Work Text:
Won't you just stop looking through me, 'cause I can't take it, no, I can't take it
You see right through me—how do you do that shit?
Deb doesn't get a chance to change out of her blood-soaked shirt until she gets back to the station. LaGuerta tells her she can go home and shower and take a few hours, but she doesn't want to waste any time. She won't soon forget the terrified look in that kid's eyes as that Fuentes fucker held that machete to his throat, and now she wants to nail his ass even more. Besides, going back to her place—her and Dexter's place; whatever—covered in someone else's blood doesn't seem like a good idea with Harrison and the nanny there. She already doesn't seem too thrilled with their weird little family unit, and Deb can't really blame her.
She stands in front of the sink in the locker room and removes her shirt, draping it over the white porcelain edge. Standing there in her bra, she sponges dried blood off her chest and neck with a wet paper towel, and remembers the feeling of that kid collapsing against her. As if she needs this shit, on top of everything else.
She glances up and sees Manzon reflected in the mirror as she comes into the room. "Hey," she says to Deb, a bit tentatively.
"Hey," Deb responds, and looks away. "Um...sorry about before. You know, when I...I didn't mean to be a bitch to you. It was just..."
Cira shakes her head briskly as she comes over to the sink beside her and washes her hands. "Don't worry about it," she says. "After seeing something like that, I'd snap out too."
"I almost had him," Deb says, unable to stop herself. "He was right fuckin' there. I swear I almost had him."
"I know," Cira says, gently. "And we'll get him because of you. That pendejo's face is all over the news; he won't get far." Deb smiles faintly. Now there's a word she knows. Cira turns to face her. "You missed a spot. Here." And before Deb can say anything, she grabs another paper towel, runs it under the tap and reaches up to wipe a smear of gore off of Deb's shoulder. Deb doesn't move, she just looks down into the other woman's brown eyes. "Thanks," she manages.
"No problem," Cira says, reaching around her to throw the towel away. "Now, as for this..." She picks up Deb's shirt. "Don't know if we can save it." She turns on the water. "But cold water is the best thing for bloodstains. My mother taught me that one." She shoots Deb a quick half-smile before running the shirt under the water. Blood flows from the fabric, throwing a garish pink onto the white surface. It swirls down the drain as Cira rubs the shirt briskly. Deb swallows hard, gripping the edge of the other sink tightly with one hand. It's all just a little too familiar. She turns her face away and closes her eyes briefly.
Cira looks over at all. "You all right?"
"Yeah," Deb says quickly. "Yeah, fine." She forces a laugh. "I'm not usually such a fuckin’ girl about seeing blood and all, but...it's just..." She shakes her head as if it's nothing. "My...my sister-in-law died last month." She'd never really thought of Rita that way before. She'd always thought of her in relation to other people—Dexter's girlfriend, then Dexter's wife, then Harrison's mother—but not really herself. It just makes it worse. "She was murdered, actually, and I saw it. Afterwards, I mean, so..."
"I heard about that," she says, turning off the water and turning to face her again. "That Trinity guy?" Deb nods. "Fuck, that's awful. I'm sorry. The FBI's still looking for him, right?"
"They say they are," Deb snorts. "Those douchecanoes have no idea what they're doing, though. And that's with all the intel and research we’ve been workin’ on. They'd rather just harass my brother and then sit around with their thumbs up their asses." Cira shakes her head in disgust.
"I hear that." She wrings out the shirt and holds it up. "Well, it's a little better." Deb doubts it'll ever come totally clean, but it does look a lot less slasher-movie-ish, anyway. "Thanks," she said again, taking it from her. Cira just looks at her for a moment, and it's not the way other people around the department look at her, either with apprehension or sympathy or any of that. She's just looking like she really wants to see her.
Her dark eyes travel down and land on the scar on her hip, the scar from Christine's bullet, and all she has left of Frank. She looks back into Deb's face, her expression asking the question. She just gives a wry chuckle. "I've had a really shitty year."
Cira steps forward, and after a moment, reaches out and puts her left hand on the ugly mark on Deb's side. Her hand is warm, and Deb doesn't even think to pull away. Cira looks up into her face and says, quietly, "We'll get him." And she doesn't even think to wonder which 'him' she means; somehow all she can hear is the 'we' part. And when Cira stands up on her toes and presses her lips to Deb's, she realizes she's never been kissed like that either, not by anyone, softly, but firmly, in a way that makes her forget about blood, and about severed heads and gunshots and murdered mothers in bathtubs. For the moment, there's just them.
When they break apart, Deb can't speak, but Cira just hands her back her shirt and says "If you wash it right away, it may come out." She turns and heads out of the room, turning back at the doorway to say with a slight grin, "See you out there, Officer Morgan," and disappears. After a moment, Deb breathes again, and turns to her locker to change. It was time to get back to work.