Auld Lang Syne
by Fangtastic
(This fic is mirrored at my tumblr: .com)

A/N: I will be the first to say that I abhor author's notes, since I generally prefer writing to stand on it's own without explanations, but a short layout of the story ahead seems like a kindness to readers, so here we are. This story is my own version of Season 8, following the events of the television show and calling back to the previous seasons as well. In an attempt to mimic the style of the show, there will be portions of the narrative told in first person from Dexter's point of view, as well as a third person perspective when he is not around to witness certain events. Consider each chapter an episode, and please enjoy. Thank you.

"Into That Good Night"

They say that everything can change in an instant, and I know that's true. Certainly my life has altered course rather dramatically with the passing of any particular moment. My sister, the stalwart cop and overwhelmingly good person, entered that shipping container with the intent of saving me, and ended up doing so much more. A few weeks ago, she told me she was in love with me; it was only in that dark, narrow passageway that I really even began to process what that really meant. She was willing to kill for me, to give everything to keep me and my secret safe, and somehow, that fact alone has opened my eyes.

I sink down on my ankles, crouching in the dim cargo container as Deb sobs into Laguerta's blazer, watching her fall apart before my very eyes. I've seen her broken like this before, I've held her in my arms as she put the pieces back together. But no amount of emotional super-glue will restore her tonight; she's a different person, a killer now. But not without reason and not without regret. She seems to bleed with it, with loss, and I feel helpless.

The ever-present and logical portion of my brain, the lizard that has mostly arisen from his original primordial ooze, mumbles something in the back of my head about evidence and DNA and crime scene contamination. I didn't put down plastic, I didn't scour and methodically cleanse my kill room; I acted on impulse, my first mistake. Life without a code is not really boding well for either of us at the moment, but already, I'm working on a plan.

That list-making and logistical mental legwork is severely interrupted when Deb suddenly rises, carrying the smaller Captain in her arms like a sleeping child. She motions to me, and I follow her outside. She uses her shoulders to indicate Laguerta's car, and I open the passenger's side door with my gloved hand. She tucks her tenderly into the seat, then disappears back into the container, returning with Maria's gun, which she places in my palm.

"Make it look like she set her car on fire, then ate her gun," she says heavily; it's the first actual words she's spoken, aside from the wail that sounded like "I hate you" or "I had to"; I couldn't decipher which. "And for fuck's sake, make sure we get the gas from somewhere with no cameras."

"She was facing disciplinary action at work; she might even have lost her career, and tha t was everything to her," I say, agreeing with her idea. She's actually pretty good at this. We'll have to use LaGuerta's credit card to buy the gas, but I know the pump on the dock at most marinas doesn't have a surveillance system. I grab my phone and call Maria's; the ringing makes Deb jump about a foot into the air. I reach around her and retrieve the phone from the floorboard of the car, answering it and leaving them both for a few moments.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"Helping the timeline," I explain. "I called her earlier and lured her down here; the GPS for her phone will show she was here. But now she'll get another call from me and leave, going down to the edge of the ocean to take one last look before she...well..." I stick two fingers in my mouth and pretend to pull the trigger; Deb looks like she wants to vomit. So much for trying to work through this with some dark humor.

Masuka knows that maybe this is a bad move, even though his date is paid for and probably has seen sicker shit in her day. But he still can't help but smile as he puts on the Depends and wraps the handkerchief around his head, completing his Baby New Year's costume and stepping out of the bathroom. It's twenty minutes until the clock strikes midnight, so he has plenty of time to stroll around the party and explain his bad joke to the coworkers whom he knows won't get it.

He figures Quinn will be in that group, so Vince sidles up to him and plasters a shit-eating grin on his face. Joey doesn't even acknowledge the younger man's presence until he claps him on the shoulder; he's half-lit and trying to booze the pants off Angel's sister and Dexter's babysitter, Jamie. Speaking of which, where the fuck are the Morgans? He hasn't seen Debra since before 11, when she disappeared to the perimeter of the party, phone to her ear.

"Have you seen LT or Dex?" he asks, having to shout over the brassy music pounding out a Latin pulse. Quinn spins around in his seat, seeming to regret that quick movement, then takes in Masuka's near-nakedness. "What the actual fuck, Vince?" he demands. "You tryin' to be the ghost of New Year's past or some shit?" He laughs at his own joke, which Jaime ignores.

A few drinks later, Masuka notices that Debra has reappeared, this time with Dexter, who is leading her through the crowd in front of the stage. Seeing them reminds him of his own date, who seems to have vanished as completely as his boss did an hour ago. Maybe the female Morgan gave Savannah a bit of female-to-female advice.

I wrap Maria's fingers around the trigger and pull, then hastily step back as Deb throws the lighter into the passenger side window. The resulting fireball blows us both back, and I can hear her stumble even as I lose my footing. But she seems to have caught herself and not torn her dress; I can't say the same for my rubber apron. It's fortunate that I have plentiful supply of replacements.

We don't have time to pause and admire our handiwork; next, we take Estrada's body to my boat, and I stuff it into the bait well and leave the freezer running until I can return in the morning to deal with him. We've got barely enough time to get back and make the appearance at Angel's restaurant that will serve as our alibi if we need one.

Deb is unnaturally quiet while we run our errands, only speaking when I ask her a question, and then giving minimal responses. I know she's in some kind of emotional shock, trying to understand what she's done, the choice she's made. Love is certainly a powerful motivator. I think about stopping back at my place and changing into something more party-appropriate than my kill outfit, but the minutes are flying by on my dash.

We get back just before the clock turns, quietly slipping back into the fray. She leads the way, then falters; I pass by her and she reaches out and grasps my upper arm as we glide through the crowd, wolves in the flock. The world looks like a different place; we feel like different people, bound by the act that we have shared responsibility for. I'm used to my own face being a mask, but to see hers in he same mold sets off something deep inside of me. The people sway closer and begin to embrace around us; her hand slips down my arm and she twines her fingers with mine and I pull her away, into the shadows.

She seems limp and lifeless as I turn to face her, flipping my palm so hers is folded into my hand. I reach out and grab her other hand, lacing our fingers, and lower myself so that I am looking directly into her eyes. They look like two white marbles with brown centers, unfocused. She isn't looking through me the way I'm used to her doing, the way she has our whole lives; she isn't seeing me at all. I repeat her name, and her pupils slide to attention, finally fixing me in her gaze.

From the time she was two and I was three, she's been loud and chatty and pestering, or bursting with anger or hatred or terror, her slim frame shaking with the force of how deeply she feels. This shell of herself disturbs me beyond words.

I take a glance, and no one is paying us any mind. So I kiss her. I want her to have some kind of reaction, even if she recoils and slams a fist into my jaw, even if she breaks away and runs off with fresh tears. I kiss her with a lifetime of curiosity behind my lips, with the knowledge that she is the only person in the world who does truly love me.

I don't expect the reaction.

I'm nearly knocked flat when she drops my hands and reaches up, almost hugging me for a moment and pulling me closer as she tangles her fingers in my hair and deepens the kiss. I'm even more blown away by my own reaction- something flares to life in my belly, a tiny flicker that bursts into a wildfire and ignites every nerve ending in my skin. Now I find my own fingers trailing through her pin-straight hair, sliding down her back and pulling her even closer.

How many times have I pulled her to my shoulder, soothing a hurt or slight, or a broken heart? How often have I pulled my lips across her forehead, touched her in a million small ways? But this is something new and dangerous, something ground-breaking. I couldn't tell you how she tastes or the texture of her lips, because I am too overwhelmed by the feeling of connection and combustion and the urgent need to meld myself to her. She comes up for air, but doesn't let go of me. She just cocks her head back so she can look me in the eye, and I can see in a heartbeat that she's back, that some of her spark has re-awoken, wandered back from whatever mental hell she banished it to.

It's a fine time for drunken Masuka to wander by, in what appears to be a diaper with a towel on his head. He gives us a glance and smiles into his Pabst, and I wonder what he saw. Deb's eyes track his movement until he's rejoined the crowd, panic flashing out like maritime signals when she flicks them back up to meet mine. I'm not too worried, considering he's nine sheets to the wind- I'm more busy pondering the fact that my first reaction was not to drop my supposed sister, but to growl, an action I only hastily suppressed.

"Come on," I urge her, taking her hand in mine again. We don't have time to explore what just happened, not at this moment, though I do plan on a through investigation once we've finished the evening's work. We make the rounds at the party, she drinks and I demur as the designated driver. I shake Angel's hand and kiss Jaime goodnight on the temple around one, collecting a supposedly drunk sister and my sleeping Harrison from the restaurant's back office. I carry him out to my car with Deb stumbling convincingly behind me. The second I get him secured into his car seat, she deftly opens the door and I know it's been a ruse. She's too sharp to actually imbibe tonight. She checks her reflection in the mirror, and I wonder who she sees looking back at her.

"I'll get him to bed. You go take care of Estrada," she said, reaching into her purse and pulling out some lip balm to replace the layer I wore from her lips an hour ago. It was nearly one, and there was still so much to do.

I didn't know if we were supposed to talk about it, or if she was pretending it didn't happen, if those feelings even applied anymore. I didn't think I had them, but then again, not too long ago, I'd denied having feelings at all. There was no denying this. But I respected her too much to assume anything, so I knew I had to let her lead.

I spared a glance at her at a red light, the fine and noble lines of her beautiful face. She was staring out at the neon-lit street as it rolled by, the colors cycling off her skin. The grief and worry had left her seemingly fragile; she looked too thin. But that same young kid, that rookie cop, had evolved into the steel-spined lieutenant who'd put down her captain to protect the serial killer she loved.

And I had dismissed that love as confusion. Well, there wasn't much of that left after the fires that had forged this fledgling bond, the edges of which we'd yet to define.

We get back to my apartment, and this time, she carries my son up the steel steps and through my doorway, back to his bedroom without a word. I leave my keys in the bowl and go to the fridge, opening her a beer and going back to see if I've got anything to feed her. I'm starving, and I have a feeling she must be too. I'm giving an experimental sniff to a casserole Jaime made a few nights ago when she grabs the belt loop at my hip and spins me, throwing her arms around my neck and pulling me close. I settle my hands awkwardly on her hips and close my eyes, enjoying her closeness on a level that seems primal. It feels good to have full body contact; it soothes something broken deep down inside of me.

"Dex, what the fuck are we going to do?" she asks, her voice low and close to my ear. "The call's going to come any minute- someone's going to see the car."

I slip my hands up her back and press her more tightly to me. "We go in and do our jobs. No one's got any reason to suspect we'd want her dead, not even Matthews. You're a good cop, you've always done everything above the board. And they've never had anything on me aside from Doake's paranoia."

"His well-placed paranoia, apparently." She untangles herself from my arms and goes to the couch. I follow. "What are we doing with Estrada?"

"A trip to the Gulf. Then I'll go down to the cargo container and do one last sweep, though I doubt anyone will look in there. It's usually filled with bananas, anyway," I comment, with the smallest hint of a smile on my face. One echoes across her features. Before we left, I'd diluted the floor of the container with a few gallons of water, thinning the blood out to spread and dry into an ordinary brown stain on the wooden floor. No one would give it a second glance.

"Okay," she says, leaning back and closing her eyes. I hope she sleeps while I'm gone. I rise from the couch, kissing her cheek before I leave. She opens her eyes and watches me leave with an unreadable expression on her face.

I don't bother to do anything special with the man who murdered my mother. He goes in three trash bags and drifts off on the current north, and a strange peace settles over me as I drop the final chunk of him over the railing. It feels like the end of process, the last action in a sequence. I leave his phone in my car, and when I return, I drive out to the airport, and plant it in the bag of a passenger headed to Cuba. There, naturally, it- and Estrada- will vanish into the wind. But it will leave a handy GPS signal along the way.

It's close to four when my own phone buzzes in my pocket. I head back to my apartment to pick up Deb, to take her back to her house to change and freshen up before we go out to the scene. I ask dispatch for directions, since I'm unfamiliar with the marina whose address she's just given me. She cheerfully obliges, and we're off to the scene of LaGuerta's "suicide".