Keeping the Blade
By the gothic gunslinger
Disclaimer: Don't own Dexter or its fantastic characters. Do feel rather like Jeremy's mother, however, since I've given him way more time and attention than the writers of the show ever did. It's all about nurturing. You can't just callously throw these babyfaces aside!
Author's Note: This is somewhat of an offshoot of my first attempt, Murder By Numbers, if you've read that. That was more of a dumping ground for my character development for Jeremy, and I'm planning to make this a cohesive story, within the confines of the show Dexter and featuring the recurring cast.
Synopsis: What if Jeremy Downs didn't die horribly at the end of Circle of Friends? What if Dexter decided to take him on a student in the art of killing? What the rest of season 1 might have been like based on this concept.
***
***
1. Everything's Not Lost
Jeremy Downs had dodged a motherfucking bullet. How, he had no idea.
But there was no denying it; he was living, for one, something he'd decided to stop doing only days earlier. Also, he was not in prison. That one was even more boggling to him. But here he was, back in the bright Miami sun, sweating in the humidity while wandering aimlessly through Flamingo Park. The park was possibly his least favorite place in the entire world, but he was so confounded by what had happened he'd come back out of habit and was now trying to piece it all together.
What had happened was this:
He killed the honor student. Yearbook editor, whatever. Was sloppy and got caught. Oops. Facing jail time, real serious jail this time, not the cakewalk that juvie ended up being. (Tattoo a bleeding skull on your neck and tell the kids in for shoplifting you killed someone over forty bucks earned you respect and fearful awe. Jeremy had never felt so empowered.) Then Dexter Morgan – Jeremy knew his name now, he was no longer That Freak Who's Stalking Me – showed up like a fucking ghost in the interrogation room and told him only to kill people who deserved to die.
Maybe Morgan should have been a little more specific at their last meeting, when he almost killed Jeremy in the rec room of Homestead Halfway House. But that night was still a confusing blur to Jeremy, riddled with confession, empty threats, and a revelation of Morgan's that he hadn't accurately shared with Jeremy. He simply acted like he'd found a soulmate, told him something about Lucas not deserving to die, and then: "Remember that, it could save your life one day." And then poof, gone. Good luck, Kid Who's Clearly as Fucked Up As I Am.
Back in Flamingo Park, a Frisbee flew over the reach of some college kid and nearly beaned Jeremy in the face. He leapt back on the path, heart pounding, startled out of his thoughts. The Frisbee faltered and fell to the grass nearby. Jeremy looked at the students. Both were girls, tan, skinny and blonde – like most of the girls in Miami. One of them yelled, "Sorry!" while mid-laugh.
Jeremy stared at them, then at the Frisbee. After a few seconds, it occurred to him that he should probably return it. He picked it up, stepped a little closer, and tossed it to the nearest girl. She caught it, started to thank him, then just stopped and stared, as if realizing she was looking at some kind of hideous monster. Jeremy pressed his lips together, turned and left without another word, face red with humiliation.
This was the downside to being locally infamous. No wonder he had no friends and sucked dick for a living.
Hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched, Jeremy switched directions and headed toward the lake, the seedier part of the park where you could easily buy weed and the Brokeback Boys were known to gather. He'd been staunchly avoiding the area, but now it was clear that's where he belonged. It's not like he had another choice, either. Now that he'd avoided a murder charge, he was back to serving out his five years of parole and living the next four months at Homestead so he could "readjust back to society." While being unable to find a straight job because of his felony conviction and the fact that his face kept appearing on the news.
Giving closeted faggots blowjobs for cash was never something Jeremy had dreamt of doing, and he'd fallen into it the way most of the Brokeback Boys had, due to desperation and more than a little deliberate misdirection. The leader of the prostitution ring, Raoul Madrid, Jeremy's pimp, if you were getting technical, routinely shopped through places like Homestead, looking for boys hungry enough for money that they were willing to do something shady. It was sold to Jeremy as drug muling, which was nothing to be proud of either, but at least your mouth wasn't places you never ever wanted it to be.
He should have asked more specific questions, but upon meeting Madrid he had been told, "You've got the look," which he had taken to mean a look of innocence – the main defense his public defender had come up with for his trial when he was fifteen. "Bat those dark lashes," Mr. Brown had said, "and they'll let you off easy." If four years in juvie for voluntary manslaughter was considered being left off easy, when you considered what the fucker had done to him first.
Regardless, Jeremy had showed up to the sleazy section of Flamingo Park when Madrid had told him to, realized he'd missed the movie reference of the title Brokeback Boys, and discovered "the look" wasn't the look of innocence so much as the look of youth (although the two did seem to go hand in hand). Madrid charged a hefty fee for his band of boy whores, because it turned out they were being marketed as underage, which would have upped the soliciting prostitution charge of the johns to statutory rape if caught. Most of them were actually underage, too, except Jeremy, but even on a good day he was aware he looked about sixteen, not nineteen. And, as it turned out, not many of his clients asked questions. If they did, he lied and was believed. Conversations never lasted long, because if Jeremy was talking it meant his mouth wasn't engaged in other ways more satisfying to the customer.
Why he did it, and not run away when he realized what he was in for like he should have, was, of course, the money. He'd decided he needed to get out of Miami, as soon as humanly possible. Never mind violating his parole; Jeremy just didn't care. If he stayed where he was he was going to end up dead, he knew it deep down in his bone marrow.
This was his mistake. He thought he could handle it. He thought if he only did blowjobs it wouldn't be as bad. (He wouldn't let anyone fuck him, not anymore. It was out of the question.) But every time he rolled a condom onto some gross businessman's cock, every time they pulled his hair so hard his eyes watered, every time they called him sweetheart, honey pie, good boy, Jeremy felt a piece of him die. Slowly, but steadily, with the same rhythmic precision applied with his mouth and tongue, he was being chipped away.
It got difficult to feel. He could punch a wall with his fist and the pain seemed insignifcant. He knew it was dangerous; it was the same numbness Jeremy'd had after the fucker did what he what did and before Jeremy had fixed it. But almost two months in he had a few grand saved and hidden, but he didn't know how to stop. He was always afraid he'd get to wherever he was going and run out before he could find a decent job, and it was better to keep going now than have to return to it later.
Then one day a recurring client finally got sick of Jeremy's refusal to submit to more than blowjobs and decided to take matters into his own hands. In the back of someone's company car, Jeremy realized the boundaries he set were worthless – if these men felt entitled to take they could act on it, and what could Jeremy do about it, exactly? Cry rape? It had been impossible to do the first time and he hadn't even willingly walked into the lion's den that time.
Luckily, he got out of it before much happened. His first instinct was to pull his knife, always lying in wait in the back pocket of his jeans, but being that they were in the parking lot of a public park at midday, logic spoke to him for once. Instead Jeremy kicked, punched, and managed to unlock the door before the guy could pin him down. He stormed away from the car, shaking from nerves, cheek swelling from the bitchslap delivered for being an "insolent punk." Apparently the john had wanted to teach him some manners. Whatever, he had a tiny dick.
Jeremy told Madrid that day he was quitting.
***
The Brokeback Boys were where they always were, lounging on a few sets of picnic benches in the wooded area by the lake, bodies contorted into subtly suggestive poses. Jeremy's stomach turned as he approached, unsure of what exactly he was going to say or do. Ask Madrid to come back to work? He could probably just start taking clients freelance, he'd had enough recurring ones, just tell the one who'd tried to take advantage of him to fuck off… that is, if anyone wanted their cock in the mouth of a boy just arrested for murder and then mysteriously released days later…
He was getting stared at again. Jeremy slowed to a stop as he reached the picnic benches and ignored the gaping gaze of half a dozen of his coworkers. "Is Madrid here?" he said, and only realized after he said it that he was asking to come back to work after all. Pussy.
Shawn, a scrawny thing with long, dirty hair, said, "Jesus, man, where have you been?" The rest of them seemed very interested in the answer.
Jeremy held back a sigh; he'd been hoping none of them had seen him get arrested and were too busy getting high to read the news. "I was in some trouble but it's over now. Now where is he? He's usually around on Tuesdays…"
They started laughing, mirthless yet somehow still triumphant. Shawn said, "No, really. Where have you been, Jer?"
Before Jeremy could ask him to elaborate, someone said, "Yeah, Madrid's gone!"
Jeremy stared. "What, gone? Where?"
"We dunno!" said Miguel, the youngest of the bunch at fourteen. His grin was manic. "He's wanted for murder, so we figured he split town!"
Jeremy felt ill all of a sudden. "What do you mean, murder? Who'd he kill?"
"I dunno," Shawn said. "Some goody-two shoes in an alley a few nights ago. They think he was trying to get him in with us and the kid wouldn't have it. Snapped and stabbed him to death. I always knew he was nutso."
"Muy loco," Miguel agreed.
"The police came and questioned us. We can all testify against him for forcing us into sex slavery if they find him. Isn't that awesome?"
"Now we can all charge whatever we want!"
Jeremy nodded numbly but said nothing. He needed to sit down.
***
After he quit, Jeremy's plan was to buy a bus ticket to anywhere and leave as soon as possible. He might have actually done it, too, but two days later he checked the hiding spot for the cash, a loose floorboard by the head of his bed, and realized it was gone. All of it. He had no idea who did it, but had a feeling whoever did already had a new stash of drugs to show for it.
That night he snuck out of the halfway house after curfew, found an alley, and waited. There wasn't much thought involved, he just did it. He wanted to feel something again, and the last time this had happened, blood had cured it. He didn't much care what happened to him after, either.
The next day, he went back to work. Madrid only winked at him when he showed up, and for a moment, Jeremy had wished he'd killed Madrid instead.
Then the police came, and he got busted. The rest was a blur of questions he refused to answer, Dexter Morgan's unexpected visit, the bad cop coming back and getting a few good punches in before his lawyer showed up. Mr. Brown, same public defender as last time. Jeremy knew he was fucked.
In the holding cell, he thought of Morgan's words, the mantra he seemed to have of only killing those who deserved to die. The kid had been an honor student, yearbook editor, MIT in the fall. Everything Jeremy wasn't. And now he was dead. And Jeremy still didn't much care.
He took that to mean that maybe he was the one who deserved to die.
A thin strip of metal pulled loose from his bed frame was sharp enough to do the trick, if applied at the right angle along the jugular. It would probably hurt, although not for very long. Feeling something vivid would be gratifying, actually, before what Jeremy hoped was a nice long sleep. He hadn't slept well in years.
He would have gone through with that, too, if about five seconds before he did the deed Dexter Morgan hadn't shown up outside his cell, took one look at him, and said, "What the hell are you doing?"
A few things ensued. One, Jeremy finally learned that the guy's name full name. He did work for the police, and yes, he was a killer. A killer who somehow felt responsible for Jeremy's plight. Which Jeremy didn't understand, because although Morgan claimed they were alike, all Jeremy saw was a guy well-manicured enough for the cover of GQ and a life that was helluva lot more together than Jeremy's was. He could tell Morgan had never blown anyone for cash just to survive.
Which, oddly enough, Morgan asked about. Started questioning him. Jeremy hadn't wanted to answer, still afraid this might be some twisted plan to get him to confess to something else, but Morgan had worn him down. So he told. About Madrid, and not really knowing what he was in for, and the driving, crippling need to get the hell away from this shit hole of a life.
What Morgan said surprised him. "No one," he reached over and grabbed Jeremy's arm for emphasis, "no one deserves to lower themselves to that kind of level. Do you understand me, Jeremy? Not even you. Especially not you, because you're like me. Doing something like that makes it harder to see the lines we can't cross."
Jeremy still hadn't understood; in fact he was too busy trying to wriggle out of Morgan's grasp to really listen. He was released and Morgan banged on the bars to signal the guards to let him out. When Jeremy asked where he was going, all Morgan said was, "I'm a busy man. Just do me a favor and don't try to kill yourself again, Jeremy. Things have a way of working themselves out."
Again, Jeremy was dumbfounded, but for some reason, decided to listened to him.
Sometime the next day, the guards showed up, opened the doors to his cell, and told him he was free to go. When Jeremy asked why, they told him new evidence had surfaced, a witness had stepped forward, and he might be asked to testify at some point. Having absolutely no idea what they were talking about, Jeremy only nodded, took his clothes back so he could get out of the orange prison uniform, and after that was taken back to Homestead Halfway House, free as a bird who was still on parole.
***
Jeremy sat at the picnic table with the other Brokeback Boys, but instead of trying to pick up customers, he put his head in his hands and tried to make sense of it all. Obviously Morgan was responsible, he just didn't know how. The reality of it made his head spin. Morgan had saved his life.
"Hey there, cutie. I missed you."
Jeremy's head snapped up and he saw one of his old clients standing above him, practically salivating. Obviously there were lots of people not paying attention to the news – or maybe it was that the Ice Truck Killer was taking precedence in everyone's mind, since they brought him in on the same day they'd caught Jeremy.
He tried to tell the john, overweight and sweaty profusely in his suit, that he wasn't on the clock yet, but that's not what came out of his mouth. Instead he said, "I've raised my rates. It's a hundred bucks now."
He hoped partially to scare him off – it was a steep price for just oral. Standard rate was eighty, but that was when half went to Madrid.
But the client, who was apparently in awe of Jeremy's skill – the phrase "like a Hoover" was still lodged in his brain, making him nauseated whenever he thought of it – grinned jubilantly and said, "Get me off twice and it's a deal."
Jeremy wished he hadn't eaten breakfast, because he was suddenly certain he'd be seeing it again. "Got protection? I'm out."
"I am always prepared, baby doll. Always."
Jeremy nodded in resignation and stood, following the man like a listless helium balloon. The john had a favorite spot in the nearby mangroves, so he could jerk off while admiring the view of the lake. Tagging along while trying to look nonchalant, Jeremy fought an abrupt urge to cry. Bizarre whack jobs saving his ass aside, this was likely as good as it was going to get for him. Always down on his knees for one reason or another.
Just before they disappeared into the thicket of mangroves, Jeremy felt someone grab his arm and pull him roughly backward. He let out an involuntary noise of surprise, whirling to see a man in baseball cap and sunglasses, but Jeremy had seen Morgan enough times now to recognize him. "What the fu–?" he started to say, but the client, noticing the commotion, drowned Jeremy out with his indignation.
"Sorry, buddy, you're just gonna have to wait your turn!" he said pompously.
Morgan pulled out his Miami Metro laminated police badge. The john's face turned a spectacular shade of purple.
"I suggest you move along before you're both in trouble," Morgan said calmly.
Jeremy had never seen the fat bastard move so fast, which was at once awesome and infuriating. He turned to Morgan, glaring. "You owe me a hundred bucks."
"I owe you absolutely nothing. You, on the other hand, owe me quite a bit. And don't you ever listen? I told you not to lower yourself to this again." He began lugging Jeremy in the opposite direction.
Jeremy tried to pull away, but Morgan was stronger than he looked. "What the hell, man?"
"You're coming with me," Morgan stated, yanking him in the direction of the parking lot. "There are things we need to discuss."
"Yeah, like where my boss went?" Jeremy said.
"And why you're not facing a life sentence, Jeremy. But keep your voice down. Now I can let go and you can follow me like a civilized person, or I can cuff you and make this look like an arrest. Your choice."
Jeremy glared at him, unable to see the cold gaze he knew was behind the sunglasses, and stopped resisting. Morgan dropped his arm but looked ready to snatch him again if Jeremy tried to run.
They reached the parking lot and Morgan led Jeremy to his car. They got inside and Morgan turned on the ignition. Jeremy thought it was just for the air conditioning, but then Morgan pulled out of the parking spot and told him to fasten his seatbelt.
"Uh," Jeremy said, trying not to panic, "where are you taking me?"
"Nowhere in particular."
"This is kidnapping," Jeremy said.
"You got into my car of your own free will, didn't you?"
Jeremy shook his head. "I'll jump out."
"Of a moving vehicle? You'll just hurt yourself. Why you're so set on doing that, I don't know." He pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the freeway, almost out of spite.
Jeremy growled in frustration. "Where's Madrid?"
"I took care of him."
Jeremy wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. "You killed him."
"He was luring young, vulnerable boys into prostitution. He deserved it." He glanced briefly at Jeremy. "Don't you think so?"
"But… but… you pinned the kid I killed on him." Jeremy couldn't believe this was happening. "How?"
"There are advantages to working in blood spatter, Jeremy," Morgan said. "They found the murder weapon in his house, with the victim's blood still on it."
"But you don't know where I put the murder weapon," Jeremy protested, wondering if Morgan was actually some kind of psychic ninja.
"No, I don't. So I invented one."
Jeremy blinked. "Oh. Oh. Fuck."
"These are the kind of things you can do when you think things through, Jeremy," Morgan said, voice oddly kinder than usual. "You'd do well to learn that."
"What, fuck with evidence so you can get away with murder?" Jeremy said flippantly.
Morgan turned to look at him. "Exactly."
Jeremy turned away from him, shaking his head and laughing mirthlessly. Outside his window, the view of the coast whizzed by. "This is unbelievable."
"Choose to believe what you want, but you're free, aren't you? The official report lists you as a witness to the crime because of the unfortunate evidence of your thumbprint at the scene, so they would ask you and the other witness to testify if they were ever to find Madrid. Which they won't."
"What other witness?" Jeremy asked. "I was alone that night."
"Not anymore. Your young friend with the guitar and short attention span at the halfway house will bear witness that you two were there together and saw the whole thing, but were too scared to report it."
Jeremy stared at Morgan for a few seconds until it clicked. "Jesus, Devon? That little shit's not my friend." He was one of the worst loudmouths at Homestead, the first to make cracks at Jeremy about being one of the Brokeback Boys.
"Two hundred bucks for marijuana has made him your friend now," Morgan said, then added thoughtfully, "I was actually expecting to have to give him more."
"Well, he's a moron," Jeremy said, putting his head in his hand. "And I can't believe you bribed him."
"You know, a simple thank you would suffice, Jeremy."
Jeremy sat in stunned silence for a minute before begrudgingly saying, "Thank you."
"You're welcome." He turned off the freeway. "Are you hungry? It's my lunch break and a pulled pork sandwich is calling."
Instead of answering the question, Jeremy said, "Why are you doing this?"
"I'll take that as a yes," Morgan said. "And I've told you, because you're like me."
"A killer."
"Yes."
"A serial killer."
"Yes."
"How many people have you killed?"
Morgan stopped at a light and looked at Jeremy, slipping off his sunglasses so Jeremy could see the stone cold gaze. "Many more than you."
Jeremy couldn't keep the gaze and looked down. Morgan replaced the sunglasses and kept driving. When Jeremy didn't say anything, Morgan continued, "It's a lonely life, Jeremy. There's a lot of pretending. Pretending to feel, going through the motions, and killing provides the only release. It's not something you can chat about to your friends, tell your therapist – unless you kill him after." He chuckled, which gave Jeremy the chills. "There's no Serial Killer Club. We don't send each other Christmas cards. We operate independently of each other. But I, for one, have always wondered what it'd be like to have a – companion." He glanced again at Jeremy. "Do you see where I'm going with this?"
"You want us to be killing buddies," Jeremy said, honestly a bit appalled by the idea. He didn't kill for fun, he'd done it as a reaction to trauma and whatever high he'd gotten for it had quickly dissipated to feeling lower than he had beforehand.
"Not exactly," Morgan said. "You have much to learn. You were never trained like I was. My foster father, Harry, he recognized the darkness in me and helped me hone it from a young age."
Jeremy, although he didn't want to go along with the lunacy, couldn't help but respond to that. "You were a foster kid?"
Morgan nodded. "Yes. Like you. Except I was adopted by the Morgans when I was three. They're gone now – and no, I didn't kill them – but I'm still close with my sister, Deb. Or as close as I can be."
"How d'you I was in foster care?" Jeremy asked.
"I've read all about you, Jeremy. Abandoned by your mother at five, brought up in the system, never keeping a placement long term. Foster parents reported increasingly antisocial behavior. Stealing. Lying. And then, of course, the incident that put you in juvie."
"Fucker," Jeremy muttered. "He deserved it."
"Yes, he did. You stuck to the code with that one."
"Code?"
Morgan pulled into the parking lot of a fast food joint serving from a counter only. "I'll explain. First, lunch. Stay here. Is pulled pork okay or do you want something else?"
Jeremy was used to eating whatever was given to him, so he just nodded. When asked about beverage, he said root beer. Then Morgan left the car, still running for the air conditioning, with Jeremy alone in it. It was the same one he'd broken the window on to steal Morgan's wallet a couple months ago. He flirted with the idea of grand theft auto just for shits and giggles, but the truth was he didn't know how to drive. Morgan likely knew it too.
Within ten minutes Morgan was back, handing him a greasy sandwich and large cup slick with condensation. Jeremy didn't realize how hungry he was until he smelled it and was soon devouring it in the voracious manner with which most adolescent boys ate. Morgan ate more slowly, although not necessarily more neatly, holding the sandwich in one hand while tapping absently on the steering wheel with the other.
In between bites, Morgan explained the code, the mantra he had told Jeremy in the interrogation room: Only kill those who deserve to die. Trained to perfection by his father, Morgan's every moment was spent honoring the code. Jeremy had upheld the code with his first kill, but not with his second.
"Doesn't that mean I'm useless to you?" Jeremy asked. "You should just kill me."
"Thought about it," Morgan admitted. "But it's more my fault than yours. I could have helped you earlier. Instead you were forced into a horrible situation and lashed out like an animal. Which, and this is the last time I'm telling you, if you go back to prostitution again, I will just put you out of your misery."
"But I've got no money. In four months they're kicking me out of the halfway house and I'll be homeless. I can't find a real job—"
"Don't worry about it," Morgan said. "We'll work something out."
"We?"
"You don't seem to understand. This is me taking you on as my protege."
"Don't I get a say in the matter?" Jeremy retorted.
"Am I really worse than selling yourself to strangers?" Morgan asked, sounding genuinely curious.
Jeremy bit his lip and looked out the window. "No."
"I can't leave you alone again, Jeremy. You're attracted to trouble. You'll just kill again, sloppily as ever, and both your victim and you will be on my—" He stopped abruptly.
"Conscience?" Jeremy supplied for him.
"Haven't got one."
"Coulda fooled me."
Morgan took a bite of his sandwich and said through a full mouth, "Precisely."
Jeremy shook his head and finished the rest of his sandwich in silence. Morgan slurped noisily on the last of his drink. Finally, Jeremy broke and said, "So what do you plan to do with me? Take me along for a murder?"
"Yes."
Jeremy laughed. "And do you kill during the day? Because I've got a 9 p.m. curfew I have to meet every night at Homestead or they send me back to juvie."
"I'm working on it," Morgan said mysteriously.
Jeremy rolled his eyes. "Whatever, dude."
"Okay, first rule. You don't call me 'Dude.' You call me Dexter."
"Why not Mr. Morgan?" Jeremy asked. "Isn't that what kids are supposed to call their teachers?"
"Second rule, you drop the juvenile delinquency act. It gets old fast. You're not an angry fifteen-year-old anymore, Jeremy. You need to learn to act your age."
Jeremy fell silent, oddly embarrassed. "Sorry," he mumbled finally.
"It's all right. You don't trust me yet. It's fair enough, I have tried to kill you. But like it or not I'm currently the only person in the world who cares if you live or die, so you're just going to have to deal with it."
He took their trash and left the car briefly, throwing it in a nearby can. Then he plopped back in and backed the car out of the spot. "I'm taking you back to Homestead now. Do you think you can behave yourself until I contact you again?"
"How long's that gonna be?" Jeremy asked.
"Within the week. I promise."
"I guess so," Jeremy said. He was good at keeping his mouth shut and his head down when he wanted to be. "Do you like, have a phone number I can call?"
"Yes, but I'd prefer not to give it to you until I've figured out how to legitimize our relationship. These things take a little time. You're just going to have to try to trust me on this one."
"Fine," Jeremy said, a little surprised he was agreeing to it so easily. Still, it wasn't like he had any better options currently.
"Good." Morgan nodded. "Any questions?"
At first, Jeremy shook his head. Then something occurred to him, so he said, "Just one."
"Yes?"
"Why didn't you just spring the Ice Truck Killer instead? We even got caught on the same day. He seems like he's way closer to your league than I am."
Morgan actually smiled. "Because the man they caught is a fake, Jeremy. They haven't realized it yet, but he is. You're a lot of things, but a fake isn't one of them."
"I'm a real killer," Jeremy said, and saying it gave him a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Morgan nodded, confirming it. "Yes, Jeremy. You're a real killer."