Another Sip of Espresso
Setting: "The Dark Defender"

A/N: When I was putting together my outline for this ep, I noticed that the coffee bar marina where Deb and Dex meet in the opening has the same bridge in the background as Coral Cove, Dex's marina, which Deb and Lundy later check out. A quick check on the Dexter filming locations site confirmed that they did indeed shoot at the same marina for both scenes (Leeward Bay Marina in Wilmington, down in LA). I'm not sure if the opening was set at Coral Cove, since they don't mention it, but I'm just going to assume it was because it's slightly more interesting to me that way.

Shaking my head to myself, I watch Dexter's back as he walks away from the table, take another sip of espresso. The whole brother-sister coffee catch up thing lasted all of five seconds.

I snort.

Yeah, whatever.

I set the Styrofoam cup down, think about grabbing a cigarette from my purse, because I drove all the way out here and I don't want to leave yet. My brother's reached his mini van before I've decided whether or not to act on the impulse, and he waves at me. I wave back, then watch as he gets in and pulls out of the space, drives out of the lot, turns for the bridge, and disappears into a clump of cars. Take another sip of espresso.

It's Wednesday morning. Shortly after my run, as I was heading for the shower, Dexter called and asked if I wanted to grab a coffee before work. We haven't seen each other much the last few days, with him spending his nights at Rita's and us working non-overlapping investigations. He's on call today and I don't need to be at the station until 10, since Lundy's holding the morning briefing late today, so I agreed to drive out and meet him at Coral Cove. But, typically, we didn't even get around to thinking about whether or not we were going to order food before he had to go.

I look out at the water.

When I asked him why here of all places, he said he was thinking of taking out his boat for the morning. I'm not sure if he was inviting me along, but I didn't ask to be included. Because while I can sit here and look at it, I don't have any desire to go out on that dock, let alone get on a boat again, or go out on the water.

The impulse finally wins over. I reach into my bag, locate the box and the lighter, pull out a cigarette and light up. Blow smoke as I adjust in my seat.

My little sister, the cuddler.

I purse my lips.

I wasn't bullshitting Dexter. I've put the brakes on with Gabriel for several reasons, only a few of which I can actually articulate. For one, I'm still not sure what we're doing or why. Saturday's date was fun and we've spent a couple nights together since, at his place and my brother's, but I haven't let us get any farther than groping on the couch. I'm half waiting for him to get impatient with me and admit some ulterior motive, that he just sees me as the Ice Truck Killer's bitch, but so far nothing. He hasn't mentioned Moser or what I said that night I cuffed him to the bed, or asked about my twitchiness, but I can't believe it, or something worse, isn't coming. Probably because the last several guys I've been with turned out to be such total assholes— my serial killer fiancé aside.

I don't know.

I blow more smoke, drink my rapidly cooling espresso.

But tonight he asked if I wanted to stay over, and I said yes. Because I want to trust him. Because I want to believe he's been respectful of my wishes because he's a nice guy and not just because he sees me as some kind of trophy.

And because I really, truly, do want to fuck around with him again.

I've still got those fucking condoms in my purse.

I drain the cup and set it down, suck on the cigarette to fill the void.

And, of course, there are those other reasons, the ones I keep shoving down.

My thoughts drift back to last night. I barely remember what we were talking about before it devolved. Something about him taking his cousins camping on the beach in El Salvador and how the mosquitoes ate them all alive. By the end of it I couldn't listen to another word, couldn't take it anymore. Because I wanted him.

I initiated, but for the first time I let him on top of me, surrendered that bit of control. It scared the shit out of me, but I pulled him closer anyway, let him touch me, helped him touch me, guided his hands and mouth along. Got him out of his shirt before helping him get through mine. I started to feel safe as we kissed, as everything faded to a pleasant, red haze.

But something happened. Something snapped, and suddenly I was too afraid. Because as his fingers traveled south, even as I responded, even as I asked him to, I realized how vulnerable I was. I felt it. The second he opened my pants, that fear pierced my chest like a volt, made me instantly sick. I was shaking when I pushed him off me, and I was fucking terrified. I thought I was gonna puke all over his floor. Thankfully, didn't.

I cursed myself the whole drive home. I didn't tell him what was wrong, what I felt, why I had to go. I didn't want him to know, didn't want to admit it. I still don't.

But tonight…

I reach for the cup again, remember as I lift it that it's empty. Sigh as I set it down, pull on the cigarette again.

Tonight, I hope…

Maybe.

I don't know. I don't want to think about what happened anymore.

I tap ash off the cigarette.

Meanwhile, we're still nowhere with the Butcher investigation. I've spent the week going over Gruber and White's lives with a fine-toothed comb, looking for security tapes and associates and whatever else I can think of. Went as far as tracking down the patrol cops who worked White's parents' crash scene and their incident reports, as well as talking to the probate attorney, found absolutely nothing. I still can't figure out how the Butcher even knew to target White, and it's annoying the crap out of me. As far as I can tell, the only person who suspected White of anything was his sister.

Who knows, maybe she's the Butcher.

I take one last pull, then drop the butt on the ground, grind it out. I think about getting another espresso as I look back out at the marina, but maybe I want another cigarette instead.

Or maybe I don't. Because I shouldn't.

I stop myself, barely, push my sunglasses back up my nose. Force my thoughts away from my bag.

And land, inevitably, back on the ITK.

Tomorrow it'll be a week since I handed the Castillo investigation over to Lundy, and he still hasn't breathed a word of it. I'm choosing to believe it's because there's nothing there, and I haven't had any desire to ask for confirmation. It's been a relief not having to think or hear or talk about it. I've been over what Rudy said more times than I could even estimate, and I still don't know if I believe he knew the Butcher personally, that I was meant to be anything more than a Christmas gift. But maybe it's just my wishful thinking that Lundy won't find anything as he digs into the ITK.

I don't know.

And it doesn't matter.

I exhale, check my watch. I've still got forever and I'm a little hungry.

So I get up, stretch my back, grab my purse off the chair and throw it over my shoulder. I pause as I turn for the coffee shop, as it occurs to me that I'm going to have to walk down to the dock to get to it, and it's so intolerably stupid it instantly pisses me off.

Because I can't let it scare me. It doesn't scare me. I'm getting another espresso and an omelet and some fucking bacon and I'm going to look out at the inlet as I eat.

And probably have another ten cigarettes.

And then I'm going to work.

Pushing my hair back, I head for the ramp to have my damn breakfast on the marina, PTSD be fucking damned.