Auld Lang Syne
by Bangfangs
(This fic is mirrored at my tumblr: deadthingsloveyou)

"Beautifully Broken"

Everything looks different by the light of dawn: the interior of my car, the smoking remains of the Captain's; my own face. I'm a different person by the light of day and in the dark of night. At least, I thought that was what I was back then, just the flesh-puppet called Dexter Morgan, harboring a dark and murderous passenger. But that mask has long ago slipped, and there's something in the stark and sterile remains that linger. Maybe what I see in these thin new rays of sunlight is even more horrifying; maybe it's the truth that Deb knows now. I am a man who has killed and may kill again, and now, she is a woman who has and may do the same.


The cell phone starts ringing and vibrating at the same time, wandering off the nightstand and dropping to the floor with a dull thump. Joey Quinn wakes at the noise, thrashing around in the tangled sheets and struggling to find the edge of the unfamiliar mattress. In the process, he accidentally smacks Jaime Batista with one of his flailing, naked limbs.

She gasps back to consciousness and throws the top sheet around her body, thoroughly scandalized and in a state of panic. New Year's Eve flashes back to her and she lays back on her pillows with a groan- the come-ons, the drinks, the cute homicide detective- her brother's former partner- the drinks. Oh God, the drinks! Then a shared taxi and an abrupt make-out session when he was supposed to just be dropping her at the door. The rapid shedding of his clothing, the breadcrumb-like trail of which she can see leading through her bedroom door, meaning that it had started somewhere in the living room...good grief.

He's busily pulling on his pants and searching for his shirt as he speaks into the phone. He gives her a questioning glance, and she wordlessly points out of her bedroom door, where he shuffles and gives a quiet "Ah-ha" when he locates the missing garment. She scrubs her eyes with her palms, then feels down her body and is surprised to find she's still wearing the panties from last night and one of the tee shirts she typically wears to bed. Maybe there hadn't been that much to drink...

She gets up, glad the shirt is an old one of Angel's and goes to her knees, then drinks a glass of water, swallows an aspirin, and offers a handful to the pathetically thankful Joey, who grabs them and scribbles something on one of her grocery lists before disappearing out the front door.

She walks over to the note, rubbing her temples and is surprised to read his missive:

"Call from dispatch gotta go we didn't have sex thanks for taking care of me I'm a fuckup but I really like you. Joey"

She notes the time on the microwave- 4:47AM- and pads back down the hall, sliding back into bed. She's too hung over to deal with this.

The loudspeaker at the airport booms overhead as Hannah McKay rolls her large suitcase through the terminal. "Final boarding call for United Airlines Flight 368 to Denver, I repeat, this is your final boarding call."

The pretty blonde, her hair now dyed to the deepest blue-black (with eyebrows to match) gives a smile only she understands and quickens her steps. She can't be late. Fortunately, the airport is mostly deserted, especially this early in the morning. She breezes through security with her fake ID, flying off on a one-way to Colorado.

After I get the call about LaGuerta's as-yet unidentified car fire down at the marina, I head back to my place and slip in the door as quietly as I can. All the lights are out, but there's a flickering glow coming from Harrison's side of the apartment, and I find Deb curled in the bathtub, three candles lit up on the sink. Her face, neck and knees stick up from the dark, bubbly water, and I don't know if I am supposed to avert my eyes or not. A brother would. Whatever I am now to her... who knows? It might offend her.

I lead with basic facts, cut and dry, hoping they will lull her into a calmer mood than her bath has evidently lead to. Though she's in a position that's purportedly relaxing, she still looks stiff as a board and seems to be aching with anxiety.

"Hey," I greet her, grabbing a towel with my right hand and holding it out alongside my left, offering her a hand up and out of the tub. She stares at my hand, at my body in the doorway, for a long moment, then shakes her head. I shrug and back out of the room, closing the door behind me. It seems like this has gotten a little weirder, and I have no idea why.

I go into my own bathroom and take the quickest shower of my life, in and out in less than two minutes and not bothering to wash my hair. I change into something fast and casual, just a shirt and jeans, and go to check on Deb. Thankfully, she keeps a spare set of clothes in Harrison's dresser for times when she's on this side of town and needs to change, so she's got similar attire on. I don't have time to call Jaime, so I tuck my still-sleepy son back into his car seat for another ride.

"Poor kid," Deb smiles, ruffling Harrison's hair. He gives a giant yawn, then shifts and sucks his thumb a little harder. Jaime insists we need to break him of the habit, but I find it too endearing to correct.

I drive her back over to her place so she can pick up her rental car; the streets are surprisingly quiet, considering the holiday. There are a few drunk drivers on the road, but I avoid them easily enough. I pull up to her bungalow, and she unlocks her door, then pauses, seemingly making some sort of mental decision. Then she turns and kisses my cheek, feather light, before getting out of my car and heading up her walkway without even a glance back to see my reaction.

I touch the place where her lips have brushed my skin with my fingertips, and then my own lips, which, I am surprised to find, have formed a small smile.

My, oh my.

I put the car back in drive and head over to the crime scene. I've got a story line to perpetuate.

First a patrol car gets the radio dispatch about a reported vehicle fire down at Sunset Blvd. Marina. The officer arrives, checks and sees what she believes is a body in the vehicle, and calls it in, which sends the fire department. They arrive at 4:40 and put out the flames, as well as confirm the presence of human remains in the driver's seat. By 5:40, Masuka, Quinn, Miller, Simms, and their lieutenant have all arrived on-scene. The only ones without a severe and head-busting migraine are Miller and (of course) Deb.

Vince is chugging water like a dying animal and groans frequently. "Three fucking hours," he complains. "Miami can't go three fucking hours into the new year without an unattended fucking death."

"If only people would be nice enough to die during business hours," Simms agrees, nursing his own bottle of water.

"Insensitive pricks," Quinn agrees. He's stuffing a drive-thru special down his gullet, and has an old ladies' sleep mask over his eyes as they wait for the all clear from the fire department to approach the smoldering vehicle. One by one, the lower-tier forensics crew have been dragging themselves there, and they're all waiting on the sidelines, some looking brighter-eyed than others.

Miller rolls her eyes at the theatrics. She has her husband and kids at home, so she didn't drink last night, opting instead to share the sparkling grape juice and tuck in by eleven. Her girls were still too young to be excited by the ball drop on TV, and she valued sleep on a holiday more than Dick Clark. She's pretty sure she's the only one operating on all four cylinders this morning, side from Lieutenant Morgan, who looks tired but functional enough, though she's grasping a cup of gas station coffee like it holds the secret to life itself in her hands.

When I arrive back at the scene of our staged suicide, I see Deb is standing off away from the others, which can't be good. She's still in the outfit she left my place in, though at some point, she got coffee. I explain the situation to one of the patrol officers nearby, and he agrees to stand close to the car and make sure Harrison is safe inside while I work.

It's not good for her to be alone; I know that's the last thing she wants. Or, at least that's what I think she's feeling. This is still relatively unknown territory for me, this feelings stuff. I reel through a dozen impulses, ranging from kissing her again to simply standing beside her; I settle for invading her personal space just enough to give her arm a reassuring rub with my palm. She leans into my touch without a word, closing her eyes and dropping her head to the ground. She looks so tired.

The firemen give their signal shortly after I greet Masuka, Quinn, and the others. The car is completely destroyed and blackened, and there's very little left of Maria, so little that no one even recognizes the car or the fact that it's a female occupant. I wait patiently while they photograph and catalog, hoping that they'll soon say they don't need me since there isn't any blood and they don't need to be paying a cop his regular salary to babysit.

But one of the newer detectives- Miller- is sharper than the rest this early morning. She starts putting the pieces together rather quickly once they retrieve the gun from the passenger side floorboard. "This is Miami Metro issue," she calls, then goes around back to check the plate. "Oh, fuck. State-owned. This might be one of ours, guys," she says somberly, and everyone perks up a little. Great. I was hoping that this particular revelation would come later, after the medical examiner and missing persons reports collided...

"No need to jump to conclusions," Deb pipes up, moving closer to the rest of us and looking each of them in the face evenly. "And with the amount of damage to the body, obviously we're looking at dental and DNA for an identification anyway. What else can you tell us, Vince?"

"Well, I'm no arson investigator- where the fuck is that guy, anyway?- but it looks like someone used an accelerant- probably gas- and doused the car. Just glancing at the body, there appears to be a sizable exit wound in the top of the skull, consistent with the caliber of the handgun on the floorboard. I'd say someone didn't want to leave a mess behind when they offed themselves, so they set the fire first, then took one to the cerebellum."

A flawless performance and analysis from Masuka; I couldn't have scripted it better. I made a note to bring him two bear claws on my next doughnut run.

"Oh, shit." One of the techs has opened the glove box, and an old laminate, singed but readable, has fallen into her open hand. "Lieutenant Maria LaGuerta," she reads.

There's a lengthy and stunned silence.

"No way," says Quinn finally. "No fuckin' way is that LaGuerta." He's instantly on the phone, but Deb's beat him to it.

"The captain's not answering her phone," she says, with a note of panic in her voice that I'm sure she isn't having to add for dramatic effect. "Not her house, not her cell."

"Run the plate," Simms says, now on his own phone. Meanwhile, Quinn goes off into the distance, one hand over his unoccupied ear to muffle the outside noise, focused intensely on his conversation.

I stand there, looking shocked and being absolutely useless. Masuka joins me, being as everyone else is scrambling around with the police end of the business and our techs are doing the detail work. They didn't know LaGuerta well; this is just another scene to wrap up, and the sooner they complete it, the sooner they can get back to their families and their beds.

He fiddles with his phone just as I put mine back into my pocket. "Another missed call from an unknown, blocked number. Do yourself a favor, never put your phone number on Craigslist."

"Don't post in the "men for transexuals" section of Casual Encounters," I joke.

"Har, har," he responds, then we are both silent for a moment. When the conversation begins again, he sounds much more thoughtful. "This is crazy. LaGuerta eating her gun? What the actual fuck, man?" the smaller man asks me, both of us leaning against the evidence van. "I know she was facing another inquiry because of all the shit with your wrongful arrest, but seriously?"

I put my hand on my forehead, running my fingers through my hair and blowing air out with a lengthy exhalation. "I don't know. I'm wondering who else she called, though," I say. Setting up more pieces.

"What do you mean?"

"She called me tonight, right before midnight. She was saying how her career was done, and how she was sorry that she'd ever started the investigation, that she couldn't believe she'd not seen how Doakes was a killer all along, and what a shitty cop that made her," I lie, amazed as usual by how effortlessly they fall from my lips. "She told me to enjoy my son and the holiday. I figured she was drunk and remorseful," I reflect. Masuka looks thoughtful and appreciative that the narrative is fitting together so nicely tonight. A better detective, a better investigator like Liddy or Lundy or even dear Deb might have been suspicious at how it was coming together, but they were all exhausted, and that would be our salvation. That, and the fact that LaGuerta had made far more enemies than friends in her time at Miami Metro. There were few that still counted her as a friendly face- and sadly enough, one of those few arrived just as they finished scraping her remains from the charred vehicle.

Angel's face was a contorted mess of anguish as they loaded the black bag into the back of the coroner's van. He pushed past the uniforms and made his way into our midst, ignoring their protests until we assured them that he was one of Miami Metro, albeit quite recently pensioned. "Is it her?" he asked, over and over, even though he knew we wouldn't know for hours, or even days. We clapped him on the back and offered our sympathies anyway; Deb hugged him close. She caught my attention over his shoulder.

"You can go, Dex," she says. "Get Harrison home. You too, Vince- we're wrapping up here. We'll have to wait on the M. E.'s report, but then let's figure out what happened here."

I nod and leave, heading back to my place and arriving just as Jaime pulls into the parking lot. I hand Harrison off to her and retreat back into my bedroom, where I barely have time to pull off my clothes before I pass out on the bed. I don't bother to set an alarm.

Jaime feeds Harrison some breakfast, though he's cranky from his interrupted sleep schedule and picks at his Cheerios and banana slices. She settles him down in front of the TV and pulls out her homework, managing to finish a few pages before there's a knock at the door. She looks over and is bemused to see he's fallen asleep upright against the back of the couch.

She feels wary answering, considering the last midday visitor they'd had dragged her employer off to jail. But it's just Quinn, hanging in the doorway and looking exhausted. He's got two cups of coffee balanced in a carrier; they slosh through the sipping holes and drip down onto the welcome mat.

He gives her a goofy, hopeful smile. "Hey, Jaime," he says, holding out the coffee like a peace offering. "Is Dexter home?"

"He's sleeping," she says flatly, taking the coffee and moving aside to let him come in. "But I take it you're not here for him."

"Not exactly," he agrees. He lowers his tone by about six octaves in an attempt to not disturb her charge's slumber, which is something Jaime definitely appreciates. They lean over the kitchen counter as they continue their quiet conversation.

"Look, I know I was an ass last night," he says, picking at a chip in the formica. "I was drunk and an idiot, but I've been interested in you for a while. You're pretty hot, and a lot smarter than me, so basically, you're the total package. And I figure any chick that would let me strip off my clothes and crawl into bed with her after puking in her kitchen sink has to be halfway to sainthood."

"You flatter me." She gives him a half smile and an evaluating look. He's older than anyone else she's dated, and he doesn't have his shit together. But he has a good sense of humor, he's handsome, and he's...earnest, if nothing else. "So, what are you trying to accomplish, here?" she finally adds.

"Let me take you out to dinner, someplace without a liquor license." He turns the charm on to afterburner levels. Fortunately, she's equipped with her own wiles.

"Oh, I don't know about that. I might need a few drinks, myself." Burn.

A couple of hours later, after nap time, there's another knock at the door. Jaime goes over and answers it, ready to flirt with Quinn some more, and instead finds one of Dexter's elderly neighbors standing with a potted orchid.

"Hello, dear. I saw Mr. Morgan had this sitting out my his door, and knew it would have died in the cold, so I brought it in for him. Could you be a dear and put it in his apartment for me?" The old woman gives a mostly toothy smile and holds out the pot with wobbly hands. The purplish-black flower trembles.

"Sure, no problem," Jaime says, taking the plant and thanking the woman. She sits it down in Harrison's bathroom and gives it some water. Then she sits down in front of the TV, and gasps as the news comes on with a big picture of Hannah McKay. It's one of the last stories of the broadcast.

"And finally, tonight, Miami Metro police and the Department of Corrections are on the hunt for escaped convict Hannah McKay. Infamous for her role in the Wayne Randal case, Ms. McKay now faces murder charges in the case of true crime writer Sal Price. Ms. McKay escaped from custody while being treated at an area hospital for an apparent stroke. Anyone with information regarding her whereabouts is encouraged to call the tip line..."

She grabs her phone and texts Deb after she locks the deadbolt.

It's almost three o'clock in the afternoon when I finally rise and shower, longer this time, scrubbing throughly and enjoying the hot water on my skin. Just as I step out, I hear the message notification go off from my phone. It's a text from Deb.

"M.E. Report back, prelim says LaGuerta. Need you."

Two words. Yet what a summary of our lives. And oh, my clever Deb. That could be an innocent enough message, anyone might think it was a professional statement. The lieutenant needs her forensics guy. It could even be read with a sarcastic or bitter tone: Need you to come in to work now. But I know it's not, somehow. After all, I need her, too. And that's something I'm just now finally figuring out.