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Dexter is smiling.
A perfect symmetrical upturn of his lips, cheeks every so lightly dimpled, eyes crinkled slightly, the sweep of his fringe curling across his forehead, peeking out from under the mortar board perched on his head. He looks real, natural, charming even-
‘Killer.’
Harry jolts back to himself, startled, cold dread pooling in his stomach.
‘What?’ He hears himself splutter, throat going dry, as he glances to his side at the sudden appearance of a man stood next to him. He vaguely recognises him from drop offs and pick ups for various after school clubs and events. Pete, his brain offers after a few beats.
Pete doesn’t seem to notice the glob of jam that drips down his shirt as he gestures to Dexter and the rest of the gown and cap clad students of his graduating year he’s attempting to fit in with. He takes an oversized bite of doughnut before continuing, voice muffled slightly, ‘Ah said, it’s a killer. I’m sure it was only yesterday they were holding our hands and wanting a bedtime story, now look at them, all grown up.’
Harry considers, Dexter had never voluntarily held his hand, repulsed by most physical displays of affection, and certainly hadn’t wanted bedtime stories read to him, at least, not the sort Harry would ever admit to in polite company. The police homicide reports and autopsy transcripts stolen by Dexter from Harry’s briefcase weren’t exactly suburban approved parenting materials one brought up at a high school graduation in casual conversation.
‘Indeed, where does the time go?’ Harry replies instead, truthfully, because it certainly feels like it was only yesterday he was stumbling across Dexter’s animal graveyard, and all his previously half-dismissed, hand waved-away worries were realised with a crushing panic that hadn’t really gone away since.
Dexter looks over, notices Harry watching him, and makes a beeline towards him, without so much as a backward glance or goodbye to the people he was attempting small talk with. Harry makes a mental note to go over social etiquette later, again, but he knows what he’s after, reassurance he was doing it right, being normal.
He stops directly in front of Harry, eyes darting to Pete, and Harry hates he can tell Dexter zeroes in on the red drip stain briefly, pupils dilating wide for a fraction of a second before his gaze snaps back. Pete pats the back of his shoulder amicably with a slightly sticky hand leaving the faintest of sugary handprints behind, and ambles off to a group of parents chatting to the principle. Harry steps to the side, blocking Dexter’s view of everyone.
‘Having fun?’ He asks lightly, fingering Dexter’s gown collar and taking a sip of the root beer he’s been nursing for the past twenty minutes. It’s already slightly watered down, ice cubes melting quickly in the stifling heat of the sports hall, optimistically decked out to hide the ageing gym equipment and smell of teenage sweat and sneaker rubber with balloons, streamers and an oversized hand-painted banner proclaiming ‘HAPPY GRADUATION CLASS OF ’87’.
‘No.’ Dexter says dully, his face drooping into neutrality, all trace of smile gone now he’s no longer on parade. ‘It’s bad enough I had to spend everyday with these people at school pretending to like them, I don’t see why I have to do it in my spare time too.’
Harry can’t help the sigh that leaves his lips. This is a well worn battle.
‘Dexter, you-‘
‘-I know I know.’ He grumbles, frowning slightly, a crease between his forehead. ‘Blend In.’ Harry can almost hear the exasperated capitalisation in Dexter’s tone. ‘I’d just rather be at home, or-’ he stops abruptly, purses his lips together, eyes cast down at his feet. Harry knows where he’d rather be, or what he’d rather be doing, more to the point. Their hunting trips have increased in frequency and fervency recently, not seeming to quieten whatever dark need possesses Dexter the way they used to. Harry isn’t sure if it’s a hormone thing or an escalation thing. At least these days he’s more forthright about telling him.
Debra ends the moment, bounding over and wrapping her arms around Harry in a tight hug. He kisses the side of her head, hair tickling his nose, and she steps back, eyes glistening, before slapping Dexter on the arm, who is back on form, smiling at her.
‘That ceremony sucked ass, I can’t believe no more Shep' High for you. You’re Dex the fucking college freshman now.’
‘Deb, language.’ Harry says, almost reflexively at this point. It goes ignored.
‘You going to miss this fucking dump?’ She looks at her brother expectantly, ignoring the disapproving huff Harry lets out.
‘I’m looking forward to starting my studies.’ Dexter says carefully, eyes flicking to Harry briefly, searching for approval again. Waxing poetry about finally being able to cut into bodies hadn’t made the Harry-approved list of acceptable ways to talk about starting pre-med at the University of Miami.
‘I can’t believe my two babies are growing up so fast.’ Harry throws an arm around each of their shoulders as the school newspaper photographer, a spectacled dark haired junior, appears in front of them with an oversized bulky camera, motioning at them to shuffle closer. As they stand side by side, camera clicking aggressively, Harry tries to ignore the fact that not only is Dexter taller than him now, he’s filling out, fast growing out of his gawky teenager phase. Apparently satisfied, moment caught, the photographer moves on.
Debra’s name is called, and she squeals in unhindered joy as she untangles herself to bound over to where Sophia is beckoning her in the far corner, where a group of the volleyball team are congregating for a team photo. Beside him, Harry watches as his son’s face slackens into bored intensity.
He takes another casual sip of tepid beer, checks they’re out of earshot from the nearest group before leaning into Dexter’s space, voice low and calm.
‘You make it through the rest of today, then this weekend, I promise.’
Eyes snap to his, bright and hopeful, smile as real as it ever gets.