Archive of Our Own

Many of the recent developments in his life started with stupid mistakes. This was definitely one of those times.

"What is this?"

Dexter frowned, turning to look up from his seatbelt. (It clicked shut and the release button popped back up into place). Vince was holding a plastic baggie. An evidence baggie, half full of heroin. That he'd pulled out of Dexter's glove box.

Oops.

He had meant to return that to the evidence locker, after his piss-poor effort to frame Paul Bennett for relapse to keep him from suing Rita for her kids. (Things had gone a little bit differently than he'd hoped, Rita dumped him less than a week later). Apparently, he'd forgotten to return the heroin in the whole mess of the Rudy/Brian situation.

"Dex?" Vince asked.

Well... shit. He had better figure out a good reason for having a stolen evidence baggy half full of narcotics in his apartment. It wasn't as if he could confess to framing his ex-girlfriend's ex-husband for a relapse to prevent her from losing custody of her kids without sounding like he'd lost his mind.

Explaining that there was heroin in his glove box was one thing. Stolen evidence was another.

He really should have gotten rid of that sooner. Before his boyfriend (if it had only been three weeks was it too soon to call Vince that?) found it.

He had put it in his car to hide it from Deb. He had probably also meant to have it there for ease of sneaking it back into the Miami Metro evidence locker. Still, the glove box had been a very bad place to hide it. Easily forgotten and just as easily found. 

"Why do you have an evidence baggie full of drugs in your glove box?"

That was a very good question. One that Dexter did not have an answer for. At least not an answer that would not further incriminate him.

"Uh..." He needed to think of something to say. Even a mediocre explanation would be better than nothing. 

Technically, both of his biological parents had had drug problems... and plenty of people with stressful jobs had drug problems. And he didn't have a better excuse for why he had stolen drugs from his place of work. 

"Are you going to report this?" He asked, instead of offering an explanation.

His voice sounded smaller, flatter than it normally did. 

Doakes tailing him was one thing. Deb paranoid out of her mind was another. Navigating dating a man for the first time in his life was another. And dealing with the trauma and grief from murdering his only living blood family, the only person that would ever accept the killer that he was, was yet another thing weighing down on him. He really couldn't afford an investigation into his drug evidence thefts. 

Vince had a strange, sad, and concerned pitying sort of look on his face. 

"Have you done this before?" his boyfriend (it was probably okay to call him that) asked.

"Steal heroin from the evidence locker?"

Vince nodded. 

"No." At least this part of the oncoming conversation was true; Dexter was starting to get the feeling that he had a great many new lies to craft. But that was just how living as a lie was.

Vince nodded again, brows still pinched, "When did you-?" 

"During the Ice-Truck Killer investigation, after the Marina View Hotel," there was a log. He had officially borrowed something else from evidence that day, conveniently used it as cover to steal the heroin to frame Paul Bennett.

"Why?"

That was still a good question. An expected and reasonable question. One that he'd been hoping to avoid. One that he probably needed to answer. 

"I needed it," Dexter decided on, leaving out that he had needed the heroin to frame his ex-girlfriend's abusive ex-husband to get him sent back to jail so he couldn't take the kids away from Rita. Because the reasoning he had gone through back then was quite a bit convoluted and unorganized.

All to cover up for smacking Paul in the face with a cast iron frying pan. (He really shouldn't have done that). (That was why he wasn't supposed to act on impulse, because it would jeopardize his life and the multitude of other lies he had to maintain with the addition of a sloppy cover-up). 

Vince was quiet. Dexter wasn't sure what that meant, he'd been expecting more whys. Or maybe something along the lines of how he didn't really need the drugs and platitudes about drug abuse. Though the latter expectations were probably more in-line with Rita than Vince. 

"Are you an addict?" Vince asked, after another pressing minute of awkward silence. 

No. He wanted to say. But then he remembered the aching itch, the press of his own darkness behind his eyes. The horrible violent aching need that was twisting him up from the inside out and made him try to find his next kill even though the thought of holding a knife to another killer's throat made him nauseous and dizzy with memories of Brian. 

He needed a kill, in his blood, to let some of the pressure ebb away, even though the thought of it made him sick. 

But he also needed to explain why he had stolen drugs in his car. 

"I might have an addiction," he answered, non-commital, open-ended. 

"I won't report it," 

He let out a breath he hadn't know he'd been holding 

"If-" Vince said, "if you get help." 

"What?" 

"I want you to get help, addiction's a disease," 

"I'm pretty sure it's not contagious," 

Vince didn't respond to that. "Do you know how many infections you could have given yourself with the injection needles?" 

"I'm not stupid, Vince, I sterilized them first, and I don't share when I use," he answered with a bit of a huff, lying through his teeth. He had cooked the heroin, but he hadn't injected it into himself. But as far as this conversation and any future ones about his drug theft could go, no one else could know that.

But he supposed that he did sterilize his kill tools before and after use, as well as the kill room. And he certainly hadn't shared a kill with anyone. So it was kind of true. He was smart about his 'use'. 

"Stupid enough to steal from evidence." 

Vince had him there. Trying to argue that he'd only been stupid enough to steal from the evidence locker to frame a different man for drug abuse and relapse would not help his case. 

"When was the last time you-?"

"39 days ago," he could also tell Vince the hours and guess the minutes and seconds. 39 days 18 hours and a few minutes since he killed his brother. Since he 'used'. Each one of those days felt like hell. 

He needed a kill but there hadn't been any time. Between his sister, his new boyfriend, and his stalker, there was always someone around. 

And he wasn't sure if he even could still do it... after Brian... 

"That's good," Vince said.

"Is it?"

He almost didn't catch that he had asked it aloud.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so on edge and needing a kill so soon after the last. Usually, he could coast, scope out possible targets, the dark passenger content and mostly quiet. 

But Brian had changed everything. Revealed the lies that Harry cultivated in him, hiding the truth of who and what he was even from himself. Revealed that the first person Harry had taught him to lie to had been himself.

Brian had changed everything about killing, about lying, about living as Dexter Morgan. 

The Dark Passenger hadn't wanted to kill him. 

Dexter hadn't wanted to kill him. (He had hidden away, pushed himself back into the corner of that freezer trying to use the walls to keep him up, keep him from crumbling apart). He had cried as his big brother bled out.

For the loss of long lost and mostly forgotten Biney.

For the loss of the freedom that Brian had tried to promise him.

For the fact that he had known bone-deep, that Brian had been right. That his life was a lie. That he was a lie. That no one else would ever accept him, much less love him.

He hadn't wanted to kill Brian. But he had to, for Deb. Because it was the right thing to do, setting him free would endanger his sister and so many more innocent people.

But he hadn't wanted to kill Brian.

Maybe that was why he was already itching with need, the pressure in his head already boiling. Doakes tailing him everywhere and being a pain in his ass was just store-bought icing on the unpleasant cake. 

"How often were you using?" 

Should he tell the truth? What frequency should he admit to 'using'? How much would be too much to say? How much would be too little to justify having stolen heroin from work?

"Once every month or two, sometimes more often," he decided on the truth, it was a bit simpler than trying to think up another lie. (Harry had taught him that, lying by bending truth, using truth about one thing to answer about another).

If his 'use' was just drugs, it wasn’t that often... at least, Dexter was under the impression that drug addicts used drugs more often than he completed a kill... But given that his potential addiction was killing... it was quite often.

"How long?" 

He sighed, wondering if he could get out of answering the question if he pulled out of the parking space. Probably not. 

"Years," he answered quietly. Hoping that maybe he was playing this right, sounding ashamed or something. 

He wasn't. It wasn't like he'd actually done the heroin. No. 

He was worse.

He killed people. He stabbed them and bled them out and bludgeoned them and hacked them into messy bloody pieces then dumped their bodies into biodegradable trash bags and tossed them into the ocean. 

He was much worse than a dabbling drug addict. He was a serial killer. One that had been active in plain sight for a few years shy of two decades.

If he was ashamed, it was that he had been dumb and careless enough to leave evidence of one of his many crimes someplace so easily found. 

And he wasn't planning on actually stopping. He knew how the Dark Passenger worked, how his violent urges worked. He had barely made it through his teens without a kill. Now that he has killed, tens of times, now that he has fed the Dark Passenger... there was no trying to stop. There was no point.

Eventually, he would kill again. And this was the only way to make sure that he stayed true to the code, that he didn't kill anyone that didn't deserve it. This was the only way to keep him from hurting innocent people. Harry had understood that, and taught him that no one else would.

Vince didn't quite look like himself. Not focussed on his work, or grinning about some dirty joke he'd thought of or just said, worried but not about a disease he was sure that he or someone else had contracted (regardless of how unlikely it was). Serious, somber.

He'd looked like that when Angel had been stabbed.

Something in Dexter's stomach churned, heavy and too solid in his gut. A bit like guilt. (If he was capable of true guilt).

"Sorry," he apologized. It was a cheap thing, coming from him. He wasn't sorry for his actions, only for the effect they'd had. He didn't want to upset Vince.

He didn't want to make Vince worry about him.

He didn't deserve that. And even if he did, he didn't need that.

He was a monster. He was cold-blooded, a killer. He wasn't sure he could really be considered human. He was a broken, monstrous thing.

"What?"

Dexter froze.

His boyfriend sounded insulted.

He'd done something wrong. What had he done? Was he not supposed to apologize? If that was what he'd done wrong, then what was he supposed to do instead? He didn't know.

"I didn't mean to upset you," he tried, voice feeling flat and subdued on his tongue.

"It's not your fault..."

Dexter did not believe that for a second.

Vince nodded, realizing that he had misspoken, "I'm just... worried,"

"I didn't want to make you worry,"

"Dex," he shut his mouth with a click, Vince continued; "This isn't some fuck and leave your shit at the door kind of thing,"

Dexter was inclined to agree, with how there hadn't been sex yet. Not that he was complaining, he was still a bit iffy about the whole thing that sex was, even more hesitant as he had never had sex with a man. The fact that he was even dating a man was impressive, after all, growing up in the '70s and '80s did not give one any sort of comfort in homosexual tendencies or attractions.

Even now things were still quite touchy with homosexuality. Gay people were around, but it didn't seem like they were respected or accepted too much.

Vince sighed, heavily, "I'm not used to this, actual dating thing, but I'm not going to not try-"

Dexter had a vague idea of where this could be going. But he was usually not good at emotional talks and anticipating other people's feelings.

"I am your boyfriend." That statement was new, nearly groundbreaking. And at the same time, mundane. So it was alright to call Vince that: his boyfriend. He had a boyfriend. A man who wanted to go on dates with him, that he also wanted to date. 

Dexter nodded along, feeling a bit lost, as he usually did with conversations about feelings. And a bit distracted by the confirmation of labels. 

"Boyfriends are supposed to worry about their boyfriends,"

Oh, that was where he had been going.

He felt itchy, uneasy. Being worried about always did this. It unsettled his stomach and made him uncomfortable. He wasn't a creature worthy of or needing comfort, at least that was what he always thought.

He didn't know how to just let people worry about him.

If people were worrying about you, they were paying more attention, and you had to be better at the act, better with the lies. Dexter may have been lying his whole life but that didn't mean he wanted to invite any scrutiny. 

Because at some point or another, someone might realize just how much of him was off. 

Because people wanted to know how you were feeling when they worried, and Dexter didn't have much in the feelings department. What little that he did have was usually not a good enough answer. 

Vince seemed at least a bit uncomfortable as well. Dexter wasn't sure if that was his fault or if Vince was also just not good at talking about feelings. 

Maybe his boyfriend was a little bit uncomfortable with worrying about people?

(Another reason Dexter didn't want to make him worry). 

He finally switched the car into reverse, backing out of the parking spot as the somewhat uncomfortable silence continued. 

He slipped the drug baggy back into the evidence locker by way of borrowing something from a more recent case. 

Vince gave him an approving nod. 

Angel waxed poetically about telling the universe your wants and how that would make it more likely to happen. Dexter had a lifetime of proof of the opposite effect. But he didn't want to be a downer. 

He should have just let Vince report him for the drug theft.

The room was stuffy and his body felt itchy and too still. He wanted desperately to leave, he wanted to move. The Narcotics Anonymous meeting hadn't even started yet and he already felt as though he'd been trapped in the musty clubhouse for far too long.

The coffee machine was broken. The donuts were practically blunt weapons. The chairs creaked and screeched with even the smallest of shifts in weight.

Why had he agreed to this? There was already so much socialization, people seemingly being honest and emotionally open with people that they only knew because of their addictions.

He did not belong here.

Even if he was an addict.

He hadn't used in the same way as any of them. He hadn't ruined his life with his addiction. He hadn't lost anything or-

"I'm Deidre and I'm an addict,"

The room repeated the woman's name almost as if they all shared a voice. (A display of human connection that he was not a part of).

"I'll be handing out the chips today, every chip comes with a hug,"

Great, physical contact, with strangers no less. How did people do this?

"Would anyone here like a desire chip, no time needed, just the desire to stay sober? Any newcomers?"

He supposed this was where he was supposed to say something.

"I'm Bob, and I'm new," he said, lamely, his skin itching like a live wire under the combined gazes of the room. 

"Hello, Bob," the room chorussed, then the clapping started and Diedre held out the metal chip. He stood and accepted it. And the handshake that the woman gave him. 

"Bob, you're in the right place," the woman said as if it were some sort of assurance. Any potential effect it could have had on him was canceled out by the fake name.

And the fact that she was wrong. He didn't belong here. He belonged on death row. Because he was a serial killer. Murder, assault, theft, interfering with police investigations, destroying evidence... If anyone in the room had any idea what his 'addiction' was like they would lock him up without a second thought. He wasn't where he was supposed to be.

There wasn't any way to make him better, there wasn't a way for him to stop. He needed to kill, and if he didn't kill within the code, eventually he would snap and hurt someone who didn't deserve it.

There was no cure for Dexter Morgan, only damage control, only channeling his violence. The code was the only medicine that worked. He had to feed the Dark Passenger, or it would consume him and everything else around him.

There was some format read. And then a topic announced. 

Acceptance. 

Accepting one's circumstances, accepting that you are an addict. That you have a problem.

Dexter might have an addiction. But his addiction wasn't the problem, it was part of the solution. The problem was that he was a monster, fucked up and twisted since the moment his mother and three other people were murdered in front of him when he was a child. 

The first addict started, talking about how pathetic his life was because he let the drugs take control of him. Then spun a tale of how accepting that he let a substance get the best of him was the first step to taking back his life. 

Dexter itched in his skin. He wasn't supposed to be here. Deidre was wrong. Why had he agreed to work a program? 

He checked his watch. 

Damnit. It hadn't even been ten minutes. 

How was he going to make it through another fifty? 

He got himself a cup of tea, at least there had been hot water. The tea was awful. Lemon and ginger, the bag said it was. 

There was way too much ginger, and instead of sour, the lemon was only bitter. 

It kicked in the back of his throat like kid's cough syrup Dorris gave him and Deb when she was still alive. He sipped it anyway.

His cup of tea only saved him from another two minutes of mind-numbing self-piteous shares. 

His biological father had thirty years when he'd died. How had he sat through thirty years worth of this? 

Dexter wasn't like that man. He didn't know anything about him, besides that he was a drug addict ex-convict that had been in a white supremacist prison gang. Overall, not much of a good picture. 

He had bowled too. 

Huh, Dexter had forgotten that. Maybe he'd inherited some of that skill? He had been just as surprised as Vince and the others when he'd wound up having a natural skill for the sport. 

He had missed two shares, lost in his own thoughts. He wished it had been more. 

Still, it hadn't reached halfway past the hour. 

He wasn't anything like these people. His addiction wasn't ruining his life, it was a big part of it, maybe the only part that was truly his, truly him. 

And he didn't want to stop. 

Meetings like this were for people who wanted to stop. 

He just wanted to be able to go back to killing the way he had before Brian. 

He already had a kill lined up. And maybe he felt a bit iffy on it, heinous murderer or not, it was odd to plot the murder of a blind man. 

He'd certainly have to adapt the photographs of the victims part, as his next target would not be able to appreciate that effort. 

He slipped a dollar into the donation basket. He may not be one of these people, but they certainly seemed to need whatever help they could get if they willingly showed up to meetings like this and talked and listened to each other's sob stories. 

He escaped into a restroom down the hallway for the last four minutes, and stayed until two after the hour just in case. 

He was not cut out for this sort of interaction and connection. Assuming these people were all telling the truth, and genuinely sharing vulnerabilities with virtual strangers.

Though some of them certainly acted as though they knew one another. 

Unfortunately, though the meeting had ended quite a few people were still lingering and mingling. 

He only just managed to dodge further conversation on his twisting path to the escape that the clubhouse exit offered him. 

Something about the experience made him feel itchy, on the edge of his seat just waiting for it to be over so he could get out of there. He may have an addiction in that he couldn't stop killing and wanting to kill, but he wasn't like them. 

He wasn't controlled by his urges. He wouldn't let them take over and ruin his life. 

The Dark Passenger pressed at the inside of his skull, whispering of blood, the peace and release of the kill. The wholeness in that one beautiful moment. 

It hadn't been like that when he killed Brian. 

It had hurt, there had been some relief, knowing for certain Deb would be safe, that his brother hadn't suffered long, that his brother's suffering was over. 

There was none of that soothing calm, he hadn't felt whole, at peace, hadn't enjoyed the quiet. 

It had felt like the quiet was mounting, surrounding him, rearing up to swallow him. He'd felt alone. 

Known that Brian had been right, that he'd just destroyed the only chance he'd had at having someone understand and accept him, destroyed the one true connection he had in the world. 

He had been alone, and the quiet had been suffocating, he'd felt as though he'd been drowning in his brother's blood, though none of it even touched him. 

"How was it?" 

Dexter jolted to the present. 

The meeting, Vince was asking him about the meeting. 

Tedious, boring. Both were true, but both also things he shouldn't say. Vince wanted him to do this because he was mistakenly worried about his boyfriend having a drug problem. He was half-sure that showing disdain for the program would only further convince his boyfriend that he was, indeed a drug addict. And possibly a troublesome one. 

"Uncomfortable," he answered, truth and lie bleeding together by omission. He would let Vince assume why it had been uncomfortable, let gum draw the favorable conclusions. 

This whole addiction lie was built by weaving half-truths into it, one of the cleverer ways to hide his inhumanity and actual nightly activities. 

Vince nodded but didn't say anything. Dexter wasn't sure if there really was anything to say that felt right. But it wasn't as if he'd ever really had a way with words or feelings. 

It was hard to talk about feelings when you didn't have any. 

Though with the trouble Deb and Vince had with talking about feelings it might also be hard to do even if you had them. 

"Are you going to tell your sister?" 

"What?" 

"I was thinking about why you'd have your stash hidden in your car when you have your own apartment, but your sister's been staying with you since the whole Ice-Truck Killer thing," 

He swallowed, the itch under his skin burning with the mention of his now-deceased brother. 

"You were hiding it from your sister, which means either she thinks you're sober or she doesn't know," 

Sometimes, between all the sex jokes and paranoia about pathogens, you could forget how skilled a forensic investigator Vince was, and how deductive reasoning was a strength of his. 

Not that Dexter thought his boyfriend was dumb or anything, he had just hoped that the whole glovebox part of why are there drugs in your glovebox would be ignored. Or that Vince would assume it had just been one of many stashes. 

But then Vince might try to find the others if Dexter allowed him to think there were more. And if there were more drugs, why would he have had to have stolen that heroin from the evidence locker? 

"Deb's gone through enough, I don't want to worry her," 

"I don't really think it's really your choice; if she worries or not," 

"She'll blame herself for not noticing, we grew up together, and I've hidden it from her this whole time," 

Vince didn't have an answer for that, no soothing words or persuasions that he had the wrong idea. He'd had a similar reaction only that morning, worry, guilt. 

"She's your sister, you felt guilty when all that Ice-Truck Killer stuff went down, right?" 

"That was different," for one thing, Dexter's addiction wasn't hurting him, he didn't kill people because he was hurting. For another, it had been his fault: Brian only targeted Debra because of her connection to him. Because she was his foster sister and Brain had been jealous of their shared childhood and the bond he and her had. 

"It's a similar principle; you were hurting, putting yourself in danger and she didn't know," 

He couldn't really argue with Vince. Taking into consideration Vince's understanding of the situation, he was probably right. But that didn't make it true, as his boyfriend didn't know the truth. 

"I just want her to focus on getting her feet back under her," 

"Maybe letting her help you will help her feel better, more like normal life?" 

It wasn't a horrible idea. Uncomfortable. But almost every aspect of his life had been uncomfortable in some way since his brother had reappeared in his life. Maybe it would even help Deb find a place of her own. 

He hoped she wouldn't take this whole... thing as an excuse to continue living with him. Something about him needing someone there to make sure he wasn’t using.

He wasn't sure if Deb would actually do that, and he wasn't sure if that course of action would be bad. On the one hand, he was killing people. Regardless of what they had done, they were people and had lives of their own and other people who cared about or relied on them. And Dexter was a killer, a murderer, a serial killer. 

He deserved to lie on that table just as they did. 

Just as Brian had deserved it. . . 

"I'll think about it," he said, knowing that Vince wouldn't easily let the matter drop. (Apparently Dexter had a knack for attracting stubborn people).

And depending on how long he had to keep up this 'recovery' ruse, he would likely be forced to tell Deb the same lies. (She would be hurt by it, he knew that, but it wouldn't hurt her as badly as the truth). (And that was why he could never tell her the truth, why he could never tell anyone).

Because Dexter was far worse than any of those people had been at the Narcotics Anonymous meeting. There was no curing him, no changing or healing him, he was broken, he was a monster, and all that could be done was damage control.

"You want to cancel on tonight?"

"Against the Alley Cats? No way," He grinned. Bowling, he was looking forward to bowling, what was his life coming to?

They beat the Alley Cats. He got two strikes and four spares. (And a good luck smack on the ass from his boyfriend, which was surprising but not bad). (Even though he and Vince both got a few weird looks about it).

It was nice to go back to the familiar charade of his life, he knew how to bowl, how to act friendly with Ramos and Angel and Vince and competitive but respectful with the other bowling teams. He also knew how to give the Sergeant tailing him an infuriatingly smarmy and innocent grin when Doakes caught his eye, watching like an obsessive stalker from the bar.

He should have known that Vince was going to encourage him to go to another meeting the next day. Something about 90 meetings in 90 days (which sounded like Dexter's personal idea of hell). (Being trapped in those rooms listening to people wax on about their troubles and how they'd let some substance wreak havoc on their lives as if they didn't have agency over their own choices).

Which is how he ended at a 7 AM meeting in some church classroom.

And how he ended up being called on to share.

"I'm Bob and I'm an addict," he said. 

"Hello Bob," echoed through the room, they were all looking at him, all listening. He was not a creature accustomed to such attention or scrutiny. They expected him to lay himself bare, tell of the highs and lows his addiction brought him to, specifically the lows. But he wasn't like them. He wasn't one of them.

So, Dexter lied through his teeth. "I use heroin," this lie his boyfriend could corroborate, even though it wasn't true, "I lost my job because of it," what else could he say? What would make someone with an addiction want to try to stop? (He didn't know, he'd never wanted to stop if he thought of killing as his addiction).

He could feel their stares on him, burning, itching into his skin. Any moment now they would know he didn't belong here, so he had to finish, had to find the right thing to say, even though they would be right, even though he really didn't belong here.

"But I uh showed my boss, and spent my last paycheck getting more, I almost died, spent a whole day so sick I didn't know who or where I was, so, um... now I'm here," he finished, hoping that he had been convincing enough. 

People clapped. He sat down, glad it was over. Once again hoping that somehow the rest of the hour will pass by faster than the first meeting had.

If anything, it passed even more slowly. If there was a God, this must be some form of punishment, not nearly enough for what Dexter had done in his life, obviously, but how the minutes stretched into uncomfortable eternities was not normal. There had to be something going on.

(He needed a kill, that was what it was, he needed a kill so badly).

The dark passenger was pressing behind his eyes, outwards from the inside of his skull. He didn't know how much longer he could go, he had his next kill lined up and everything. He just needed some way to dodge his concerned boyfriend and the Sergeant.

He tried to grab a snack from the table. The donuts were stale enough to cave in a skull or easily knock some teeth out. (Which is impressive, he didn't know that donuts could get that hard). He found himself trying to say the closing prayer thing with everyone else. (Though he stayed firmly out of hand-holding reach).

This place had a functional coffee pot at least.

"I wouldn't if I were you, the coffee is nearly as bad at the donuts,"

He turned; the strangely British voice came from a vaguely familiar woman, short and paler than anyone living in Miami ought to be, with long, dark hair. He might have seen her in the other meeting he'd been at the day before. Or maybe he had seen a different woman with dark hair.

"It's better next door, come on," she said, turning and walking away, not waiting to see if he followed or not.

Well... he was pretty sure he couldn't say no. And he did need some caffeine before work.

She sat at a booth in the diner, red pleather seats with a single fat white stripe down the center. The booths seemed to be well cleaned, with nothing sticky or staining the seats or table. (He wasn't sure if he had been checking out of his own need for cleanliness or if his boyfriend's germaphobia was rubbing off on him).

The coffee was pretty good, better than most diner coffee.

"Thank you, it is good," he said, reaching for a sugar packet. No matter how good the coffee might be, he was not Debra or Vince, he did not enjoy drinking his coffee black. He had a sweet tooth, and it certainly made itself known when it came to caffeinated beverages.

"So tell me," the woman said, clearing her throat and folding her hands on the table in front of her, leaning over the table towards him, "Exactly how full of shit are you?"

She knew. She knew he was lying. That he didn't belong. She knew.  

"I'm not full of anything," he scoffed, smiling as if this was some sort of honest misunderstanding, alarm bells ringing in his head. He couldn't afford another Sergeant Doakes type situation. He used the spoon (spotless, well-cleaned that he could see) and stirred the sugar into his cup.

"It was a nice performance in there, but it was a performance," the woman said, not quite grinning but certainly watching him with calculating, observant eyes, "Where did you get it from, Addict.com?"

"I have no reason to lie,"

It was her turn to scoff, and almost laugh, "We all have reasons to lie."

Okay, a different direction then, "You thought I was lying?" He tried to push some of that insulted tone into it, pulling the mask into a frown. 

"I dunno... Bob,"

She had him there. "It is anonymous," he reasoned, taking a sip of his now-sweetened coffee.

"Everyone in that room has lived or heard way worse than anything you've ever done," the woman said, amused with him as if he was some sort of misguided child. 

He can't help but scoff, "I doubt it," the people in that room weren't serial killers. They hadn't stabbed, sliced, strangled, or bludgeoned almost sixty people then dismembered the bodies and dumped them into the ocean.

"Oh," she cooed, mocking, "So you're the super-junkie,"

"I don't mean to imply that what you've been through wasn't difficult," he said, non-confrontal as his mask often was.

"But there's no way, I could know what it is that you experienced?" 

He gives her a tight grin, his silent agreement.

"There's no way I could feel that need, like a thousand tiny voices, whispering: this is who you are," 

He froze. She knew. She could see him.

"And you fight the pressure," she continued, he wanted her to stop, "The growing need rising like a wave, prickling and teasing and prodding to be fed." How did she know?

He swallowed, feeling as if the few short sips of coffee he had were going to come back up, burn up his esophagus with bile.

"But the whispering gets louder, until it's screaming 'now!' And it's the only voice you hear, the only voice you want to hear,"

She could see him. She knew.

"And you belong to it, to this shadow in you, this shadow self, to this-"

"-dark passenger," he hadn't said those words aloud to another person since Harry was alive. He didn't know why he had said them now. 

This woman, she knew about it, she could see it in him. She could recognize his demons. She could recognize the monster.

"I need to go," his voice is quiet, toneless, he had been that a lot, lately. But he couldn't stay a minute longer with this woman. She could see it in him, recognize the dark passenger.

He already had Doakes breathing down his neck, what if she wasn't the only one who could recognize it? What if everyone in the program could?

He couldn't afford that level of scrutiny. He couldn't risk it. Doakes was enough to deal with on his own. Paul was still probably trying to convince Rita that Dexter had been the one to knock him out and shoot him full of heroin to send him back to prison...

And Vince... well... he'd just have to understand that this program couldn't work for him. That it wouldn't work for him.

There was probably something else he could try. Something else he could do to convince his boyfriend that he wasn't going to relapse or steal more drugs from their place of work or whatever. He wasn't actually an addict, so he would have a much easier time staying clean on his own than by going to these programs and horribly tedious meetings. 

Vince would understand. He would.

Vince did not understand.

Which is how he was stuck in a hushed argument in the enclosed lab space with the blinds drawn and doors closed for privacy. 

"These meetings, they're not good for me! Nothing good will come from me going to them!" he was trying to be nonchalant, trying not to show how frazzled the woman from that morning had made him. Trying to seem secure and confident in his judgment but also reasonable and correct, it was a helluva balancing act.

"You've been to two of them," Unfortunately, Vince had a point there.

"I've read a bunch of studies they say that I'm just as likely to stay clean on my own as with help from doctors and programs,"

"You haven't even tried to work the program yet," unfortunately Vince was having a lot of good points today. 

"It's not going to be good for me."

"No." Vince cut him off. Giving him a hard glare. "You don't want to get better, that's it, isn't it?" He didn't think he had ever seen Vince look quite like this before, equal parts disappointed and hurting, and angry.

He'd done that. (He hadn't meant to, he hadn't wanted to, he didn't want to upset Vince...)

But Vince was right. (He just didn't know that there wasn't any getting better, that Dexter was far worse than some drug addict).

"I-" he tried-

"Don't lie to me." Vince said, his eyes cold behind his glasses, his jaw set. "I've known you for twelve years, I knew you were like this," his boyfriend sighed heavily. 

Dexter didn't know where this was going, but he didn't like how quiet and empty his boyfriend sounded. How bleak and resigned he was acting. (He had done that). (He hadn't meant to do that). (He didn't want to drag anyone else down because of him, because of how fucked up he was...)

"I knew that you never seem to get that people give a shit about you," he scoffed, "Do you even care? Why are we even seeing each other?"

He- he didn't like that question. He didn't like that Vince was asking it. It made something in his stomach twist. (That wasn't an act... he didn't know why or what was happening but he didn't like that Vince was asking that question). 

"I like you, I like being with you," his voice is quiet, a near whisper. It was true. He liked Vince. 

He wasn't sure if Vince believed him or not. He didn't like that, the not knowing. Maybe that was what Vince didn't like about him not believing that Vince (or anyone) really cared about him.

"Then try the damn program. I know you don't care about yourself, at least fucking let me care about you! I'm your boyfriend! Right?" 

"You are," he answered, softly. "I'll try."

"Don't do this for me, I want you to try to do it for you,"

Dexter nodded. He wasn't sure if it would work if he even could. It wasn't like the program would actually help. But he supposed he could try to want to do it for himself, to try to want to get better. At least about the letting people care stuff. His addiction, if he could even say he had one (he could... that need... the dark passenger whisper-screaming in his head all hours of the day and night...) wasn't going to get any better.

Especially not with a blind murderer scheduled for an appointment on his table.

But he could at least try to keep up the recovery ruse for longer. (It had only been a day and a half, and already that task seemed way more daunting than maybe it should have been).

A fist pounded on the door, rattling the blinds. 

"You freaks better not be fucking in there," Great, Sergeant Doakes, exactly what he needed right now. 

Dexter rolled his eyes, something was surely plotting against him.

"What?" He asked, opening the door. 

"Crime scene," the Sergeant said, watching him like a fucking hawk. 

"I need to buy a hex," he said. The shop was poorly lit, but it was hardly Jimmy's fault, it wasn't like the man could see.

"What kind?" 

"A death curse," this was Jimmy's specialty, death curses that happened to come true due to the fact he dosed each of the targets with ricin. 

"We don't sell that kind of shit here," Jimmy was lying obviously. 

Dexter placed a roll of cash on the counter, "I'm not a tourist," he assured, "I know you're the man with a god in his mouth, and I want a death curse," 

The blind man tilted his head, fingers running over the bills. 

"Follow me," 

Dexter followed, uncapping the pre-filled syringe of M99 as he did.

"Who do you wish to die?" 

"You," Dexter said simply, pushing the needle into the man's throat and pushing the depressor down with his thumb. In a moment he had an unconscious and blind serial poisoner in his arms. 

The ritual was intoxicating. 

Duct tape, plastic wrap, plastic sheeting. Laying everything out just so.

The dark passenger thrummed in his veins, hungry, ready. This was what he needed, the chance he'd been waiting for for weeks. A night to himself again.

A night to be himself again. No Doakes or NA to stop him.

A kill. A heinous murderer that deserved to be on his table. A kill that hadn't forced his hand.

Jimmy pretended to be possessed by some ghost or god or something, it was almost funny. The things people would say to try and get off his table, it was entertaining a little bit, sometimes overdone, cliched, and annoying.

"Knock it off, I know those death curses only worked because you'd dosed them with ricin,"

Jimmy Sensio was prepared, ready to pay the price for his crimes. For the innocent lives he'd ended.

Dexter was ready, he had been ready for days. Ready for a kill for weeks. The itch and pressure were under his skin absolutely maddening.

Dexter was ready for his next kill, the next red drop for his slide collection. Ready for the quick conversation, to make sure Jimmy knew exactly what was happening and why.

He had lost his stalker and provided an excuse to both his boyfriend and sister.

Everything was ready. Dexter was ready for the kill. Knife in hand, poised over center mass, all he had to do was bring it down.

He couldn't.

He had the knife held over the man's chest, it was shaking. His hands were shaking. (He didn't know why).

There was something in the man's unseeing, glassy eyes. He didn't know what it was.

Brain's eyes had been glassy, in the end, teary. The only killer Dexter had ever wanted to set free. The killer who while tied to a table spoke of how Dexter was the one needing to be freed.

The last time he'd held a knife over someone it had been Brian. It had been Biney. His big brother.

He hadn't wanted to. (He had never wanted to hurt Biney). (But he couldn't let him hurt Deb).

And now, with shaking hands, looking down into the glassy, unseeing eyes of the murderer strapped down to his table... he couldn't.

Dexter couldn't kill the man. The murderer.

The dark passenger screamed at him. An endless chorus pressing from the inside out, ready to shred him to pieces and pop his skull open like an over-filled water balloon. He didn't know why he couldn't. He wanted to.

He wanted to kill the man.

But he couldn't raise the knife (when had his hand fallen to his side?), he couldn't stop the shaking.

He didn't know what was happening to him.

He felt like he was the one trapped, naked, exposed, cold, tied down, and ready to be slaughtered. Cut into little bloody pieces and strewn about where no one would ever find him. (What he deserved).

He cut the man, the murderer loose.

Tore down the plastic, packed everything away. What was happening to him?

Got into his car and drove.

He found himself in the parking lot of the clubhouse where he'd been to the first meeting. There were people walking in. The lights were on the inside.

He didn't know why he was there. Why he had let the man go. What was wrong with him.

He found himself walking in, numb, still wearing his kill clothes.

Words wash over him. People's shares, their stories. How they'd found the program, how long it took them to stay.

He didn't get called on.

"The last ten minutes of the meeting are reserved for burning desires, if you feel you are struggling with the want to use, please share now," the chairperson announced. (He didn't know how one got about to being the chairperson, what authority it involved). 

He should speak up. Say something. He'd come here. On his own, he'd come to a meeting. 

There had to be a reason why. He had come here and he should probably say something. If killing was his addiction then... then he definitely qualified in this "burning desires" thing. 

"My name is Dexter," he sounded shaken, as empty as he usually felt, he barely heard the room echo his name (his actual name), "I had everything laid out, I was just about to do it, to use, and I couldn't. I don't- I don't know what's happening to me," he was looking at his hands, they weren't shaking anymore, but he felt like they should be, like maybe they were, but shaking in such a small way that it couldn't be seen by the human eye, only felt.

The dark passenger whispered, told him to stand up, to leave, that tonight had only been a fluke, that he still had time to find Jimmy Sensio and finish what he had set out to do. Or that he could find someone else, someone better to kill, maybe someone he couldn't pity.

"I wanted to use. I know I'll want it tomorrow, I've wanted- I've needed it my whole life," he had not been honest with anyone in a long time. Not since Brian. (But Brian hadn't understood, he had accepted and said he understood but he hadn't, he wanted to control, he wanted Dexter to himself). "But, tonight... I think I don't want to want it anymore," he hadn't meant to share that much, to ever share. He wasn't an honest monster.

He was a thing of lies wrapped around lies. Truth was not something he was well versed in, especially not sharing it. Especially not sharing his truth. 

"Thank you, Dexter," the room affirmed, with ten voices melding together into one. He wondered if this was what it was like to be a part of something. (But he didn't belong here, he didn't really belong, there was nowhere a monster like him belonged). (He hadn't even belonged with Brian, he hadn't been like Brian, he could never be like Brian).

He didn't belong in the Narcotics Anonymous meeting, but for a moment, he almost wanted to.

He left as soon as it ended. Something heavy in his stomach, but a weight off of his shoulders. He got into his car and drove. Before anyone from the meeting could catch up to him. (He didn't want to be reminded, of how he really didn't belong, even if he'd fooled those people into thinking he did). 

He ended up at Vince's place, knocking on the door at what must have been past midnight.

Vince pulled open the door, wearing a silk bathrobe with dragons on it and holding a revolver. (Since when had Vince had a gun?)

"I went to another meeting," he said, "I think, I want to try,"

Vince blinked a few slow blinks, licked his lips, and nodded. "Okay."

Okay. Now what? 

"Why do you have a gun?" he found himself asking.

"I'm supposed to psychically know that it's my boyfriend pounding on my door at 11:30 at night?"

Dexter supposed that was fair.