise of sweetness. This promise of being real.
Without thinking he pushed forward and just as his lips touched hers, she pulled back.
“I can’t.” She turned away, a fresh wave of tears breaking on her face. She ran from him. But she never told Harry, not ever.
*
“Dex.”
“Dex.”
“Dex!”
He wakes up to see Deb standing over him.
“Can you…could you come sleep with me?” He stares at her. She looks away from him, tucking her hair behind her ear.
“I know how it sounds…I just can’t sleep. I just keep thinking…and I can’t stop fucking thinking you know?” He nods. He does know.
She turns and walks back into to his bedroom and he follows her. Harry is in his head, telling him how he needs to protect Deb, to protect her from himself. He’s a monster, isn’t he? He killed his own brother.
Because he would have killed Deb.
Dexter looks at the pale skin on Deb’s coltish legs and where it disappears into the baggy grey fabric of her shorts. He could pull them off of her in one tug. He could bite her hip, sucking at the spot where the bone stretched her skin thin. He could slide her t-shirt up her belly, up over her breasts-
He lays down. Deb lies next to him, turning her back.
“Deb?” He reaches out, touching her arm. He waits for her to flinch away. But she just lies there, shaking a little. “Deb?” She lets out a muffled sob. Gently, as gently as he can, he turns her over so she’s facing him. She’s crying and she mumbles “Dex…” and twines her long, thin arms around his neck, hiding her face against his shoulder.
He doesn’t know what to do, so he holds her. He knows this is usually comforting to Rita.
Rita…
He’s not sure if this is infidelity.
*
“You know, you’ll ruin her.” He and Harry were sitting alone behind the house. They had been doing yard work and had taken a break for Harry to drink a beer.
Dexter felt a pang of panic go through his belly. “Who, Da-” He’s cut off with a stern look. “You know damn well what I’m talking about Dex.”
“Dad, I swear, I-” Harry silenced him with another look. “Whatever this is, however you feel, you bury it, understand? Debra has a bright future. One day, she’s going to make some man very happy. But it will never be you.” He takes a swig of his beer.
“Don’t worry, son. One day, no one will remember this. Not even you.”
Harry smiled at him, the benevolent, all-knowing God.
*
There’s a wall between them. It’s as thin as air and as impenetrable as a fortress.
She runs, all day, she runs. She runs when she can’t sleep, when she can’t eat. She runs when she can’t go outside. Dexter lays awake all night, listening to the sound of the treadmill. He stares at the ceiling, letting the seconds tick away into dawn. Two weeks since he’s killed his brother. Two weeks since Deb was destroyed.
He gets up and quietly walks over to the door of the bedroom. It’s opened a crack. He puts his eye to it. Deb’s ears are plugged with her white earbuds. The sound of heavy guitars leaks out of them.
*
They were fourteen.
Deb has snuck the tape past Harry in her pocket. Dexter sat on Deb’s bed, watching her fumble as she took it out, dropping the cassette box on the floor as she shelled the tape from it. It clattered as she slapped it into the player.
She was so excited for him to listen to it. He didn’t really know why, music didn’t really do much for him. He watched her press play and frantically dance, jumping up and down, playing air-guitar and banging her head, flipping her long hair into huge circles.
“C’mon Dex, don’t you like to dance?” She extended her hand to him. He stared at her, unsure if he should take it.
*
Personal space is key for the professional serial killer.
Dexter thinks this as he picks up Deb’s dirty clothes off the bathroom floor, avoiding touching or looking at her underwear. When he sees the rest of the apartment, it occurs to him that this is just the tip of the ice burg.
He sighs heavily, tossing the ball of clothes into the laundry basket.
*
“God, Dexter, what the fuck is your problem?”
“I-I-I-” He was stuttering at her, trying to only look down at the floor.
They were sixteen.
Dexter had walked into the bathroom while Deb was in the bathtub. He’d seen her right away, but she hadn’t seen him. Her head was thrown back, her hand between her legs. Dexter could hear her jagged breathing. He watched her eyelids flutter and then she let out a moan. He looked straight down at the floor, his face flushing.
To this day, Dexter cannot remember making any noise at all, but he must have, because Deb opened her eyes. She saw him and shrieked.
“GET OUT!” She covered her breasts with her hands, fury etched into every line of her face. She stood up and snatched a towel off the rack. Dexter was paralyzed with fear. To him, Deb might as well have been a charging elephant. He was rooted to the spot, even as she clumsily slapped him across the face.
She pushed him, trying to cover herself with the towel at the same time. She opened the door and pushed him out.
“God, Dexter, what the fuck is your problem?”
“I-I-I-” He stared at her, unable to speak. “I-I didn’t see…” She slammed the door in his face. He retreated to his room, unable to tear his eyes off the floor.
She didn’t talk to him for a week. But when Harry asked her what their fight was about at dinner that night, Deb simply said that Dexter accidentally walked into the bathroom while she was in there. He had looked at her across the table, hoping that she would make some sign to him, indicating that all was forgiven.
It never came.
*
If asked, Dexter doesn’t think he could explain why he had to kill Brian. Brian had been his friend, Brian had been his brother. When Brian had looked into his eyes and mocked the code and had the audacity to ask him why, Dexter had told him it was for Deb’s safety; for his sister’s safety.
She’s not your sister…
Everyday he remembers the feel of his brother’s skin giving way to a blade. Everyday he sees the betrayal in Biney’s eyes. And everyday, he looks at Deb, wounded, holy and full of a kind of grace he knows he will never achieve, not in this life and regrets nothing.
part 2; 'decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse'
notes: titles taken from 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock' by T.S. Eliot