Work Text:
Children.
The bringers of joy, a purpose to life, a reason to get up in the morning, to want to make the world a better place.
And they generated So. Much. Washing.
Harry blinked at the overspilling wicker basket; it had been empty yesterday. Now it seemed the entire contents of his children’s wardrobes were stuffed into it. And he hadn’t even got round to adding his own shirts to the pile yet. With a heavy sigh he hoisted the offending basket, and made his way back down the hallway, peeking briefly into Debra’s, then Dexter’s room as he passed. It was the glint of light reflected off metal that caught his detective’s eye and stopped him in his tracks. It was from the catch of an unassuming, unfamiliar, plain wooden box, perched somewhat haphazardly on Dexter’s desk, out of place in his usually highly organised and neat room. Basket dumped unceremoniously against the wall, all but forgotten, he padded over softly despite the otherwise empty house. It had been a rush that morning, the school bus arriving early, clearly distracting Dexter enough that he had forgotten to squirrel the box away to wherever it was usually hidden. Harry let his fingers stroke the lid edge. He shouldn’t look, Dexter was a teenager now, and he deserved an element of privacy. But then, the sorts of things Dexter would want to hide, definitely shouldn’t be. Holding his breath, Harry opened the box with slightly shaking fingers, feeling himself exhale heavily as it revealed only a plain black work book. Carefully pulling it out, Harry frowned at the collection of random assortments it revealed underneath, a few small metal discs, a couple of feathers, and clumps of fur stuck between sellotape. Placing the book aside, Harry picked one of the discs up, a blue oval with a small hole at the top. Flipping it in his palm, it revealed the word ‘BUDDY’ etched onto it. His hand jerked, the disc falling back down with a metallic clunk, and he slammed the lid shut, loud in the quiet house. He knew exactly what he’d stumbled upon.
Trophies.
Momentos of Dexter’s kills. This wasn’t part of the code, certainly not something Harry had taught him, which meant…
Dexter had done this, because he had wanted or needed to. Some inherent, sick instinct that apparently he shared with others like him.
Harry shuddered.
The book, unassuming and unmarked tugged at Harry’s fraying nerves. A diary? Perhaps the raw and unabridged words of Dexter’s deepest thoughts were within. Unable to fight the rising dread, Harry carefully picked it up, let the pages flick silently between his hands. Not a diary, but a scrapbook. Various neatly arranged newspaper clippings of…Harry’s eyes skimmed the headlines and pictures before closing his eyes, feeling sick.
Dexter was collecting stories and snippets of serial killers. Because of course he was.
Connection?
Inspiration?
…Admiration?
Each thought was worse than the last. Harry pinched at the crease between his eyebrows, felt his eyes prickle. He should be finding playboys, a poorly made fake ID, hell, even a bag of weed would be more welcome. It seemed no matter how much he tried to convince himself Dexter was almost normal, had a shred of typical teenage boy about him things like…he eyed the box with distaste, whatever that was, proved him wrong.
Harry mentally shook himself as he carefully placed the cursed scrapbook back, ignoring the trinkets below, wishing it was just as easy to cover up the evidence of Dexter’s different-ness as closing a lid.
No.
He had to stop trying to make Dexter fit a mould he wasn’t shaped for. He might not be able to make him normal, but he could certainly teach him to act it. Although he’d have to speak to Dexter about getting better at hiding things that shouldn’t be found, that much was obvious.
As for the trophies, well, Harry wasn’t sure he was ready to open that particular pandora’s box quite yet. Not sure he ever would be. It was a little too real, too outside of his comfort zone. An admission of something he couldn’t quite put into words.
A conversation for another day.