Treadmill
Setting: Pre-Season

Sometimes...

The thought slips away.

Ten beats later it comes back.

Sometimes I think...

I hit the up arrow, clear my throat, keep right on running.

Sometimes I think the neighbors probably want to fucking kill me.

I pass another .10, .15, .25. My throat dried up ten minutes ago but I don't care enough yet.

I grab the remote out of the cup holder, point it at the TV and hit Enter. The overlay that pops up tells me it's 12:49. I blow out a breath, drop the thing back into the holder, blow out another breath. Quickly lose interest in the TV and whatever's on it. It's muted anyway.

Where the hell is he?

And because I can still breathe I hit the up arrow again. Chills are running through my legs.

Don't care.

Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

Okay, now...

(fuck)

This is good.

I keep going.

2.22, 2.76, 3.43, 4.16

Time's stopped meaning anything. How long's it been?

Grab the remote again.

There's some chick with a vacuum cleaner on the screen.

Enter.

1:08.

Throw the remote back in.

Back to nothing.

Something almost nervous. The fact that the blinds are open. Of course, I left them that way for a reason. Same reason I left my fucking iPod on the bed.

I hit up again.

Listen to my feet. Listen for the door. Forget to listen.

Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

5 comes and goes.

I'm starting to completely lose my breath.

Sweat dripping down my face.

Can't hold onto a thought.

5.49

Something moves. On the right.

I flinch, almost fall over myself and fly off the fucking thing. Hop onto the sides and hit the stop button. Hear the motor power down.

By then the lock's already turning. I watch the door open, stop abruptly at the chain.

"Deb!"

My legs are jello as I hop off the treadmill and move from the bedroom, taking my bottle with me. I suck down some water between breaths as I walk to the door. Annoyance is the first emotion to penetrate the adrenaline as I see a sliver of my brother's face through the two-inch crack. My mouth opens as I let my hand with the bottle drop to my side. "Where the fuck were you?"

"At work," Dexter says. "Would you open the door?"

At work?

I shut the door in his face, pull out the door chain, open it again. When I do he's still just standing there, his work purse hanging from his shoulder.

"Thanks," he says, moving past me. "What are you doing up?"

"I couldn't sleep." I watch him drop his bag, set his keys and wallet on his desk. And it's half true: I didn't try to begin with.

I drink more water. My heart rate's coming down. I still feel jittery as shit though.

"So you were working out instead?" He's already grabbing the dirty napkin and the tinfoil I forgot to clean off the desk earlier, a water bottle, the empty orange juice carton.

"Yeah." I blow out a breath. He walks past me, throws my mess away. When I look past him I see my clothes thrown all over the couch. It's my turn over there tonight so I didn't bother fixing it. "Not like there's a whole hell of a lot else to do."

He gives me a pointed look as he plucks a beer bottle off the counter and tosses it. "Did you leave the apartment today?" he asks.

"Yeah." I cross my arms. "I went to the store." Pinch my jaw as he reaches for the paper toweling. "I cleaned the fucking counter."

"You did?"

I just glare at him. Eventually he looks up, but by then he's already wiped the thing off. "What'd you get at the store?" he asks.

"I don't know." I shrug. "Milk, beer, orange juice..." I take another drink of water, set the bottle on the counter, "another one of those chicken parmesans."

He throws the paper towel away and finally stands still. His face looks a shade below exasperated.

And despite myself I still feel like I'm surfing a thirteen espresso high. Neither the beer nor the second run has done anything to take the edge off. "How was work?"

"It was fine. The lieutenant's got me going through backlog with Masuka."

"Backlog kept you there past midnight?" I ask.

"That and the homicide Batista's working."

I want to ask more, grill him a bit, because I don't know if I believe him. Recently he's started coming back later and later, and I'm starting to suspect it's me, that he's avoiding come home. And that pisses me off— though whether it's at him or myself I don't know.

Instead I drink more water, drain the last of it.

"Were you alright today?"

"Yeah." I set the bottle back down.

"Is that why you were running at midnight?"

I feel myself bristle. "I didn't know where you were." For a second I keep glaring at him, and then I turn abruptly and head for the couch, drop beside my purse and a pile of discarded clothes. Exhale.

Dexter doesn't follow me. I watch him open the fridge and disappear inside it before I look away, pull out my hair tie, flick it toward the coffee table. My hair is sweaty and crimped where the band was. I fluff it up, rub my damp scalp. Wipe away some of the sweat on my forehead and my collar with my shirt. I'm dripping slightly.

The nervousness is creeping back. The rest of the way I spent the afternoon before I floored it back and hid here behind a locked door.

I wish I had more water.

"Dex," I say, and I hear the rummaging pause. "Can you get me some water?"

The rummaging resumes. "Yeah."

"Thanks." I cross my legs, pull my hair to one side. I'm hot, and my thoughts are rapidly converging back. Maybe I should stand up. Maybe I shouldn't.

The fridge door shuts. "Did you buy anything that wasn't liquid?" my brother asks as he walks to me with a glass of water in one hand and several pieces of salami and cheese in the other.

"Yeah," I say, taking the glass from him and eying the salami. "That chicken parmesan thing."

"Why did you buy three cartons of orange juice?"

"Because we kept running out." Because I was jittery. "Would you stop with the fucking inquisition?"

He holds up his hands, plops beside me. Starts wrapping the salami in a piece of cheese.

"Give me one of those," I say, not able to take it after three seconds.

"This is all that's left," he sighs.

"I'll go back to the store tomorrow. Or... today." No I won't. "Come on."

He scowls but peels off one of the two remaining slices of salami and a piece of cheese, hands it to me.

"Thanks."

For a bit we both just sit here and eat. Dexter throws his feet up onto the coffee table, slumps into the couch. I finish the salami and cheese, recross my legs, set the glass on my knee. The urge to speak is becoming overwhelming.

"I went to his place today," I admit finally.

"Whose place?"

I look at him, arch a brow.

"Oh." And after a beat he sits up straighter. "Brian Moser."

"Yeah." Suddenly it feels too late in the night for another introspective jaunt down Fucked Up Lane.

"Why?" He takes another bite of his carefully-folded salami.

"I don't know." I shrug. "Something about facing my demons." I meet his blank stare. "Some shit the shrink said."

"Oh," he says again. "Did it help?"

I snort. "No." Sitting there in my car across the street I felt like a voyeur. It's not as if I really spent much time at all at his place, for reasons I'm still trying, and failing, to justify. But we'd still been there together. And the last time I was there was to pay my respects to his cold, stiff, bloody body— hanging there as it was in the same rack he used to string up his other victims.

I don't know how long I sat there before it scared me too much to stay.

"Work on anything interesting besides the backlog?" I ask, sitting back.

"Same old, same old. Reports, blood, more reports." He finally finishes the salami.

"You getting along any better with Doakes?" I can't remember the last time I saw my old partner. Probably not since that night at the hospital.

Something slight passes through his face, goes away in a second. "Yeah, we're getting along fine."

He's full of shit. "Like you fine or normal people fine?"

His brows fold. "I don't know what that means."

"Mm," I grunt, drink some water. As I set the glass back on my knee I glance at my watch. 1:36. Shit. "I need to take a shower, go to bed. I've got the fucking shrink tomorrow."

He looks at his own watch, exhales. "I've got to go to court."

"Guess neither of us planned our night very well." I set the glass on the coffee table and get up.

"Yeah, I guess not." He takes his legs off the table, sits forward.

I look down at him. I wanted to ask him something but now I can't remember what it was. Instead I finally notice the cargo pants and long-sleeved shirt. I don't recognize the outfit. "Were you wearing that when you left?"

He gives me a look like I'm crazy.

"Nevermind." I shake my head. "I'm going. Night."

"Night," he echoes, still looking confused.

I escape into the bathroom, shut the door behind me. When I glance in the mirror my hair looks damp and messy and most of the liner on my eyes has rubbed off. I look about as tired as I feel.

Sighing, I turn on the shower, start stripping out of my clothes.