Chapter Text
Dexter had always been fractured.
He knew this. Harry knew this. There was no doubt that Dexter Morgan was not a normal child. Harry understood why; Dexter did not. Not yet. Young Dexter never knew why he lost time, why he had these voices whispering to him, why he felt like he was possessed by a killer... But Harry knew.
From a young age, Harry taught him- them- to be normal. To be one person. He wasn’t allowed to be fractured- Dexter Morgan was normal. He had to be normal.
“You all need to work together,” Harry told them. “You need to protect eachother. Even if you don’t want to. Because even if you aren’t the one in control, your safety is at risk, too.”
Always a risk.
Throughout childhood, “Dexter” heard a multitude of voices. Like a radio playing several channels at once, all moving at the same too-quick speed. Some loud, some angry, some whispers, some false promises. Over time, as Harry trained them collectively, the total headcount had shrunk. The fewer of them, the better. Less loose ends, more control- whatever it was, the reasoning why was not important to them, not yet; As far as the team was aware, they were down to three active parts:
Dex, the socialite who made the team appear normal: the smiles, the jokes, and the kisses with Rita. He gave piggyback rides to Astor and Cody and brought donuts to his coworkers. He is what the world sees of Dexter Morgan, or so they all hoped. His name clearly came from their adoptive family’s loving nickname, as none of the pieces felt they owned the name “Dexter”. But the nicknamed part was the mask for the rest of them, pretending to be the happy, loving brother and boyfriend. Whether he actually felt the emotions he portrayed was another question, even unknown to the others. But as long as he got the job done, it didn’t matter.
Morgan, the nonfeeling operator who kept their whole life in one perfect piece, even if their mind was in many. He paid the bills, he did the blood analysis, he did it all with a stone face and monotone words. He took his namesake after his adoptive father, as if it would help him uphold Harry’s Code better. He felt nothing; there was no reason to. He worried only about following their internal set of rules set by their father and keeping the body safe. Maintaining the veil of normalcy was all that mattered to him. He was the watcher, always in the backseat. In case something went wrong, Morgan would jump out and handle it.
And, unfortunately most important, their Dark Passenger. The constant urge that the other two had to suppress. The hardest to control. It was Morgan’s job to decide who got to come out when, but even within their mind they knew it was a facade. The Dark Passenger came out when he wanted to, when he was ready to strike. Morgan, to keep him at bay, would research potential undesirables in his own time, murmuring information to the enemy within his mind. But when it was Time, when the Luck shone upon them, the Dark Passenger put the other two to sleep. The Dark Passenger did what he did best.
Friday morning, six AM. Morgan woke up with no remembrance of the night before. Nothing new, and it didn’t take much brainpower to figure it out; he only had two options- date night or murder.
Morgan made his way over to the bookshelf, where he and the Dark Passenger together hid the slides. The leader counted each slide with the same carefulness he used each morning, to find the number had stayed the same. Date night, then. It had been over two weeks now since a small blood drop had been added to their collection, and Morgan was beginning to have an inkling of worry. But Morgan couldn’t afford to worry- he had to protect the three of them. The Dark Passenger had to do his killing, and Morgan had to cover it up. They had a pact.
Dex had very little clue about their doings. Morgan had instructed him through letters and notes and often murmurs in his ear that he needed to be careful with what he did, that the other people in his mind weren’t as kind as he. Very careful reminders that they were a team, and their safety and Harry’s Code were the most important above all.
During childhood, while the team was still learning to hide their... brokenness, Deborah and Doris commented on Dexter’s memory problems and “mood shifts” often. Deborah always teased her brother for his “lazy” memory and mood swings the most, but Harry always had an excuse. We had a rough hunt today, he did badly on a math test today, we got into an argument... always punctuated with a leave him alone.
Alone. Just as they should be.
Morgan dressed them for work, deciding to pick Dex’s favorite shirt in hopes of bringing him out faster. Yesterday, Morgan had to “space out” in front of the mirror for nearly 45 minutes until he felt himself go back within. Morgan was not one to budget time for their... nonsense.
Dex opened his eyes, blinking away the blurriness. The night before was a beautiful family night- he made breakfast for dinner for the kids and the four of them watched an animated movie he’d never heard of. Rita gasped when he said this- “Dexter, this is a classic! How have you not seen it?” -and popped open the DVD case with more force than necessary. He even considered sleeping over- he was allowed to, time to time, but he wasn’t the best with internal communication.
Rita had no idea about their fracturedness. On a few occasions, she would stop by the apartment unannounced, interrupting Morgan’s time. He was not good at pretending to be Dex, and he was even worse at physical contact. Both things he would really need right now. It had even sparked a small argument within the couple one time, with Rita shocked at the sudden shift in mood. “What happened today, Dexter? You aren’t yourself. I’m worried.” Over and over. Morgan excused himself to the bathroom, stared into the mirror, and tried his best to give Dex the rundown as he came forward. It was a close call, but definitely not their first.
Morgan felt like the ringleader of the three. He was not the original- the Dark Passenger was the reason Harry had to train them in the first place. They each had their own lessons. Morgan and the Dark Passenger worked on covering their tracks and killing quietly, respectively. But with Morgan specifically, Harry taught him to appear normal and sociable. It was intended that he be the socialite, but after Harry’s death, the mirror that was Dexter Morgan’s mind shattered one piece more. Dex was born, and Morgan was left to be the non-feeling organizer. He preferred his current role, anyway.
Dex finished his hearty breakfast with room for more, as he usually did. Most mornings, he wondered if the other two ate anything at all. A donut would help his hunger, along with his social status, and cops all love donuts- a very lucky stereotype.
“Morning, Dex.” Deb greeted him in the bullpen. It felt nice to be addressed by his name, to not bear the title “Dexter” constantly. Without asking, she reached into the donut box and took out Masuoka’s favorite, the jumbo cinnamon roll. Whether it was out of spite was unknown to Dex. Morgan would’ve probably known. He knew the most about... well, everything in their life. “Doakes is going to come after you for that supermarket blood analysis; he’s been barking about it all morning.”
“Thanks for the heads up, I’ll be sure to get to it next week.” He winked. “Let me finish passing these out, and I’ll get it done.”
“Do it snappy before he slaps the whole box onto the floor.” Deb giggled through a full mouth as Dex walked away.
Entering the archive room, Dex smiled at his favorite library aide. “Good morning, ma’am. Brought your favorite!”
“Oh, what would I do without you?” She swooned. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, dear. I was a little worried when you left.” Taking her donut, she lifted a thick file. “Here’s the report you asked for the other day, but what does a psych eval have to do with blood?”
Dex blinked. He knew nothing of this, and Morgan seemed too far away to be feeding information. “Um, light reading, you know?”
“Light reading? Light reading is a chapter book,” She laughed. “not a fifty-page Billy Milligan report. But suit yourself, you’ve always been the inquisitive type.” A fond smile spread across her face. “Like your father.”
“I’ll, uh, let you know if it’s any good.” Dex flashed his charming smile and took the thick booklet. She smiled behind her pastry as he left. Dex dropped the donuts off at the bullpen desk, feeling his control on the body quickly fading the longer he held the file.
Working his way to his office, he could feel his grip on reality fading. Noises became quieter, his sight seemed to dim, and he began watching himself move from outside his body. None of his actions seemed to be his own, but they made it to his desk anyway. The last thing Dex remembered was softly shutting their office door.
Lunging into the driver’s seat, Morgan opened his eyes. He was the only one of the three who could take in information while he wasn’t in control. His file arrived. This was important. One of his objectives was to figure out how the criminal justice system handled their... problem. It wasn’t until the body was 17 that Harry finally let it slip there was a term for them- Multiple Personality disorder. Of course, nowadays it was considered Dissociative Identity disorder, but the team had always referred to themselves as multiple, and it’s what Harry called them, so that’s what they used.
The file started off with the little information Morgan was already aware of before he put in the special request for the file- Milligan grew up with an alcoholic, depressive father who eventually took his own life, and then an abusive step-father that was the root of his multiplicity. While his case wasn’t as serious as murder, it was the first place to start when questioning what the legal system would do to Morgan & co. if they were ever to get caught. After armed robbery and sexual assault cases, Milligan was committed to a psych ward. The Dark Passenger rumbled at the idea of being in a hospital forever, while other killers remained free to walk the earth. Morgan needed to do more reading, that’s for sure. The case was far too old to create a hypothesis from, anyway. A wonder crossed Morgan’s mind- Harry would’ve been in his adulthood when the case broke, did it contribute to his knowledge for his son? Regardless, the file was useless. He furrowed his brow and closed the file.
“Morgan!” Doakes barked.
Fuck my life. “Supermarket blood analysis, I’m working on it.” He responded sourly, not straying his gaze from the manila folder.
“Fuckin’ looks like it. Save your archive reading for off the job and do what you get paid for. Always leering around... You think I’m not on to you, Morgan, but you’re dead wrong.”
Morgan pursed his lips. He pushed the file aside and booted up his laptop. “Supermarket blood analysis.” He turned to give Doakes the eye contact he craved. “I’m working on it.”
Doakes had a flash of surprise ripple through him- if you could even call it that, with his stoicness. “Fuckin’ creep...” He muttered as he exited the multiple’s office.
Morgan finished the report without further interruption. He watched Masuoka attempt to enter the office, but when his eyes landed on Morgan’s stern and focused look, as if he were trying to get the laptop to explode with his mind, the man turned right around just as Doakes had.
Blood in one aisle, body in the next, smudges here and smudges there. His job was to figure out the weapon based on the splatter and how they managed to get to another aisle before collapsing and spilling very little blood. So far, the theory was that the attacker carried the victim in an attempt to undo their wrongs, but was discovered. Either way, the poor boy didn’t make it. Very murky waters at the Miami PD today.
It was about an hour before Morgan usually took his lunch- Dex preferred an early lunch, Morgan the opposite- Deborah appeared in his doorway. The familiar warmth of Dex’s present flooded Morgan’s consciousness, and he needed to make this transition fast and as unnoticeable as possible. Morgan could not stand Deborah. “He’s my dad, you know. I wish he never adopted you.” Morgan held the majority of the memories. He held the resentment, as well.
Morgan put his head in his hands, blocking out the light. He took in a deep breath, conjuring up thoughts of Dex. Rita, the kids, sunny days on the bea.....
“-llooooo? Dexter? Are you okay?”
Dex rubbed his eyes and tried to take in his surroundings. He found himself relieved to still be in their office; he tended to always be in the worst of places when he took control. “Hey. Sorry.” He took in another deep breath, letting it out exaggeratedly. “Got too into my work. Doakes came and lectured me, as you said. He just kept going on. Had to finish it up fast.”
“Well, let’s get some food to make you feel better. I’m not, er, working the corner today, and I’m fucking staaaarvvv-ing.” She groaned exaggeratedly.
Morgan, from the back seat, was fine with giving up control for the rest of the day; he had gotten the important work done and everything else Dex could finish. While Morgan held the reins, Dex could handle his own for an afternoon. Morgan let himself fade into nothingness as Dex made lunch plans.
Morgan opened his eyes three days later. He sat upright in his bed- he had no idea how long it had been, but he knew it was more than the agreed-upon 8ish hours he swapped with Dex for. What happened? Who was out? The body felt sore and strained. Had the Dark Passenger gone on a hunt? Had Dex done some heavy lifting or a certain activity with Rita? Either event would’ve warranted a note for the others, Morgan hoped.
With shaking hands, he opened their shared notebook. Nothing, other than a report on Dex’s lunch with Deborah from the last time they switched control. Nothing after that. Nothing. As soon as they got home, the person in control wrote down their doings in the notebook. It was a rule! Harry’s rule! The Dark Passenger even did it- even if in code. Sometimes it’d be something short- priest or child rapist, or both. But always something. But today the page remained blank, laughing in Morgan’s face.
What happened since Friday at 2? Morgan scrawled quickly. He closed his eyes, doing his best to relinquish control, even though a part of him worried that he wouldn’t get it back. After going in and out, in and out, what felt like nearly an hour, he opened his eyes.
lunch w/ deb, then you came back right? Dex’s handwriting read back to him. Dex never stayed to hang around as Morgan did; he never concerned himself with anything more than he had to be.
Nothing yet. Awaiting your research. The Dark Passenger’s impeccable writing responded. Though he was hard to tame, he did abide by the rules that were set. He knew better than to risk them, to risk their secret, even if it meant swallowing down the strong urges he felt.
Panic settled into Morgan’s bones. Three days, gone. It was now Monday morning, and he had no clue what the body had done since Deborah walked into his office. Should he take the day off, retrace his steps? He thought fast. Rita!
With shaking hands (my hands never shake; I need to be calm, oh god, we’re going to get caught), he called “his” girlfriend. After four rings, she picked up with a sour tone. “Hey, Dexter. Nice of you to finally call.”
“Hm?” Morgan did his best to imitate his other side. “I’m sorry, Rita, did I uh... miss a phone call?”
“Dexter, you were supposed to watch the kids! You agreed you’d watch them Saturday so I could use that spa gift-card you got me! We had an agreement!” Right. Morgan knew this- it was in the botebook and on their shared calendar. She sighed on the other line. “I called the babysitter, and she came, but... You never stand me up like that. What happened?”
“I...” Morgan hesitated, feeling a familiar warmth. He surprisingly gave in to Dex’s will and let him take control. Morgan stayed nearby, though- he would not be having a repeat of this incident.
“I’m so sorry, Rita,” Dex said with sincerity. Making lies up on the spot was one of Morgan's specialties, but Dex was the one who really sold it. “It’s Deb, she... god, she... she fell and got a concussion chasing a suspect on Saturday, and I’ve been taking care of her since. I’m so sorry, I should’ve called. That was a horrible thing for me to do to you.”
Rita thought for a moment. “Is she okay?” She asked quietly.
“Yeah, she will be. Just, um, a headache for a while, I guess. I’m really sorry, Rita. Let me... let me make it up to you?”
She sighed. “You’re too good a guy, Dexter... I can’t be mad at you even if I wanted to. I’m sorry for being so hostile. But,” She had a hint of a smile in her voice. “I will let you make it up to me. Thursday night?”
“No matter what, I’ll be there,” Dex promised. He paused. “I gotta get ready for work, but.. I’ll call you, I promise.”
“Thanks, Dexter. I’ll talk to you later-”
Morgan was already back in control, hanging up the phone. The next thing he did was what he should have done first- checking the glass slides. Exactly as he suspected- or feared- there were no new ones. Dex and the Dark Passenger both did not front for the past three days... who was it?
This was not a unique event. There were some nights when nobody knew who had taken over, but it was never more than an afternoon, never three days. Morgan was not letting Dex take full control today. Or ever, until he sorted this mess out. He promised Harry he wouldn’t let their secret out, that the demons in their closet would stay locked up tight, and that he would keep those Harry loved safe. Speaking of which, the collective’s answering machine had its light blinking.
Tito’s Cafe Cubano, neighboring the motel. The whole area was cordoned off with police tape, a bright warning that called all reporters across the Miami area. Thankfully, it appeared the guard at the tape recognized Morgan’s face (while Morgan had no clue who the man was- maybe one of Dex’s police friends, but clearly not close enough to stop for a chat) and let him by.
Morgan was surprised to see Deborah’s.... attire. Dex probably would’ve had something smart to say about her very bright pink tube top, but Morgan couldn’t care less. “Deborah. Nice outfit.”
“Shut up.” She glared. The short ripped jean shorts did nothing to conceal the thong on her hips. The sunglasses on her head quickly made their way onto her face. “They found another of my girls in the pool.”
“Another?” Morgan feigned surprise.
“Cut up like fuckin’ Thanksgiving dinner.” She shook her head, her long earrings swaying with her. “Third one in five months. It’s official- Miami has a new serial killer. A sick fuck, too. The others were in Broward County, where-”
“The cops don’t do anything. Yeah, everyone knows how bad Broward is.”
“Shut up, let me finish. Chopped up insanely, Dexter. Head, arms, legs, all detached and wrapped up like fucking Christmas presents!!” She threw her hands up in the air.
He bit back a First Thanksgiving, now Christmas? Morgan’s flat expression did not change. “Any suspects?”
“Fuck if I know. LaGuerta told me to hide away in my room- probably to talk shit about me. You know what they’re saying about me right now...?”
Morgan let her ramble on and turned back to his own thoughts. Three days... he needed to check their credit card, browser history, car mileage...
“Are you even listening?” Deborah spat, taking another drag of her cigarette.
“Sorry. Chopped up has me distracted.” Morgan said dryly. “Vice sounds... tiring.”
“Yeah. I really need to make it onto Homicide if I ever want to fix my reputation.”
Morgan leaned against the door, wanting nothing more than for this conversation to end. What would Dex say...? “Well... how can I help?”
“Well, for once, you always have those hunches, you know? When you get all broody, you always know the right answer. Can we bounce ideas off eachother later?”
His hand made its way to the door’s handle. “Yeah, for sure... let me go take a look, okay? And, uh, talk to Captain Matthews, not LaGuerta. He was close to dad- if anyone’ll put you on the case... It’s hopefully him.” Morgan put on his best imitation of a familial smile to his “sister” as he exited her motel room.
Snapping two white gloves onto his hands, Morgan hoped this would be quick. He had his own mystery to solve. He just needed to take some pictures of the blood, talk jibberish with the coworkers he couldn’t have cared less about, and get out. Then he could figure out what was going on in his fractured mind. Maybe the blood would ground him a little bit- he really needed it, after the panic they’ve been thrown into.
Masuoka’s face lit up upon seeing him- presumably because of something Dex did. But it was the wrong Morgan sibling, apparently. “Saw your sister. Damn, Dexter.” He smiled. Upon getting no response, his smile faltered. “So, uh, what’re you doing here?”
Morgan stiffened. “It’s a crime scene. I’m forensics.” Move out of my way, Masuoka. I need to get this over with. He had a long list to sort through, and he needed to-
“Yeah, you do blood, though. There’s no blood here.”
What?
“...Come again?”
Masuoka seemed brightened after capturing Morgan’s attention. “No blood. Not in, on, or around the body. No blood at all. Weirdest fucking thing, dude.” The shorter man turned to Batista. “Angel, show him. No blood!”
Morgan was stiffened to the spot. His entire daily work was blood. Blood kept him and the Dark Passenger at bay- working with something violent but consistent helped find a stable ground in their unstable mind. The Dodge K-Car that was their mind took blood instead of gas. There was no way...
The two men unveiled the tarp, revealing a pale, lifeless, cut-up body. Most of the pieces were still in their butcher’s wrap, some unveiled. It had almost a blue tinge, without the hot, messy, sticky blood...
“How does the killer get rid of all the blood?” Morgan asked.
“Hard to say.” Batista stood up straight. “Body is still pretty well off, especially her ass.” Masuoka smiled at that. “Check out the head, though.”
“This is... unique,” Morgan murmured. He’d never seen such clean work, besides his Dark Passenger’s doings. But this was very clearly not him. “It’s pristine.”
“No prints. But he was interrupted. No terminó.” Batista punctuated. At Morgan’s confused, unbelieving look, he began to gesture with his sharpie. “Four cuts on the right leg, only three on the left... look, like he got interrupted.”
Morgan wasn’t looking. He forced a fake smile as the two started rapping on LaGuerta, before quickly standing. “No blood, no job.” He needed out of this scene. He needed out of this pool. He needed to be in front of the mirror. He didn’t hear whatever Batista said to him as he escaped, his hearing swimming with dissociation. The radio chatter began again as Morgan made his way out of the scene and into the parking lot.
No blood.
Three days.
No blood.