Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Ow," he responds half-heartedly. He doesn't even rub where she hit him, he would have if he cared. And he just doesn't. It doesn't seem worth the energy. He doesn't even care that it hurt. He'd just said 'ow' on instinct, on reflex. 

"Seriously, though Dex, you alright?" Deb drops the joking, light tone, switching to serious concern. 

"I'm fine," he answers with a sigh thick enough that they both know he's lying. Dexter can't find the energy to care though. Debra has already started to learn how much of her brother is fake, has always been fake, and despite everything of the past two days, he is relying on muscle memory. He has never told her when something was wrong, ever. Two panic attacks and one therapy appointment is not going to change his trained response for 'are you okay?' 

Besides, he doesn't feel worse, he just feels empty. He feels numb to the point of nothingness, it's familiar, and it's almost better than the fear and the pain and confusion. But in another way, it is also worse. In another way, his not feeling worse does feel worse. And he is too tired to want to think about that dichotomy.

Because the little wooden boy is being reminded that he isn't yet real, that maybe he never can be real. And he is starting to wonder what the point is in pretending. 

Deb lets him be. Though she won't let him sit in his bedroom alone with the door closed. At least she allows him the privacy of closing the bathroom door. 

He looks in the mirror and wonders if he recognized the thing staring back at him. He knows it is him, but he wants to know what manner of beast it --he-- is. Whatever it is, he has the impression the world might have been better without one of it in existence. But it had already been born, the damage is done. 

There is no cure, only damage control. 

You can't stop these urges Dexter, only channel them. 

Harry's words have little comfort, they always did lack. But Dexter has never been a creature that needed comfort. Harry knew that. Harry wouldn't lie to him.

But Harry did lie. 

He considers sleeping, it is one of the few activities Deb will probably allow him, with his arms and hands in their current condition. And unconsciousness will likely provide some time where he does not have to be aware of his emptiness. 

With any luck, he will cite the fiasco of the past two days as an explanation and say that he is tired and will be granted an early night. 

Debra allows him no such luck. Instead, she invited her boyfriend over. Rudy, with a moment of good advice to make up for Dexter's skepticism and Deb's bad history with men. 

She doesn't let him stay in his room, following him around and telling him that she will not let him sulk all alone in the dark, he bites back a comment about how he isn't sulking but he doesn't have the energy to secure his mask enough to act. He can almost feel it slipping, and he doesn't care that the corner has slipped out of place, he is tired and empty and Deb already noticed, trying to hide it now would only result in more prying and probing.

The mask will not survive any close inspection right now, so he complies with her requests. He sits on the couch and stares blankly at the tv where she turned it on to one of those predator shows, about reptiles. He isn't even looking at the screen, his vision unfocused. He doesn't even have the energy to feign interest in the program.

Rudy brings pizza with him and Dexter doesn't have the energy to greet him or even attempt to secure his mask. He doesn't want to eat either, then he would have to look at his hands and face the evidence of his brokenness and feel the wave of emptiness crash over him and drown him in a fresh sea of apathy. He doesn't have the energy to address it again.

Feeling nothing like this after all that fear and confusion and... sadness maybe... is so much more exhausting than pretending has ever been before.

He spent his whole life pretending to care, now he doesn't even care enough to try to hide the gaps in his character.

Besides, he isn't hungry.

Not for food, not for blood.

He is hungry for nothing. For the shadows in the corners of the room, for the darkness behind his eyelids when he blinks. For the silence and timelessness of sleep. He is hungry to be swallowed up in the nothing, for the emptiness to take even his exhaustion away. For it to swallow him up like an implosion. One blink and no more Dexter Morgan.

If he is hungry for anything it's the idea of never having been born. He is hungry for someplace he can climb into and stop existing until he isn't tired anymore.

And he knows it isn't possible, and that knowledge only exhausts him further.

 

---

 

He thought he'd be pleased to see Dexter without his mask, and the stupid pretenses he put up for normal people. 

But Dexter isn't reveling in the freedom granted by the slip. He isn't doing anything. He is just there. And he looks like if anything, he doesn't want to be.

He looks dead. No, that isn't quite it. Dexter looks trapped in his own mind, but he doesn't look like he's thinking about anything. 

There is a bone-deep tiredness coming off him. It is dense. And Brian quickly gets the impression that Dexter would much rather be by himself in the dark. Not because it's a time when he doesn't have to pretend, but because he looks tired. 

And Brian isn't sure what about this tiredness that seems so wrong but something about it... it isn't any normal sort of exhaustion. 

He almost wants to pummel Debra, who'd in a spectacular show of idiocy, taken Dexter to see a shrink. 

Doesn't she know that those types of doctors only make things worse?! 

That they poke and prod and do nothing to help? 

Maybe psychiatry had progressed a lot since they were children but there is still too much of a chance that whatever shrink Dexter encountered had worsened this mess. 

Because Brian doesn't know if he will be alright if he had caused this; if he had hurt his baby brother like this. He had promised their mother that he'd always look after Dexter. And he will. 

He just wishes that the plans he'd made would go more like how he had thought they would. 

Dexter doesn't move. He breathes still, but that's autopilot. He doesn't seem present in his body... and if he is, he doesn't seem like he wants to be. 

Brian doesn't know what's wrong with his dear little brother but he knows something is. 

Something besides the lie of a life he's trapped in. Something besides being stolen away from his only real family by that stupid cop. 

Even Dexter's fake sister can see that something is wrong, and she is not exactly the most perceptive. Though he does have to remind himself she's more perceptive than she seems, she is getting better at being a detective and he needs to make sure he doesn't give himself away too soon. 

It will be no good to ruin a plan so many years in the making with poor judgment or simple hiccups. 

Perhaps the most obvious sign that Dexter is not himself and not alright is that he won't eat. He hasn't even looked at the food. And it's not like meat lover's and the deluxe pizzas have subtle smells. 

Dexter is a killing machine, the amount of exercise he goes through on a daily basis to keep in killing shape requires a lot of calories. And Brian has the distinct feeling that Dexter enjoys food, and might even be the type to eat when upset. 

Debra tries to offer him a slice. He doesn't look away from the TV screen, though it's obvious that his gaze isn't even focused on that. 

Deb pulls him towards the kitchen and hands him a beer. Dexter stays, unmoving. 

They both watch him, out of brotherly and sisterly concern. Even though she is not his sister. And never will be. She's the offspring of that self-righteous Harry Morgan who instead of helping decided to steal away the youngest and leave the oldest brother to live his fucked up childhood where no one treated him as a child or tried to care for him with any sort of compassion. And yet Brian feels in this moment that he might be the more well-adjusted of the two of them. 

"He's been like this since we left the clinic, I could see it and I couldn't do a damn thing, he just started shutting down," she says, watching Dexter. 

"Is this normal?" 

Debra huffs, "Not really, but I guess it's normal for when he's upset," 

"How so?" He asks, sipping the beer and keeping his eyes on his baby brother. Even if he dislikes her on principle, she has spent decades with his baby brother, she knows a lot about his non-secret mannerisms.

"Usually when he's upset, it's like he's skipped the feelings and just goes straight to that numb shit you get after half a bottle of vodka and a tub of triple fudge ice cream," 

Brian has a vague idea of what she means by that. Debra does have a unique way of describing things, he will give her that. 

"What happened to his arms?" He asks. She'd told him about a panic attack but he hadn't heard about him getting attacked by a cat. Or whatever else could have caused an accident covering that much area on his forearms and hands. And Brian doesn't want to begin to think if the gauze was covering wounds that were inflicted on purpose, because then he really will have failed as an older brother. (He blinks away clean, neatly placed red lines on freckled skin, precise actions of self-harm, that he hopes desperately is not there).

"He broke a glass and I guess he cut his hands up and the blood freaked him out, Rita says he tore up his arms trying to wipe it away, 'cause there was still glass in his hands," Debra explains, downing another swig of beer with a wince.

"Ouch," he replies, an understatement. The vice loosens around his chest, knowing that at least baby brother hadn't meant to do it.

"Yeah," 

"Is that how the second panic attack started?" He doesn't have to create a tone as much here, because he is concerned about Dexter and he does want to know how it is his baby brother keeps tripping and hurting himself in the plans meant to free him. 

"That's my guess," Deb answers, looking to her half-cold piece of pizza. She looks both hungry and completely uninterested in actually attempting to eat the foodstuff. 

Usually, three adults would have been able to polish off at least most of one pizza. As it stands, they put the boxes in the fridge with only two slices missing. 

Then Debra grabs a large first aid kit from under the sink and stalks off to the couch where Dexter sits, exactly as they left him, staring, unfocused at the tv screen. She puts the kit on the coffee table in front of the couch. Dexter does nothing to acknowledge her presence or closeness. Not even reacting to the shape obscuring the TV from his view. And Brian bites back the swell of vindictive pleasure that the image causes.

Dexter isn't ignoring his fake sister because of any disdain for her or to create distance from her, he is just, as Debra said, 'shutting down'.

Dexter doesn't react as his real brother approaches either. (It stings, he won't lie).

"Hey, Dex, we gotta clean the scratches on your arms, you okay with that?" Debra asks, trying to stand in his field of vision.

Dexter does not say a thing, but he does respond.

He lifts his arms, holding his palms up, and turns his head to look away, towards the back wall to his side.

Brian comes over, "This will go faster with the both of us," he says to Debra. She smiles, unguarded and with sad eyes.

Debra takes Dexter's right arm and he takes his brother's left.

Thankfully, there is no glass in the wounds he uncovers. But the cuts in his palms are deep and Dexter does nothing to try to protect the wounds. He doesn't jerk away at the sting of hydrogen peroxide, and it must sting, he can feel his baby brother's pulse hasten after the cuts start to bubble and sizzle.

Brian takes care to be as gentle as he can. It has been so long since he last got to care for his brother in this way. Thirty-three years at least. And this is more than a scrape from falling off of a skateboard or tripping on the driveway while playing tag.

It's worse than a normal accident too. Dexter had cut himself with broken glass because he was scared of something Brian had made him remember. He should have known better than to think that Dexter would have any sort of pleasant time remembering their mother's death. He should have known better than to think it would be simple or easy to get Dexter to remember.

So these cuts, deep and raw, scratches from broken glass, these are Brian's fault. He caused his baby brother to hurt himself. The least he can do is help them heal.

 

---

 

Deb doesn't want to leave Dex alone. Though technically he's not alone because Rudy is a fucking Godsend and a saint and so many other amazing things. But she still feels bad about it 'cause Dex doesn't really know Rudy much and he isn't much on the vulnerability thing.

And he definitely isn't a fan of her other past boyfriends. He liked Rudy more than the others though. But to be honest, that wasn't exactly impressive.

Masuka was probably the only person she and Dex knew with a worse list of exes and past fucks. And ew, she really just compared herself to fucking Masuka.

She takes a taxi to Rita's, which probably would've been more dangerous were she not ready to kick some ass to let out all this stupid frustration and helplessness she was feeling. Because her brother was hurting goddamnit, and he was hurting so bad he'd already shut down and he wouldn't even eat for fuck's sake. Deb is almost mad the driver doesn't try any shit.

She really wanted to punch someone. Someone who had it coming preferably.

Because then she wouldn't have to feel bad about it afterward.

Dex's car starts up easy and she has no real reason to justify hitting the steering wheel. She probably looks like a shithead. Whatever.

She has to pick up her brother's car because he can't drive because he fucked up his hands because he gave himself a fucking panic attack because he's got fucking trauma and he might have fucking seen his mom get murdered in front of him when he was a fucking toddler. So maybe she's got good reason to beat the shit out of the steering wheel.

Then she feels like an absolute piece of shit. Because as much as she wants to speed back to make sure Dex is okay and hasn't managed to get himself hurt or hurt himself in the twenty minutes she's been gone, she also wants to take her time. She wants to take time where she doesn't have to take care of him, and it makes her feel like a monumentally shitty sister.

But being the responsible one and the one to lean on had always been Dexter's thing. And even though she'd always offered to be the strong one for him, he'd never had taken her up on that offer. She had no fucking clue what she was doing and she had no idea how to be the stable one.

Though maybe she has always been the stable one, maybe Dex has just hidden his shit so well even he couldn't see it.

And fucking cheese on a cracker she does not want to think about that.

It's bad enough knowing Dex is bad at being hurt, and she's bad at being comforting, she doesn't need to think about how he might have been hurting this whole fucking time.

She doesn't want to think about how if that is true, how much Dad had failed them both.

She knows Dad had never really seen her, but she never considered that he might not have seen Dexter either, not with how much time he'd spent with Dex. And if he hadn't seen Dex and hadn't seen how fucking traumatized he was, then had Dad been a good dad to either of them?

She pushes the thoughts down (maybe she needs a fucking therapist too) and starts on her way back to Dex. She doesn't want to leave him alone with Rudy too long. Both for Dex's and Rudy's sakes.

Dex is exactly where he had been when she left, looking as dead to the fucking world as he'd been then too, sitting up and staring at nothing.

"He still doesn't want to eat," Rudy worries, sitting at the counter with his warm, half-empty beer.

"He say anything?"

"No," Rudy sighs, and she sends a prayer of thanks for the man because he actually seems to give a damn that her brother isn't okay. And she's glad that she isn't alone. Even though she loves Dex.

She just doesn't want to be alone with him when he's like this. She'd never seen him so dead before. He'd get weird and distant and shut down, but it had never been this bad. Never this long. And she is really worrying.

It's like he doesn't want to be here anymore. Here in the most general sense.

She gets an idea and feels absolutely awful. Because she feels like crap for believing it, but she's also so damn scared that it might be right.

She goes into Dex's room and bathroom and takes all the sharp stuff. The pocket knife in his bedside dresser and the razor by the sink. Then she drags the chest from Dex's closet, Dad's shotgun is in it and if she is feeling paranoid enough to take the face razor from him, then she is sure as shit not gonna leave a trunk with a fucking gun in it.

She is gonna move it someplace she can keep an eye on it when Dexter sleeps. She almost puts the knife and the razor in a kitchen drawer before thinking better, and opens the laundry closet, shoving them in there instead, before turning back to get the chest.

"What are you-?" Rudy asks when she comes back out of Dex's room, trunk in tow.

She sets it next to the washing machine and closes the squeaky door, looks at Dexter. He hasn't moved even an inch. She might just fucking cry.

Deb turns to her boyfriend, takes a deep breath that doesn't do shit for her nerves.

"I don't know if Dex would want to hurt himself, but I don't wanna take that fucking chance," she whispers, knowing that if she had even used a hint of real volume her voice would've broke. She can feel it in her throat, that awful choking lump of soreness. Her eyes are stinging with tears she wished would just go away.

Rudy pulls her into his arms, and she's fucking shaking now. Dex needs her and she's fucking falling apart under the pressure. Fuck, she's such a shitty sister.

"He's my brother, he's all I got, I don't want him to hurt-" she sobs as quietly as she can. Dexter doesn't need to hear this. He needs to be able to deal with his own shit without having to worry about her.

"I know," Rudy says, patting her on the back.

She pulls herself together as best she can and pulls away. She walks to the couch, to Dexter, taps his shoulder.

He doesn't acknowledge the contact with anything more than a deep breath.

"You look like shit," she starts, trying to sound like she isn't overwhelmed and freaking out, like it's just another day and nothing is wrong "I'll let you go to bed now," that Dexter does react to.

His face pinches a bit.

"You hear me, Dex?" she asks.

"Yeah," her brother says, barely more than a whisper. But it's the first thing he's said in hours and she's fucking relieved.

Then Dex moves. He stands up, keeping his eyes on the floor in front of his feet, and trudges towards the front of the apartment, past the kitchen and Rudy to the door to his bedroom.

He stalls in the door, "Thanks, Deb, you're a good sister," his voice is so quiet, and while soft isn't quite the word, there isn't really a better one. "Better than I deserve," he continues.

"Bullshit," she retorts, really worried now. Dex is not the type to be verbally fond.

The corner of his mouth twitches, the closest thing to a smile Dex has had since she can't fucking remember when.

"Goodnight Deb, Rudy," Dex says, walking into his room and leaving the door open. (Not like she'll let him close it, paranoid as she is). She and the prosthetist repeat the sentiment.

Debra turns to her boyfriend. Rudy looks as confused as she feels. They sit in silence, listening to the slow shuffling of Dex getting into bed.

She hopes that whatever just happened means that Dex is pulling himself out of the living-dead zombie phase. But there is no way to be sure, not until tomorrow.