A/N: I don't own anything. Dexter belongs to Showtime, CBS, and Jeff Lindsey. Specifically, the italicized quote, "You can't be a killer and a hero," is from the Season One finale, 'Born Free.' The rest of the story is mine and just for fun.

I wake up to my cellphone buzzing on my nightstand.

"Christ on a stick," I mumble, as I press the palm of my hand to my eye. I didn't drink any beer last night, yet my head still pounds like I have a motherfucker of a hangover. Then, I remember what happened in the old abandoned church. I dash to the toilet to hurl my guts out.

When I return from the bathroom, my cellphone is buzzing again. Of course, its Dexter Morgan, my foster brother who I now know is also happens to be a vigilante killer.

"What?" I snarl.

"It's ready. You know where. Deb, look—"

"Do me a favor," I interrupt. "Stay the fuck out of my sight today."

I hang up without letting him get another word in. It's easier to be angry than heartbroken or horrified at this point.

When I pull up to Lisa Marshal's house a half an hour later, I call it in without even bothering to go inside. I don't want to think about DDK or his poor, clueless sister or his dozen or so other victims ever again. Honestly, the thought of them makes me sick. I will deliver a few pre-planned, bullshit remarks to the press that will make even Captain LaGuerta proud and then case closed. I'll finally be done with it.

Which means I can turn my attention to more pressing matters, namely Dexter.

Even I will begrudgingly admit that he did me a favor today. He bought me some time by transforming his neat homicide into a messy suicide. Now I can truly focus on containing a much more dangerous menace: the man I thought I was in love with.

It is only a matter of minutes before the whole team—except Dex because, of course, I just told him to stay the fuck out of my sight—arrives with a circus of hungry reporters following in their wake.

Here we go, I guess...

I try to crack a smile and look pleased, or, at the very least, a little relieved that one more psycho cocksucker has been removed from the streets of Miami, but in reality I probably just look pale and slightly nauseated because that's how I feel. I suck at faking emotions.

"Congratulations, Morgan," LaGuerta says after its all said and done. "You might have a bright career ahead of you after all."

I nod dumbly at her veiled insult because I am both impressed and appalled that this has all worked out in my favor. Leave it to my big bro to save the fucking day again. Yet, I can't help but wonder how many other times Dex might have pulled one over on his own department. Last night was not the work of an amateur. This morning isn't either.

For the very first time in my career as lieutenant, I am almost thankful when I finally return to my new office. Almost. Because as soon as I sit down at my desk, I realize that the enormous tower of mind-numbing paperwork staring me in the face isn't going to help me clear my mind. My hands tremble at the thought of what might await me. Any reference to an unsolved disappearance or homicide—any at all—could push me over the edge to my harrowing demise.

Immediately, I evacuate my office in search of a distraction. As I pass my brother's empty office, I consider slipping inside and inspecting his personal items. I'm desperate to find that missing puzzle piece, the one that will make this whole fucking mess make sense. But I resist the urge. I stare instead and, consequently, crash into a co-worker like a bumbling idiot.

"Fuck me," I say before looking up. "Oh. Sorry, Quinn."

"Is that an order, Lieutenant?" Quinn winks.

"No, definitely not," I assure him with a half-smile because this is the first truly normal experience I've encountered all day. Frankly, I had been sick of Quinn's pity party and its shitty affect on his detective work. Yet, I also hadn't had the heart to suspend him without pay; I felt at least partially responsible. So now I'm relieved to see him back to his old self. "Hey, do you want to grab some coffee? I could really use a break. I can't get the stench of LaGuerta's perfume out of my office, and I don't think breathing it in is good for my health."

Quinn takes a beat too long to respond and I frown. I don't even consider the possibility that he might know this is bad idea.

"I take that back. You're going to grab some coffee with me. It's not a question. It's an order."

"Aye, aye, Lieutenant."

Quinn and I fuck in the back of his parked car because it's all I can do to prevent myself from diving off a cliff. It's not entirely my fault. Quinn turns his eyes on me as soon as we reach his black Mercedes in the parking lot. He knows me well enough to sense something's wrong.

Of course, I can't tell him anything, or I'll be charged as an accessory to a murder and Dexter and I will both end up in jail. So instead I say nothing as tears threaten to escape my eyes. I watch as questions form in his mind, but, for some reason, he knows not to ask them. Instead, he puts his arms around me because that's what friends do, even, apparently, after I laugh in their face for proposing and step all over their heart.

Then, he kisses me on the forehead and I'm vaguely aware that something like this has happened once before. It was right after Trinity had murdered Rita and Dex had said, "It was me," in their front yard. I had gone to Rita's house to clean up the blood and completely lost it because I didn't know what the fuck was going on with my brother and I couldn't help him. Quinn had been there too. He had comforted me.

Now it was happening all over again, except different. I didn't know what the fuck was going on with my brother—why he had killed DDK and how he had been capable of it and if I had the will to turn him in—and so I couldn't help him.

So, while I knew I shouldn't have tilted my head up and caught Quinn's lips with mine, I did because I needed him. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. Quinn probably still loved me, and I had never loved him. Instead, I had always loved... someone else. But that fact only made me need him now more than ever. I needed that someone else out of my head.

Quinn instantly knew what I wanted too, which would only make me feel that much more guilty later. He glanced around the parking lot to make sure no one else was around to witness Miami Metro's Homicide lieutenant screwing a subordinate, and then he opened the car door and let me drag him in by his shirt.

"We broke up over a month ago," Quinn finally says after we straighten up and finish not grabbing some coffee.

I nod and stare at my boots.

"Deb, look, I'm sorry for all the shit I've pulled lately. It won't happen again."

"Goddamn," I say, "you shouldn't be the one apologizing right now-"

"Don't, Deb," he interrupts. "There's no use in saying that what just happened here was a mistake. I get it now. This doesn't mean anything to you. It never did."

I meet his eyes, struck by his observation. "Good," I agree, guiltily confirming his suspicions.

We awkwardly try to exit the car at the same time, but then he motions like a fucking gentleman for me to go first. "Thanks for the coffee break, Lieutenant," he says in a falsely bright tone. Then, he leaves me in silence to contemplate the truth of his words—how little our relationship meant and how little our relationship was about him.

I spend the rest of the afternoon dodging pats on the back for closing DDK's case while pretending to sort through paperwork at my desk. In actuality, I'm debating whether or not to schedule an appointment with my therapist. I could undoubtedly benefit from her insight and advice right now, but, really, what could I say?

I went to confess my undying love to my foster brother last night, but instead I watched him plunge a knife through my prime suspect's fucking heart. I was a little speechless at the time what with the blood spurting from DDK's chest cavity and the thick sheets of plastic that reminded me of my creepy as shit ex-fiancé, who, if you might recall, tried to murder me in the exact same sick ass way before Dex rescued me. So yeah, I was a little speechless at the time. What would you recommend I say to him tonight?

As a high-ranking member of law enforcement, I'm fairly confident that patient confidentially does not extend to first-degree murder, especially when the killer in question is a co-worker and all signs indicate that he is fucking ace at offing people and will probably never otherwise be brought to justice.

Which I guess answers my question. I can schedule an appointment with Dr. Michelle Ross just as soon as I arrest my foster brother. I simply can't risk breaking down in her office or her seeing through my bullshit.

Yet, this conclusion only makes me feel more alone. In times like these I would usually turn to Dex, but that's obviously not an option. So my mind wonders to my former guide to Life's Fucking Hard Decisions: my good ole' dad.

Ever the model of a good cop, Dad would, of course, want me to turn Dex in. Because, my whole life, he had taught me how to hunt down killers and put them behind bars, and because, my whole life, he had taught me to have faith in law enforcement and the justice system. So it shouldn't matter for one second that Dexter killed a bad guy who was nothing if not the scum of the earth. It shouldn't matter.

Right?

My office phone rings, mercifully interrupting my jumbled thoughts.

"Lieutenant Morgan," I answer.

"Got it... What? Oh. Thanks... I don't know. I guess when the world didn't end, he felt pretty fucking embarrassed? Who the fuck cares? He was batshit... Okay, I'll be there soon... Yeah, I know I really don't have to, but I want to... Yes, I'm sure I fucking want to... Bye."

I grab my badge and gun and leave the office not a moment to soon.

The sun is dipping below the horizon when I arrive in front of a shabby cabin at Miami Everglades Camping Grounds. Angel Batista greets me with a frown before he leads me inside where Detective Mike Anderson and Forensics are already sorting through the crime scene.

Despite the sticky Miami heat, goose bumps climb up my back. "Motherfucker," I breathe as I scan my eyes across a gruesomely familiar sight. "We've seen this MO before." I can hardly believe my eyes. It's unmistakably the work of the Ice Truck Killer back to haunt me from the grave.

All of a sudden, I feel exactly like I did in the old abandoned church last night. The ground beneath my feet begins to sway again; the edge of the cliff feels uncomfortably close; for a moment, I consider screwing it all to hell and taking the damn jump myself.

But Batista's hand on my shoulder steadies me. I suck in a deep breath, pushing those thoughts away. I try to look at the situation from a detached perspective. I try not to take it personally and instead think about it logically. I start with the basic facts.

There are two severed legs, two severed arms, and a severed torso, but, of course, no hands or head. The body parts are bloodless and clean and deliberately arranged. They are laid out on a dining table, with each limb placed on a plate in a five-piece dinner set, except one plate, which supports a note. The torso rests on the center of the table like a freshly prepared slab of meat that's just been hunted in the wetlands out back.

"What does the note say?" I ask sideways to Batista. It's like a watching an impending train wreck that's about to derail your whole life. I can't tear my eyes away.

"It reads: It's high time for a family feast," Batista recites. "It doesn't make much sense, does it? I understand the hunting retreat at the cabin idea, but this? This is just messed up."

I mull it over in my head, but I'm not sure I agree. It is messed up. There is no argument about it. But that doesn't necessarily mean that it doesn't make sense. In fact, I'm pretty sure that it does make sense, in some sort of sick way, because it appears as though the killer is not only using the same techniques as Rudy, but also the same kind of effed up logic and sense of humor.

There is only one major, resounding difference. This isn't the body of a hooker.

Masuka confirms my suspicions as he strolls around the cabin's stuffy interior snapping photos. "The vic is male, Caucasian, and probably in his mid to late thirties," he informs me. "But we'll need to take him in, or what's left of him anyway, before we can get an ID."

Batista fills in more blanks. "The body was found here this evening by the owner who was doing his regular weekly inspection. It's a vacation rental, but he said it's been empty for a few months due to hard times. He said he couldn't remember seeing any unusual activity but that the park rangers keep a record of who comes and goes from the campgrounds."

"Good," I say. "We'll need those names."

Masuka shakes his head gravely as he shifts his focus to documenting the victim with his camera. "The poor soul. He'll never get any head again."

"No shit," I say impatiently. "Even I can see his goddamn head is missing."

"No," Masuka corrects, "he's missing something much worse than that—his dick. He's been castrated."

Anderson's ears perk up. "Maybe the killer was punishing him for something," he suggests.

Now that doesn't make any sense. Rudy didn't punish his victims. He did these psycho games for fun. "If that's true, the killer is sending conflicting messages," I point out. "This is clearly the work of someone who liked killing or why put together the fucking dinner display?" I wonder aloud. Because you can't have it both ways: You can't be a killer and a hero. "Unless we're missing something."

Everyone is silent and all eyes turn to me. I know what they are waiting for and it unexpectedly annoys the shit out of me. "Why would he copy the Ice Truck Killer's MO?" I ask finally, giving them permission to mention the serial killer I once intended to marry. "A copycat I can understand, but why five years later? Why now?"

To fuck with my head at the worst possible time? I answer sardonically.

"You're right," Anderson agrees. "This is unusual. Copycats tend to strike when the killer they are emulating is still at large... So maybe it's not a copycat at all. Maybe the killer is simply taking a leaf out of somebody else's book to give himself an advantage."

The thought disturbs me on far too many levels. "So what you're suggesting is that this killer wants to kill like ITC but only better. He feels some sort of connection to him, but he doesn't want to go down the same road. He doesn't want to make the same mistakes," I surmise. "Shit," I say because it sounds all too close to home. "It means he definitely plans to kill again."

For the first time in the last 24-hours, I don't feel confused or torn been two evils—to sin and protect Dex or to sin and betray Dex. I know what's most important now: I can't let another sick fuck like Rudy get away with murder. I'm ready to take the leap even if it means doing the unthinkable.

The fat, yellow moon sneers down at me as I open my apartment door and welcome my beloved foster sister Debra Morgan inside to arrest me, but I obstinately ignore its taunt.

After spending the entire day with my son, I have just tucked Harrison into bed and kissed him goodnight for the last time. I have come to realize that despite her foul-mouth Deb's big heart will ultimately make her a wonderful mother, a much better parent than I could have ever been. It is this truth that has put me oddly at ease with my early retirement plans.

As a parting request, however, I will make Deb promise me one thing: that she will never let my son see Daddy Dexter again. I don't want him to watch my trial; I don't want him to visit me in prison; and I certainly don't want him to witness his old man expire on Old Sparky. Because Brother Sam was right: If there was ever any light in me, I have already passed it on to Harrison. Now it's time to make sure I never pass on my darkness.

Deb remains silent as I lead her into the living room. Ever the accommodating host, I motion for her to take a seat on the couch and retrieve her a beer from the fridge.

"Thanks for giving me the day," I say politely, sitting down next to her. "I have everything prepared now."

Of course, my first preparation was framing Travis Marshal's death in the wee hours of the morning. I had set up a plausible suicide by transporting his body to his sister's home and repositioning him to make it look as though he had stabbed himself in the heart on her kitchen floor. I had done an impressively convincing job too, if I do say so myself. His prints were on the knife, not to mention there was a lot of messy blood. However, the clincher was in what I had placed in his hand: a photo of his sister and he posing happily as I'm sure they once were. So the evidence composed a tragic tale. DDK had given up his life upon realizing that he had destroyed his sister's not for some higher calling like God, as he had once deluded himself into believing, but to satisfy the appetite of his own Dark Passenger. Or perhaps Miami Metro will just conclude that he was certifiably insane. Either way, I would ordinarily expect a pat on the back for my good work, if not for the unusually somber situation.

"Prepared?" Deb repeats.

"Yes, I have all the evidence you need laid out in my bedroom," I explain with a hint of pride. If someone's going to prepare the blood work that finally seals my fate, it sure as hell won't be Masuka.

Deb cocks her eyebrows, clearly surprised, but remains silent.

"Also, I've updated my will and drawn up some adoption paperwork," I add. "You're going to be Harrison's new mother."

Deb's next reaction is not at all what I anticipate. Her face flushes and she nearly chokes on her beer. I try to pat her on the back to help her clear her airways, but the physical contact only seems to make matters worse.

When she finally recovers she almost laughs, although I'm not sure what's funny. "You're not off the hook, Dex," she says at last. "Not by a long shot. But I also can't turn you in. Yet. I need you way too fucking much."

"You do?"

"Unfortunately," she admits, glaring at me with a strange sense of defeat in her eyes that I can only describe as the same genuine fondness that I inexplicably feel for her. She opens her mouth to say something else, but then she pauses and seems to reconsider. "I need you to help me catch a murderer."

Again, Deb is full of such surprises. I nod automatically, without really processing her request, in sheer wonderment.

Dearest Debra is taking a Darkly Dangerous leap of faith.

In me.

Note: Thanks for reading and be sure to review! This is my first fanfic. Any comments, feedback, recommendations, etc. would be much appreciated! I plan to continue.