Chapter Text
Dexter is starting to think that even Skulduggery knows that they will not find the killers. It's been three weeks. Even as they scour every possible lead, even as they travel as far afield each day as they can, Dexter can't find hope that something will be uncovered. This does not mean he is not going to do everything on the list. It just means Skulduggery looks more deflated with each useless errand, while Dexter finds himself coldly intact.
He's driving out to a small island today, to meet Cassandra Pharos' last living ex-partner. He does not expect her to be useful or suspicious, but Cassandra has been the cause of so little bad blood that this seems worth the shot.
Cassandra had not been a prolific dater. In her older years she preferred solitude, but even when younger she had not sought company like most of Dexter's friends, or even himself. Hopeless had been an exception to that general rule, and the two had worked well likely because they understood intimacy in similar ways. It was the romance for them, not kids or passionate intensity or even constant cohabitation. But even that hadn't lasted.
Dexter crests a hill and the sun flashes and a realisation strikes cold. It's something he should have known when waking. It's been a hundred years since Larrikin's murder.
Dimly, Dexter feels his hands guide the steering wheel so the car turns off the road. He parks without consciousness, sits there in the chill of it.
A hundred years.
It doesn't feel like it. It feels like he's spoken with him only yesterday. But it also does feel like it, the weight in him buried deep a century. It's mourning twinned with bittersweet joy. To have known Larrikin was an honour, to love him something wondrous, to be loved by him a treasure. But now he is gone, and Dexter knows that no relationship will ever reach the same sure stability and affection of theirs. They would have married after the war if they could have, he's sure.
Dexter's cheeks are wet.
Dexter should be in Wales right now, at his grave. How had he forgot? What sort of heartless thoughtlessness allowed him to rise normally, eat the breakfast of any day, head off to work? What sort of unloving selfishness allowed him a peaceful morning?
There it is, that weight, that deserved aching dullness. He pulls out his phone, presses Skulduggery's name in his contacts, foggy in the motions.
It rings.
"Hello?" Skulduggery's voice is loud, alert.
"He died today," says Dexter softly.
"I know." A pause. "Where are you?"
"Side of road. I can't work."
"I was surprised you planned to in the first place ... Did you misread the date?"
"No - I just forgot."
"It happens. I forget sometimes what Augustus' voice was like. J's laugh. Did you need me to pick you up?"
"I'll manage."
"I'll pick you up. Send me your location."
The skeleton hangs up and Dexter just looks at the phone for a bit. At some point he does send Skulduggery his location, and he isn't too surprised to see the skeleton crest the hill much quicker than should be possible. He was walking calmly over the field and hopped over the stone wall, approaching Dexter's car.
"That was quick."
"Teleporters are useful sometimes." Skulduggery tilts his skull then opens the door. Without ceremony he wraps Dexter in a sharp and bony hug.
"Shall we go to the pub and drink a glass for him?"
Dexter does not mention it's 10am. "You can't drink."
"All the more for you I guess."
"No, I'll head home."
"Do you really want to be alone today?"
Dexter frowns. The prospect isn't appealing, but when he thinks of the apartment he doesn't think of solitude but warmth. When he's there, it doesn't feel like it's just him.
"I'll be alright."
"Come to mine today," Skulduggery implores. "I will call in sick as well. We can talk about them, about the good times. You don't need to punish yourself today."
Dexter looks at him, friend and murderer. He wonders at his own callousness, that when around Skulduggery he forgets the horrid things the detective has done.
"It's not punishment." He finally says.
Skulduggery gives it up; it's visible in his posture. "Then let me drive you home."
"Why didn't you tell me when you found out?"
"Found out what?" Dexter blinks. His partner glares, arms crossed, with the sun filtering through the window and over his hair. Dexter stares at the key in his hands, glances at the door locked behind him. He is not so sure what is happening.
"Why didn't you say that Doug was Lord Vile?"
Dexter slips his key into his pocket beside his wallet, dazedly walks to the sink to pour some water. His face feels damp. His phone is vibrating. Larrikin is watching his back with the fullness of judgement that he deserves, and yet.
And yet Dexter has not the focus to honour his hurt.
Dexter drinks and braces against the countertop. "Sorry, what was that?"
"Are you even listening to me?"
"I - no, sorry. I'm not, why am I here?"
The sharpness of interrogation stilts, teeters. Larrikin walks over towards him, silent like a cat on the boards. "Dex, you okay?"
"I should - I had something to do."
"... You called in sick."
"But I - I was out. Where was I again?" Dexter sinks his head into his hands, elbows on the counter. Larrikin hovers behind, silent and likely bewildered. Dexter's head is screaming with pain. "This doesn't - what is happening?"
"Honey, hey, hey, I think you're having a migraine or something, let me help." Larrikin's hands brush lightly against his arms, and nothing changes, if anything the pain rises. Dexter hisses. "I don't - wanna lie down? I think you should lie - woah!"
Dexter staggers and Larrikin catches him, steadies him for a moment. And Dexter lets his partner guide him slowly toward the couch, saying gentle somethings that Dexter cannot register over the internal wail that something, something is wrong.