Auld Lang Syne
by Bangfangs
(This fic is mirrored at my tumblr: deadthingsloveyou)
"Say the Word"
"Time's up." Hannah gives a cruel smile and advances toward me, her eyes glittering with malice. Through the slats, I see the briefest flash of headlights, and even though it might just be a neighbor passing by, I go with my gut when it says it's Deb, and try to distract my captor.
"Oh, must we do this?" I ask. I can hear an engine outside; I flex my arms and repeat my earlier trick, jerking my abdomen and making the table hop up off the floor. I throw my weight to the left with all my power, and it nearly teeters over. "I'm afraid so," she says, even as she rushes over to her duffel bag, rummaging for something to subdue me with, and that's when dear Deb decides to burst through the flimsy door of our original childhood home.
Her effort, while valiant to an extreme, isn't well timed, because the moment she sees me restrained, all Deb can focus on is me and the fact that I am still alive. Relief and love wash over her face for a precious moment; unfortunately that's the second that Hannah springs from behind the splintered door and puts the same extract-soaked cloth over Deb's face that she used on me.
The adrenaline helps her, though; she gives a sharp backward kick to the smaller woman's knees before she passes out, slamming Hannah backward into the wall and forcing her joints back at an awkward angle that makes her shriek with pain as Deb falls to the floor on top of her. She's dropped the knife in the process, thankfully. Having her in the same room and the risk of seeing her die before me throws new life into my exhausted efforts; as Hannah scrabbles to rid herself of Deb's weight, I manage to tip the table over. It crashes to the floor with a horrific noise; my bonds chafe my limbs and I can feel the incision on my leg reopen, close to my ankle. I ignore the pain and try to free myself now that gravity is aiding my attempts to escape; the blood proves a boon as it slicks one of my restraints, and I manage to slip that agonized leg free.
Hannah unburdens herself and lunges for the knife; I try to pull myself toward her with one leg, but I am still trapped on the surface of the table. I kick at my other leg with the free foot, and by pointing my toe, I manage to slip out of my shoe. This new range of motion lets me throw my legs up to fall back down on the table top, which sends me slamming back into the wall, breaking the legs of the table, weakening the hold it has on me. Hannah stares at me wildly, and thanks to Deb's attack, she didn't get to keep the rag over her face very long; she's already beginning to stir.
Harrison's not-quite grandparents relieve the exhausted daycare secretary of her burden around midnight. Bill Bennett slips her a hundred dollar bill for her troubles, and she smiles gratefully.
They call both Dexter and Debra's cell phones; they ring endlessly. Finally, they call Miamo Metro police, after pounding on both their doors and finding both homes empty. They report them both as missing persons, which of course triggers a massive effort to locate both missing Morgans. Uniforms comb the databases of calls for service and accident reports; they call local hospitals, checking for John and Jane Does with descriptions that fit their quarry. But it seems they've vanished into the night air.
Bill and Maura rent a room at a central Motel 6 and call Astor, assuring her everything's all right. Since it's a school night, she and Cody stayed in Orlando. Maura feels guilty, but it's all she can do.
The last thing Debra thinks is Motherfucker! when Hannah knocks her out with the rag. She drops her gun, but manages to kick the bitch before she falls, pleased to hear her scream. Her nap is short-lived; she wakes up when she hears the splinter of breaking wood. Dexter is flopping around on the breaking table like a freshly hooked salmon; if it wasn't for the fact that they were fighting for their fucking lives, it would be hilarious to see.
Hannah whirls when she hears Deb move, distracted by Dexter's actions to free himself. It's too late; the taller woman clocks her with her fist to the temple, and she crumples to the dirty wooden floor like a sack of potatoes.
Deb takes just a second to breathe before she looks up at Dexter. His leg is bleeding and he's still on the fucking table. She hurries to untie the ropes that bind him to the edges of it, and when she gets the last restraint off, she throws her arms around him, panting. He pulls her to him and they cling to each other, desperate to comfort themselves. When Hannah groans, they reluctantly separate, turning to face her together. Deb retakes her gun from the floor, and Dex goes for the knife he'd been admiring so ardently just moments before.
When Dexter meets her eyes, something silent passes between the two of them. Their bond, which has only strengthened in these past few months, has now eclipsed them both; she recognizes that now. Somehow, she was reborn in that shipping container back on the first day of this new year, by his side.
Debra knows that this thing that is about to happen is not legal. It is not moral, it is not what Harry or anyone else would want to happen. But it's exactly what's going to happen because it's the only thing that can happen. Hannah cannot live, cannot be turned in to the authorities. She must be...put down.
Put down... what a euphemism for euthanasia. That had been what Laguerta screamed, at the end of last year. It's the phase Dex used when he retold what he'd done to his brother, Brian. Though she rather doubts that these final moments will be, in any sense, a humane death for her nemesis, it's a fitting phrase.
The only thing that stops her from putting a bullet between the blonde's eyes right this moment is the dark look in Dexter's eyes. She hates and fears that look; it burns like frozen fire. She'd glimpsed it only briefly before, when he killed Travis Marshall; now it settles across his entire face, and the Dexter she loves is gone. This is the predator that her father created, ruthless and efficient; she doesn't want to see this, knows it will change them both forever. But she also feels she needs to bear witness, and besides, she really hates this bitch. If anyone has ever deserved his knife, it's Hannah.
"Look away," he says woodenly. He advances on his former lover, then seems to reconsider, darting back for the rope. He binds her wrists and ankles with quick loops, hog tying her in a crude but effective manner.
"I'd leave her this way, but someone might find her before she died of dehydration," Deb mutters, nudging her with the tip of her shoe. "The evidence- do it in the bathtub or something," she says. She thinks back to her own tub, now filled with apologetic paper hearts and cold water, the nightmare she'd had where she was in a bathtub of her own blood. Rita's ghostly white body in the garden tub of vivid crimson. She finds it hard to muster any sympathy for Hannah. Dexter shrugs in response and throws her over his shoulder, carrying his unconscious burden roughly and with his limp, down the hallway they'd chased one another down as children.
The bathroom has been remodeled since they lived here in the early 80's; the tub is different from the one she vaguely remembers as an olive green monstrosity. He dumps her off, face-up in the wide basin, and shuffles past Deb to retrieve the knife from the dining room.
By the time he comes back, she's sitting on the closed toilet seat, staring at Hannah. Her face looks younger, softer somehow, now that she's not awake. She looks like a normal woman. It unsettles her for a moment, until Dexter turns on the water, and Hannah reawakens like a coiling cobra. Then she remembers just how badly this woman needs to die.
"You two," she spits, hatred glowing like embers in her cool green eyes. "The killer and his perfect accomplice. Think you're something special, don't you? You're just like me and Wayne Randall. And you'll end up the same way, sick fucks."
"Enough," Dexter warns, and his tone is cold enough to make fucking snowballs in hell, but she goes on anyway. Deb supposes she has nothing left to lose.
"Killing people... I could understand that, Dexter. But fucking your sister? I'm ashamed I ever felt anything for you," she snarls. Dex throws his hands up in the air, which is an interesting motion, since he has a very large knife in one of them.
"You do know she's my foster sister, don't you?" He rolls his eyes and Deb would laugh, but the tension in the air is too thick. It's borderline ridiculous.
"It doesn't matter. She's your sister in every way that matters. Raised together, same memories, same history. That's all anyone will ever see when they hear your story. So enjoy living with that for the rest of your lives. I would have done you both a favor." With this, she grows quiet.
The shower continues to run, soaking Hannah and Dexter. The tub slowly begins to fill. He makes no move to kill her; Deb sits and watches. When the water reaches her shoulders, dread begins to fill her eyes, and Deb rises abruptly and crosses the room, putting a hand on Dexter's forearm and gently pushing him away. They share a long, hard look; it seems almost like she's seeking acceptance, or permission. Finally, he shrugs and takes a few steps back, shoulders hunched. Hannah sees something in Debra's eyes, something dark and nameless, and breaks her silence, suddenly screaming "NO!"
Debra ignores her, shoving her shoulders and upper body beneath the water. Now she's drenched as well as the shower continues to run, and Dexter stands by, watching and doing nothing, staring them down and absorbing everything, childlike, a witness once more to murder. Hannah thrashes; her eyes bulge open and her mouth moves, sending roiling bubbles up as the water washes over the edges of the tub. Her darkly dyed hair slides through the water, tangling around Deb's fingers like seaweed. She screams at her, the words indistinct and vengeful, and looks like a bizarre, enraged mermaid. The struggle seems to last forever; in reality, it only takes about three minutes. Finally, her eyes roll back in her head, and her movements stop.
Debra pulls her hands from the sickeningly still body like they've been burned, stumbling back and seemingly shocked by what she's done. Dexter, ever more practical, scoops Hannah from the tub and uses the knife to slice off the ropes.
"Ligature marks," he mumbles. He pulls each of her limbs straight, then heaves the burden over his shoulder and calls out to Deb. "Come on. We'll throw her off the boat, it will look like she tried for Cuba and drowned."
"Won't the autopsy find fresh water in her lungs?" she asks shakily, brushing off her pants and following him through the living room and out the front door. She's gathered up Hannah's bag and rifles though it, outraged to find her phone admit the various supplies.
"No, pathologically, there's no difference. And water doesn't enter the lungs when you drown." He fumbles for his keys and unlocks his vehicle with a soft 'beep'. "Grab that tarp?" he asks, and Deb seizes it, spreading it across the cargo area. Dex sets down Hannah's body and pulls the blue plastic over her. "Kind of brilliant, really. Now the feds get their man- pardon the phrase- and get to close their case. Maybe Dad picked the wrong protege."
"Shut up," she answers mirthlessly. It seems her conscience is finally kicking in.
I drive slowly and carefully to my marina, making sure I keep to the side streets, avoid speeding, and stop at every stop sign. Though Miami's streets are empty, the last thing I need is to be pulled over. Deb calls me and we speak on the phone as she follows behind me in her car. We talk logistics and say nothing about the contents of my cargo area.
Suddenly, Debra blurts out, "Who has Harrison?"
I almost slam on the brakes. "Oh, God." I'm so used to Jaime picking him up and caring for him that her trip to Boston has completely slipped my mind, being as it was more focused most recently on staying alive. Though my first instinct is to turn the car around and head for the daycare, I continue onward. "Now we've got to give ourselves an explanation," I say eventually. "They'll have called the Bennetts; they're second on the emergency contact list, after you. But we need to get out to the water now, as soon as we can." I edge my foot down a tiny bit harder on the pedal, and skirt the speed limit by five miles an hour. We pull down the gravel-laid driveway less than twenty minutes later, and like always, the parking lot is empty. She pulls her vehicle in beside mine, and then Deb helps me carry Hannah, wrapped in the tarp, down to the Slice of Life. I quickly stuff her in the live well.
I ram the engine to third gear once we are out of the harbor, and the boat rises up on plane, cutting though the gently waving water. There's not much light out tonight, the moon a tiny sliver accompanied by a few scattered stars. When we're close to ten miles out, I kill the engine and we heave Hannah overboard. It feels strange to dump her body in the same way I discarded her father's; maybe that's some strange form of justice. Then I grab my phone and throw it out into the water, and motion for Deb to do the same.
"The fuck?" she asks, shaking her head.
"Our alibi. I'll buy you a new one," I answer. She stares at me, so I shrug and go back to the motor, yanking off the cover and poking at the engine. I find the oil filter, and unscrew it a few turns. Black motor oil starts to pour out, leaving a metallic streak in our wake and coating the engine in grime. I replace the cover and crank up the engine once more. She watches me work, then I hear the plunk of her phone hitting the water.
It takes another seven miles, but eventually the outboard gives up, groaning to a halt. We're effectively dead in the water, and it's about three o'clock in the morning.
I dig around in my glove box for an old distress beacon, and hook it up to my cigarette lighter. It starts sending out blinding flashes every thirty seconds, and she shields her eyes.
"So what's the story?" Deb asks lazily as we float. The boat rocks on the current, the water sloshing against the sides. I'm stretched out on the opposite set of benches, both of us near the bow.
"The engine quit, I leaned over too far and fell in, losing my phone, which happened to be in my pocket. You, the ever-impulsive, brave lass that you are, dove in after me and also lost your phone, so we've been adrift since early this evening."
She lets the story rattle around her head for a few seconds, then her detective's mind tears it to ribbons.
"A fine tale, aside from the fact that I didn't even leave the fucking station until eight."
"Did anyone see you leave?"
She pauses, seemingly struggling to remember. I don't blame her- it seems like yesterday happened weeks ago. "I didn't see anyone on the way out. The cameras would have caught me, though."
"I'll delete the files as soon as we get back," I answer. I blow out a breath, then reach across the narrow space between us, my fingers trailing down her arm and curling around hers. "Look, I've been thinking a lot about this. How tired I am of all of this." I motion to the air around us with my free hand.
"The ocean?" she asks, playing dumb. I smile and ignore her comment, continuing. "The money from my aunt gives us a lot of options. I've been looking overseas. I don't want to run if I don't have to, Deb." I open my palm and grip hers within it, turning my face so that I'm looking into her eyes. I can just make out her features, despite the darkness. "But whatever new life I make- I want you to be in it with me." She nods, her hair tossing with the movement.
"Where are we talking about, then? South America?"
"Most European countries won't extradite if the defendant is facing the death penalty," I answer. "Though, to be fair, no one's tried to extradite someone like me. It will always be a possibility, as long as I'm alive. But if we leave now, before any heat comes our way, we can make a clean break, a fresh start." I smooth my thumb over hers. "And if our identifying files happen to get corrupted just after we leave...well, we might even avoid it ever happening."
"What would we even do in another country?" she asks logically. Being a cop is so ingrained in her psyche that I can believe she can't imagine doing anything else.
"You could go private sector," I reply. "Become a private investigator, liaison with local police. As for me, I've thought about writing."
"Writing?" she asks skeptically. "You? You're not exactly the Bard." She rises up, dropping my hand as she crosses the bow, then sits down beside me, cross-legged and resting her head on my thigh as she looks over at me. I smile in response. "I think I could be quite descriptive in true crime. I read Sal Price's stuff and all I could think was 'I could have phrased that better.' And it could let us lay fairly low for a while, with nice sums coming in when the books sell." I've begun one already, during my extensive recuperation; a tell-all about the Jordan Chase case. It's nearly seventy thousand words and climbing every time I sit down at the keyboard. "America loves stories that bleed, and behind the scenes looks at forensics. It's the CSI effect."
"God, that fucking show," Deb groans. "Thanks to that kind of crap, juries think that every case fits together like a perfect jigsaw puzzle. If only it were all that neat and tidy." She pauses. "You really think this could work out? I don't even have a passport."
"That's the nice part about walking," I answer. "We have time to get everything arranged, to say goodbyes and put things together in neat little rows. We can apply for visas and passports, sell what we need to, decide where to go."
"But leave Miami? Astor and Cody?" I hear the hesitation in her voice, and understand it. After all, it's the city we've both lived in all of our lives, the place of our birth. We both love it, the flavors, the people, the heat. It's a lot to leave behind. And yet...
"Yes," I sigh heavily. "We have to, to have a chance, a change. They're happier with their grandparents, and I can fly them to wherever we are to visit Harrison. Deb, I want a life where I can kiss you in public, without worrying who will see and judge. I want to share a bed with you every night and not have you sneak away like a thief every morning." I reach down and trace her jaw with my thumb. "Though you are quite skilled at sneaking."
"I'm skilled at other things," she quips. "It would be nice to not have to hide. People would just assume we had the same name because we were...you know. Married, or whatever." She motions between us. "It's not like there's any family resemblance."
I swing my legs down beside her and sink down off the cushion, letting my arm go around her shoulders and pulling her against my side. "No, never has been. You've always been so damn skinny."
"Athletic," she challenges. She abruptly swings her body in my embrace, settling over my legs on her knees, raised up a head higher than me and peering down at my face in the blue-black darkness. Her face is colored in shades of indigo. She moves forward and rests her weight on my lap. "I've never heard you complain, anyway." She grinds her hips to accent her point.
"Nor will I," I concur, tilting up to kiss her elegant neck. She sighs and cranes her face up toward the overcast sky, granting me access. "You've been mine through thick and thin." My hands find her hips and direct her movements more purposefully. She moans, low and ragged, as the friction builds sweetly.
"We need to get wet," I realize aloud, suddenly. This time, her groan is of frustration. "Too late," she says; I give a small grin to acknowledge her bad joke. "We have to jump in the fucking ocean? Seriously?"
"It gives us an excuse to take our clothes off," I point out reasonably.
"Saved by logic again, Dexter Morgan," she comments, then heads for the stern. I follow behind her.
The coast guard captain gets a call from local police regarding a missing persons and a watercraft at 2:30am; it's been relayed from their local station. Since the missing persons are some of Miami Metro's finest, their homicide lieutenant and her lab geek brother, they go on top priority. The captain eases the throttle open on his cutter and it glides smoothly through the Biscayne bay. He sends two lower ranking seamen out with binoculars to scan the horizons for any signs of distressed ships, and they comb the area, heading farther and farther out to sea before they spot the beacon. By that point, the dawn has begun to creep across the Florida sky, coloring the purple sunrise with streaks of pink and orange.
They sight the vessel and begin their approach as quickly as possible, slicing through the waves as the tide works against them, the wind whipping up ever-higher peaks across their bow. Within half an hour, they are close enough for him to slip down to first gear, the engine sputtering as they reach shouting distance. They hail the stranded fishing boat, and he confirms that it matches the identification number he'd been given with the initial report.
The occupants rise from the deck when they hear his crew's shouts, leaping up with cheerful waves and big smiles at being rescued. The captain glances down at his bearings, calling over the radio that they've been found, and reflecting inwardly that it's these kind of things that lead him to join the Coast Guard in the first place- the happy endings.
After Dexter drops anchor on the Slice of Life, the Coast Guard crew hustles them across the tied bows and onto their cutter, abandoning the other ship. The captain assures Dexter that he's accurately recorded the GPS coordinates of his stranded vessel so that Dex can have a barge come out and tow the disabled boat back to shore. When he relates the source of the problem, the captain makes a flippant remark about the brand of outboard, and they launch into an animated discussion on the cost of repairing it versus simply replacing it with a higher output model. Debra's too exhausted to care much about the topic, so she stretches out across one of the sets of seats that flank the ships' wheelhouse, glad to be in a cabin and out of the wind. Her thighs ache and she really needs a shower, tired of the salt and sweat on her skin, and she thinks longingly of her bathtub once again, though she also dreads the massive cleanup she faces at her bungalow. She decides to borrow Harrison's tub again.
The first thing Dex had done as soon as the Coast Guard arrived was call off the search for them, using the satellite phone to dial Bill and Maura and assure them that it had all been an accident, desperate to hear that his son was all right and relieved that he'd been in good hands all afternoon and evening. Though he'd promised to pick up his son the moment they reached dry land, and insisted he'd pay for an extra day at the hotel for them to rest before the long trip home to Orlando, Mauara said he must be exhausted from his ordeal, and promised to care for Harrison until Dexter was ready to pick him up. By the time they're back at the marina, no one even questions it when he takes Deb home with him, and she disappears to the other side of the apartment to wash off the stress and saltwater the moment he unlocks the front door.
It's nearly eight in the morning by the time he drops into his bed like a stone, waking only when she slides into the sheets to his right and hooks her body toward his. He opens his eyes, blinks back the light, and pulls her deeper into his embrace, nodding back off into a blissfully dreamless sleep.
