Break Me Every Time

by Solia

Deb reacts to Dexter's news about Argentina and Dexter considers some of the implications. Alternative events unfold from there. Rated M for coarse language typical of the show and some explicit content. Based in the eighth season, with references to events of previous seasons, so please don't read if you're not up to date.

38. Chapter 38

Title: Break Me

Fandom: Dexter

Rating: M for language and explicit content

Disclaimer: I do not own Dexter or any of its characters. No animals were harmed in the making of this fiction. Several human characters have been beaten around unfairly and unnecessarily but no one ever seems to worry too much about that as long as the animals are all okay.

Author's notes: Still no sign of my books. Good thing I'm so well-known for my patience. On the bright side, it's the Easter school holidays in Queensland, and sleeping in past 9am on a Monday morning is a dream I harbour for ten weeks at a time until holidays occur and it finally happens, like it did this morning :)

Thanks eternally to my gorgeous reviewers. Welcome, Nick, and thankyou for taking the time to review! I appreciate it. Thankyou, Writingisfunlol! I'm always so excited to see your name at the top of a review, just knowing that any review from you will be like someone spoon-feeding me all the best parts of my own story (which I'm already a fan of) back into my mouth, only warmed up and coated in golden syrup and/or condensed milk, because your take on what I write always makes me love it even more, and I really love both Break Me and golden syrup and/or condensed milk. Thankyou for the incredible feeling your words leave me with, every time. Wolfcub-sm! Thanks for your ongoing devotion to this fic and my work. Astor seeing the event with Elway came as a surprise to me, as I hadn't planned that, but I also really appreciate you mentioning the hectic feel of the scene immediately prior to that, in the cafe. That's exactly the feel I was going for so I'm glad all those elements pulled together just right for you! AngryHellFish, I'm so pleased to see you back again! Thankyou for returning and for continuing to review. I enjoyed reading your thoughts, wonderings and theories. Some may be answered here in chapter 38; some won't be. Some even I don't know an answer to yet, so we'll find out together in the next few weeks :) Thanks, shadow. Ah, dear soodohnimh, you are so very insightful, but of course I won't tell you where you're right or wrong in your theorising :P I noticed early on in writing Break Me that I was very aware of when I used 'Debra' in place of 'Deb', and would actually go through and count the number of times 'Debra' appeared. I couldn't work out how I knew, very consciously, when I should use 'Debra' instead. One of my favourite lines in this whole fic is from chapter 18: *something or another about having to come out of the bathroom* "I do not. You can't make me." "Don't fucking try me, Debra." Dexter calls her Debra several times in that conversation, when she's in her bathroom and they're arguing through the door and he's stressing out. I started to think around that point that their father always called her Debra, and he mostly spoke down to her or exercised authority over her and rarely connected with her; so when Dexter is thinking about her in a serious frame of mind where he feels slightly distanced from her – angry with her, afraid for/of her, bossing her around, in an intense situation with her – I notice he tends to refer to her as Debra. When he feels close with her it's Deb. More familiar. the harsh realm, I hope disorientated is good! :P You're absolutely right; all of this, everything that happens to the Morgans can be traced back to the fact that Dexter is a killer in his spare time, so really, no matter what changes he makes/has made, everything that's gone wrong for the people he loves has been ultimately his own fault. A fortnight of being a nice guy doesn't fix everything – he's got a long way to go to make up for all the bad he's done. Lucky the story's not over with yet ;) As for your requests, I'll see what I can do. Guest, a.k.a. seemingly ungrateful shadow lurker, thankyouthankyouthankyou! I don't even care that you've been silent all this time – the fact that you have been reading all along and stayed with me for so long, and finally felt compelled to speak up and talk to me is too awesome for words. I am very, very grateful. I wonder: who do you think it is, then? :P And minx80, I took your cut-short review with good humour :P I probably deserved it; I do it to you guys enough. Thanks for the lovely words you always give me about my writing :) Enjoy!

Chapter Thirty-eight

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My killer instincts still demand I return to my car and put my hostage out, for my own safety and for my family's, but my heart belongs to that family and right now it belongs to Cody. Under umbrellas we meander along the street, water sloshing under our shoes.

I text Deb to let her know where I've gone. She's lost as to why I'd want to wander off in this rain without warning but accepts without fuss. I remind her to keep an eye on the car. Cody walks in silence for a long time and I keep pace with him, enjoying his company. He's not the sweet, doe-eyed little boy I used to bring doughnuts to and flip about in the air to get those wonderful giggles out of him; he's not, yet he is. He's Rita's little boy. He's the child that taught me to be a dad, how to love something or someone more than myself and my habit.

He's my first child – the first child I took fully as mine and made changes for.

We walk back to the park we played in yesterday with our sisters and Harrison. It looks so different today under Sunday's rainy gloom, without Saturday's sunny, golden warmth. We come to a stop when we reach a chain link fence separating the park from a dog-off-leash area. There's no one around. I lean against the fence and wait for Cody to talk. It takes him a while. He seems to be struggling through a lot of thoughts in his head. When he finally speaks he takes me entirely by surprise.

"I loved my dad," he says calmly. He closes down his umbrella, casts it onto the ground, leans back into the fence and pulls himself up to sit atop it. "I know he did some horrible stuff but I loved him, you know? Astor never says much when we talk about Dad – she says she remembers some things he did, I suppose to Mom, and it hurts her to remember so she'd rather not think about him at all. But I don't remember any of that stuff. I just remember he had this huge smile, and he read me stories and he always wanted to have fun. My dad was always fun to be around. He always made me feel excited."

I'm not sure what to say. My thoughts flash on Paul. "Well, he loved you guys. A lot."

"I know he did," Cody agrees. "I know underneath all the drugs and anger and that bullshit he... sorry, stuff, underneath all that stuff... he was just a person, and a dad, and he had a heart and he loved Astor and me, and even Mom. Sometimes I do well on a spelling test or something and wonder if I was a normal kid with a normal life, and I still had my mom and dad, would I bring that paper home and show him and make him proud? I don't even know," he admits now, shrugging and looking off into the rain that is quickly drenching his shaggy dark hair and clothes. "I like to think he'd be happiest knowing Astor and I were happy and doing well at school."

"I think so, too," I say.

"But then sometimes I do dumb stuff, or stuff I know I shouldn't, and I wonder, is this me acting more like my dad? Is this what I'm destined to do because of him and his actions? Is this the behaviour he'd be proud of, because it's what he would have done?"

"No," I am quick to insist, rejecting those notions instinctively. "Firstly, Cody, your dad, if he's watching your every move from his new existence, is not judging you, and he's certainly not hoping you turn out like him. He wasn't proud of where he let his life take him. He did not want that for you or your sister – he could hardly even bear for you two to see him jail and risk thinking of him as a failure. He wanted so badly to be the dad you needed." I shake my head and close my umbrella, too. Who am I kidding? I'm still wet from earlier. I turn to the fence, resting my elbows on the top bar and feeling my damp clothes soak up the fresh raindrops. "Second and most importantly: we are not our parents. Their choices don't determine ours. Their mistakes don't foreshadow ours." I look up at Cody beside me. "That's a lesson I had to learn a number of times, and it has been a hard one. I'm still learning it every day. My dad wasn't perfect either but he loved me, and my sister, and he did his best with the choices he made. I now have to do the same. My choices haven't always been the greatest. But they were my choices, not his, and I had to learn that. Both to take responsibility, and to step out of his shadow."

Cody blinks rain from where it gathers in his lashes. It looks like my words have reached something deep inside him. I wait for his real question, whatever it was he brought me out here for.

"What was your birth name?" he blurts out. I glance at him, taken-aback. I don't know what I expected him to ask but this was certainly not it. My bewildered look must make him think I don't understand, because he elaborates hurriedly, "You know, your name before your mom and dad – well, Aunt Deb's mom and dad – adopted you."

"Uh," I say initially, trying to spur my brain into processing this request. The answer to that doesn't associate properly with my own name, but it does connect immediately to another name. Brian. Brian Moser. Why would Cody want to know that? Has he read something? Has he been told something? I suppose there's only one way to find out. "Moser. Why?"

"Was that your father's last name?" He doesn't know anything. I relax. Somewhat. The very name Moser has bittersweet connotations for me. A life that could have been, the brother I could have grown up loving; a life that was better not lived, the brother I had to kill to save the sister I grew up loving instead.

"No, my mother's." I watch Cody's face for clues as to where this is going. He isn't giving off any confrontational signs. He's not digging for bad news, and he's not trying to upset me by bringing up old wounds. He's simply... struggling. To understand? To decide? "I'm not sure why I didn't have my birth father's name."

"When did you find out what your real name was? Did you know all your life? And when did you find out you were adopted?"

"I always knew I was adopted," I say. I try to come across open, honest. I want Cody to feel the same way. "My foster parents never kept that from me. I even remember my dad showing me the amended birth certificate with my new name when I was formally adopted. I found out my birth name not long after I started seeing your mother."

"When you were an adult. Did you consider changing your name back?" Cody asks curiously. "Once you learned what it used to be?"

I'm floored again, this time because it has honestly never occurred to me. "No."

"Because 'Dexter Morgan' is your name now?" my stepson guesses, and I nod.

"I suppose so."

"But why is it your name?" he now presses, intent on getting to the bottom of whatever he's trying to investigate. "Because it's familiar and you're used to hearing it? Because all your achievements and stuff are in that name?"

"Because..." I trail off, thinking about this for the first time. What's in a name? But I know immediately the answer. "Because it was my father's name, and my mom's name. They gave it to me. You don't give your name to just anyone, but they gave it to me as readily as they did to their own daughter. It's my sister's name and now it's Harrison's name. So it's my name, too."

"What if Harrison grows up and changes his name to something else?" Cody quizzes. "What if Aunt Deb got married and changed her name?"

I remember talking Deb over her choices after Quinn proposed to her, and joking about her potential new name. I didn't feel threatened then; I don't feel threatened now. Her name could be anything. She'd still be my sister.

As for Harrison... the idea of him changing his name from Morgan is a little more unsettling, perhaps because it seems so unlikely. Women are expected to grow up to marry and change their names. Men aren't. But... Harrison would still be my boy, even under another name. I decide I don't care.

If I ever had to evacuate the country with them, I'd have to get new identities for them anyway, and I'd have to adjust to none of us being Morgans.

"I don't know. They can do that if they like. Maybe it would make me less attached to the name if they didn't share it, but Morgan was still my dad's name and he could have left me as Dexter Moser if he'd wanted. He didn't." I smile. "I've had times of thinking angry and resentful things about my dad but I'm proud to have his name. I'm proud to call it my name."

"It was Mom's, too, when she died," Cody mentions. "You gave it to her."

"I loved her," I remind him. The thirteen-year-old looks down at his dripping wet shoes. Finally, finally, it comes out.

"I was wondering... how you'd feel... about giving it to me, too."

This orphaned schoolboy possesses the ability to surprise me more than any of the complex psychopaths I have encountered did.

"How I'd..." I start to repeat as the words filter through my brain. "You want to change your name?" I am too shocked to feel anything at first. Cody blushes, embarrassed to have to justify his desires when all he really wanted was a simple yes or no. Then I realise what he's asking – for my name, for the same immeasurable gift Harry Morgan gave to me – and I understand how significant this moment is, both for him and for me, and the weight of it hits me. Huge emotions crowd behind the curtain I quickly draw across the middle of my mind, emotions too big to feel unless I know they will not be left in disappointment. I exhale heavily and look out over the dog park to stall. "What about Astor? What does she think?"

Cody kicks the chain link of the fence with his heels. "What would your sister say if you wanted to change your name back to Moser?"

I smile wryly. "Actually, I think she'd finally disown me and walk out of my life for good if I even joked about that." I don't elaborate on why, or how serious I am. I don't think I could possibly hurt Deb more than to suggest swapping the name that binds us together for the name of my dark past and the brother who hollowed out her life for too long and almost killed her. "But I think your sister is slightly more reasonable than mine."

"Yeah, she yelled at me the first time I mentioned it," Cody admits. "She said, 'don't you want to be my brother anymore?' but then the next time I said it, she listened. She knows where I'm coming from. She even said she'd think about it for herself, but I don't think she will. She likes being a Bennett because it's our grandparents' name and she says, it was Mom's name when we were born, and she kept it hyphenated even when you and Mom got married." Cody swings back and forth on his perch, thoughtful, but keeps his gaze on me, wary. "I'd still be my mom and dad's kid if I changed my name, and Astor and me would still be brother and sister. I talk to Sari about it at school and she keeps saying, it won't change who I am to anyone else, but if it's what I want, it'll make me more comfortable with how people perceive me. Or something like that."

"That's probably true," I agree, "but it's not a small decision. What did your grandparents say?"

"Grandpa liked the idea," Cody tells me. "I didn't think he would. He said my dad would be furious but I shouldn't let that sway my decision. He said it would be honouring my mom to do it; he said Mom would want me to be whoever I truly believe I am, and if I feel like I'm 'Cody Morgan' on the inside-" his face lights up red again to say the name in front of me for the first time "-then I should follow that. He thinks Mom would want me to be free to be my own person."

"I know she would," I agree immediately. "She'd just want you happy, Cody." I pause. "What about your grandmother?"

"She said I should talk to you."

There's a heavy silence filled with rainfall.

"Morgan's not the luckiest name," I say finally. "It comes with a run of bad luck you wouldn't believe."

"Can't be worse than Bennett."

"You might be surprised." I pause again, realising Cody doesn't want to be put off, and so nothing I say will do it. "You know you don't need my permission to change your name," I say. "Your grandparents are your legal guardians. If you don't want to wait until you turn eighteen, they're the ones to see about signing paperwork."

"I know I don't need your permission," Cody confesses cautiously, terrified of being rejected and hurt. "I'd just like it." He sways again atop the fence, unsure, struggling, fearful but trying to be brave. "I don't want the name unless you want me to have it."

Those emotions threaten to overwhelm me, but I hold them at bay. Just. I push away from the fence so I can stand before Rita's son.

"Why wouldn't I want you to have it?" I ask, incredulous. "Why would you even wonder that?"

"Because..." For the first time in a very long time, I see tears well inside those big brown eyes, and my heart breaks. Deb is not the only one who can break me after all. They all can. "Because, maybe, you might think... you know..." He looks down. He makes himself look back up at me. "That I'm not your real son."

How many times in a single conversation can this little boy, who first set me on my journey of self-improvement so many years ago, shock me? I stare at him. I don't know what to say. And then I do.

"Get down from there," I instruct, delving into the pocket of my cargo pants. Cody obediently hops down, using the back of his wrist to wipe his eyes to stop those tears before they can fall. I find what has been comfortably resting, heavily, against my leg since I unearthed it on Friday afternoon. I show it to Cody. "This was my dad's pocket watch. Harry wasn't my father when I was born, but he was my dad. My real father was an alcoholic jailbird who lived a few hours away my whole life and never bothered to track me down. Harry wasn't my blood but I was his son just as much as Debra was his daughter, and he wanted me to have this because I was his son. His eldest son; it didn't matter he didn't father me. There's no such thing as real sons and fake sons." I know it's me saying this but I feel like it's coming from Harry himself and I'm the conflicted little boy listening avidly. I take Cody's hand and press the watch into his slippery palm, holding his fingers shut over the casing. I say, "I want you to have this."

There's panic in his eyes as he asks, in a high voice, "Me? Shouldn't you save it for Harrison?"

"Why? Because he's my biological son?" I share a tiny smile. "It doesn't matter that you were born to a different father, Cody. It doesn't matter. You're Paul Bennett's son and you're my son – my real son, and my first son. You are as much my child as Harrison: just like I was Joe Driscoll's biological son and also Harry Morgan's boy, and just like Deb and I were Harry's kids equally. You are my son and I love you, and I want you to have this." I break our intent gaze to look down at our hands, tight over the pocket watch. "My father gave it to me, and it should go to the firstborn son... Just because I wasn't around for your birth doesn't change that you were my son before Harrison was. And maybe one day you'll have a stepson or a foster son or a biological son or a godson or nephew or whatever, a boy who makes you want to be the kind of person he can aspire to, and-"

I'm cut off by Cody ripping his hand out from mine and throwing himself at me for the tightest hug he's ever given me. I feel Harry's watch clutched tightly in his fist against my shoulder blade. And I feel a whole lot more. All those emotions I've been trying to hold off crash through the barrier and I struggle to keep them inside me, to keep from crying. This embrace is more than just Cody and I – it's father and son – and I almost feel Harry inside me embracing the young Dexter inside Cody, showing that everything's alright, everything's perfect, there's nothing to forgive despite all the mistakes the father has made. I hold my son closely and take a moment to compose myself before speaking again. When I do my throat is tight and croaky.

"I would be more than honoured for you to have my name, Cody," I whisper, "but you don't need it to be my son. You already are. Blood and names aren't what makes family."

Cody hugs me until he gets his feelings under control, and pulls away suddenly, self-conscious about being adultly and manly. His eyes are slightly red with the strain of not crying with emotion and relief, and he smiles, flashing me a bright, grateful look before admiring his new pocket watch. It feels right to me to see him with it. I have sent Harry away, but Harry's okay with that; I've turned the page on my life and moved forward, so now Harry can protect and love my eldest son instead.

"Thanks, Dexter," Cody says softly, turning the heirloom over in his hands. "For this, and... you know."

"Yeah." I nudge him playfully with my elbow and collect the umbrellas from the ground. "I know."

We return to the Bennett house. I eye my car – I'd completely forgotten about Elway and that whole dangerous misadventure outside the cafe – but notice nothing amiss, no crowd of concerned passersby, no open trunk, no pile of twisted packaging tape in the puddles. I don't even approach the car. If he's screaming through the tape I don't want to know, and I don't want my son to hear it either. We walk inside the house and are both greeted by the chiding voices of more sensible people, who can't believe we'd walk off without warning into the edge of a hurricane with two umbrellas and not bother to use them. Maura sends Cody straight into the bathroom for a warm shower and wraps me fussily in a fluffy towel while I protest half-heartedly that I'm fine and my sister smirks at me from where she sits at the table, sipping her tea. I can tell from her demeanour that there have been no problems here.

"Look at you, you're soaked to the skin!" Maura mutters, pulling me into a dining chair and rubbing the towel's edge over my hair like she might one of the grandchildren. I sit there and take the pandering and fussing until she loses interest and goes to scold Astor for the television channel she's letting Harrison watch.

"Don't say a word," I tiredly threaten Deb, swiping her teacup and taking a warming mouthful. I immediately wish I hadn't. Only social protocol prevents me from spitting it back into the cup. I swallow reluctantly. "What is that?"

"Hot water and pig shit, I think," my sister answers quietly, accepting the cup back and looking into it without enthusiasm. "Some herbal blend that's meant to be good for my 'condition'."

I stare at her. "You researched how to treat acid poisoning? And you followed the advice? I thought you were in denial that you even had it?"

Deb scoffs. "As if I fucking researched it. I told Maura, and she researched it, and bought all this crazy hippie food for me." She notices my raised eyebrows and adds, "I had to explain why I wasn't eating anything I'd normally eat. So I told her I had severe food poisoning and it looked like a suspect had tried to spike my food with hydrochloric acid, since my symptoms were similar to those of another victim in that case. And when that freaked her out I said that we were reasonably certain that suspect was dead now." Deb swills the drink reluctantly. "Pretty sure I'd be happier drinking coffee and vomiting a bit of blood every now and then than I am with drinking this."

"Pretty sure I'm happier knowing you've already been grandmothered by Maura than I am with watching you vomit blood again," I reply, and I lean away when she tries to hit my arm.

The television switched to a less interesting channel, Harrison wanders over to us and leans into my side for a damp snuggle. He frowns at his aunt.

"You have to drink your medicine tea," he insists. "It'll make you better."

"It's yuck," Deb informs him, blowing on the tea's surface and offering him the teacup to taste. "Try it and you'll see."

My son is diplomatic but cool. "You're not supposed to drink other people's medicine." He climbs onto the chair between us and stands on the seat part. "You have to-"

"You have to get down," Deb interrupts, reaching for his arm to pull him into a sitting position. He withdraws his arm from her reach and remains standing on the seat, leaning precariously against the backrest.

"Why?" Harrison challenges. "I can balance."

"I didn't ask if you could balance," Deb responds firmly, standing and leaning forward to reach him, but he still keeps his arms and upper body tilted away from her. Defiant. "I told you to get down."

"But why? I'm not going to fall."

He is leaning so far to the side to keep out of Deb's reach that he probably will fall, but he is also now within my grasp instead. I catch his arm and tug him down. He sits with a thump and glares at me.

"Because she said so," I answer my son's question. "You do as you're told."

"I wasn't going to fall," Harrison insists as Deb lowers herself back into her seat. He pushes off his seat and he walks away. Deb sighs and spins the teacup between her hands.

"I think someone needs a nap," she mutters.

"You mean you?" I am not quick enough to avoid this punch.

"Yeah, me," she relents after that. "I'm fucking tired and so not in the mood for his shit right now."

I watch as Harrison sits staunchly between his step-grandparents on the sofa, and I watch the way his little eyes keep shifting closed as he tries to watch the television with them. He's exhausted, and he's going to be out within a few minutes. Still, acting up for Deb is not like him. Maybe it's because she's been his primary caretaker, without me around, for a few days, and he's just testing her out? Whatever the reason, I don't like to see it.

"Has he been like that much while you've been here?" I ask. Deb shakes her head and pushes her cup away.

"No, not really. He's been mostly good. Really good." She eyes the cup. "He's right; I've got to drink that, don't I?"

"You said it's good for you," I remind her. "Why did you make it if you knew already you didn't like it?" Her eyes shift their focus past me to the Bennetts. I lower my voice. "Oh. Well, yeah, if someone else made it for you, I think you're obligated to drink it."

"Shit. I thought so." She brings it close, looking like she's going to drink it. Then she puts it down again.

Cody comes out all dry and dressed and sits in the seat Harrison just abandoned to show Deb his new possession. She's surprised to see our dad's watch but pleased, I think. I'm glad when she reacts well, because really, I should have both asked her before giving it away and offered it to her first. Doris gave it to Harry when he joined the force; if anything, Harry should have passed it onto Deb, not me. But that's not how it happened, and Cody is the rightest person I can think of to have it next.

"I'm glad you have it," Deb says finally, once she's had her fill of admiring and reminiscing over the piece. She gives it back. "You would have liked my dad. He would have loved you, too."

Cody smiles brightly, pleased to have this link with the grandfather of the name he wants to take as his own, and goes to show his sister his new prize. Harrison has passed out on the couch and is now being put to bed by Bill. Maura calls out to me that the shower is free. Hint, hint. I get it. I stand and pull the towel from around my shoulders. Deb takes a deep breath and pulls the teacup of nasty taste back towards her, but doesn't do anything further with it.

"Just drink it," I murmur at Deb, pretending to be drying behind my ears.

"I will," she lies pointedly. Trying to convince herself more than anyone else. She looks unhappily at the sediment at the bottom of the cup, tipping it towards herself to see better, before sighing and moving to place it in the middle of the tabletop again. By now I'm sick of watching the teacup travel back and forth across the table, so with a glance at Maura – Paul's mother is absorbed by whatever she's watching – I grab the cup and quickly down its contents. Damn, it's even worse when it's cooling down, but I do it for Deb. The things we do for people we care about.

"You owe me," I warn. I give her back the cup and head off to shower, accepting her grateful glance.

Once I'm clean, dry and redressed, there's lunch to be had, tea and coffee to be nursed through chitchat (Deb tactfully declines another cup), video games to be played, jokes to be made, cuddles to be shared with Harrison when he wakes up, laughter to be had, smiles to be felt, and before long it becomes inevitable that I leave. My story is that I have work tomorrow, and I can't change that now – plus I have a wanted man bound and gagged and dehydrating, presumably, in the trunk of my car, and another fugitive hidden in a travellers' centre in the forest that I need to drive to the airport tomorrow.

"And," Harrison reminds me, trailing after me as I pack my suitcase neatly, "you have to take my letter to my school tomorrow to give to Alex."

That, too. How could I forget? I sit back on my ankles and gather my little son onto my lap. Yes, Cody will always be my first son; yes, Astor will always be the child most like me, the one I can most trust and be most open with, the one I can look into and see my Rita; but Deb is right, because Harrison is my baby, and my love for him is as deep and unique as my love for my stepchildren and my sister.

"I will take the letter," I agree, cuddling him close. "And you have to do some things for me, too."

"I have to take care of Aunt Deb," he remembers. I smile and stroke his soft hair.

"Yes, but you have to listen to her, too. Do what she says; don't just tell her what to do."

Harrison looks up at me. "I only tell her what to do when it's good for her."

Me, too. I'm bad for it. "She only tells you what to do when it's what's best for you. But even if you don't know why she's telling you to do something, you know you still have to do it, right?"

"What if she's wrong?" Harrison counters. "Jamie says even adults can be wrong sometimes."

"Aunt Deb is never wrong," I say solemnly. "You can ask her and she'll tell you so. But even if one day you think she is wrong, you still have to do as she says, because she is very clever and she probably knows something you don't. Like with the chair today, she probably knew it would hurt if you fell down, plus she knew that your feet were dirty and you shouldn't put feet on seats. Alright? I don't want to see you arguing with your aunt, Harrison. If she asks you to do something, you have to do it. Straightaway. No arguing. Okay?"

He nods and looks away, ashamed. He must have been tired and grumpy before; now he regrets his behaviour and can't recall why he acted like that. We've all had those moments, buddy.

"I should say sorry to her," he mentions sadly. I tighten my grip on him.

"You don't need to. She knows. But it's a nice thing to do, to say sorry when you make a mistake."

I stroke the soft skin of his arms. So perfect. I stood in an empty car park in Miami and yelled at an imaginary two-decades-dead ghost that my sister is perfect, but that's something else imagined. Deb is human, flawed with traits she would be better off without, scarred by life and experience and loves both right and wrong. Adults cannot be perfect – we are damaged and warped by time. Children, though... children are perfect. Innocent. Clean. Innately kind. Without judgement. Unmarked, both their skin and their souls. No stories yet recorded on their skin: brown, toughened stories of long days working in the sun; shiny and pink stories of carelessness with superheated objects like stovetops or pokers; white and jagged stories of skin cut open and allowed to bleed following sudden unexpected pain. Children's skin is like fresh paper, waiting for its story to be written upon it, but no narrative ever existed without complication, and so inevitably children must live their story and grow into imperfect adults. I hope it takes a long time for this to happen to my Harrison. I hope he stays like this, my perfect little angel, for as long as it's possible to do so. I'd wish for forever but I already used my candle wish because I knew it'd be a waste.

"I'll go and say it now," Harrison decides, pushing away from my lap. I hold onto his arms to keep him for a moment longer.

"That's a good boy," I encourage. "But Harrison, I'm going home today and you and Aunt Deb are staying for three more days. I don't want her to ring me and say you haven't been listening to her-"

"She won't, Daddy," Harrison insists hurriedly. "I'll listen, I promise. I'll always do what Aunt Deb says. Even if I think she might be wrong, I'll still do it, and just tell her later."

I kiss his forehead tenderly. "You're a very wonderful boy; did you know that, Harrison?"

"Yes." He smiles and pulls away. "Aunt Deb and Jamie tell me that lots." He pauses and leans back to whisper his next words, struck with concern. "So does Hannah, sometimes. Is she still at Aunt Deb's house?"

"No," I assure him, taking his hand again and looking at his fingernails. They're getting too long. I'll need to clip them. It can wait until Wednesday, I decide. "I'm taking her to the airport tomorrow, right after I drop your letter off at your school."

"And she's never coming back?" he checks. I nod. He sighs with relief. He tells me, "Hannah is pretty nice, but if Uncle Angel or the other police see her they could put Aunt Deb into jail, and I don't want her to go in jail."

"Me neither," I agree.

"I'll never tell anybody that Hannah stayed at Aunt Deb's house," Harrison promises me, conspiratorially. "It can be a secret. Not a surprise. Just a secret. And a lie, but a nice one." He thinks about that. "You're allowed to make secrets and lies to look after people, you and Aunt Deb said."

I'm sure that one will come back to bite me but for now it serves my purpose. He wanders off to find Deb and I finish packing and take my bag to the door.

"You can all say goodbye inside," Maura insists when Cody wants to walk me to my car. "It's too wet outside."

"I don't mind holding an umbrella," Cody rebukes.

"We'll just stand out by the road and cry," Astor says swiftly. "Better we just do that in here so Dexter can run out into the rain and we can all pretend to remain composed."

Excellent logic. Keeps my sons and their grandparents from wondering why the muffled sounds of screaming and thumping are being emitted from the trunk of my car.

"No point everybody getting rained on," Bill agrees, shaking my hand and thanking me for finding the time to come. Like I'm the one doing anyone any sort of favour.

"Thank you for having me this weekend," I respond. "It's been the best weekend I've had in a very long time. And thank you for everything you do for Astor and Cody. They've grown into such incredible people under your influence, and I can't tell you how grateful I am. They're so lucky to have you both," I add, looking to Maura. She hugs me in that grandmotherly way nanas do, kissing my cheek quickly.

"We've loved having you here," she says. "You come back any time you want. You're family." She dabs her eye. "I'm going to go start on the dishes before I start tearing up myself. Drive safely."

"And come back soon," Bill agrees as he's ushered out of the living room by his wife.

I'm left with my three kids, lined up before me expectantly, and my sister standing behind them with her arms folded. They're beautiful, the way they're all mismatched and so incredibly different from one another yet so undeniably important to me. I stare at them, unable to think of anything to say that conveys their significance to me. There aren't words. All that needs to be said has been said already over this gorgeous golden weekend. Then Harrison steps forward to hug my legs, and his brother and sister move after him to hug me as well, and I hold my three children for so long that I forget that hugs aren't meant to go this long, but I never want to let them go.

"I'll be seeing you all again very soon," I say softly into Astor's hair. "I'm going to be a better stepfather. I'm going to see you more."

"We love you, Dexter," Astor whispers, momentarily tightening her grip before she pulls away to look me in the eyes. "No matter what. No matter what you have to do." The understanding that I have a man in the trunk of my car is implicit in her words, as is her general peace with this fact. "We know that you have a different way of showing your devotion than some other guys, but we always know you love us. Thank you so much for coming this weekend. I'll forward you the photos. And thanks for my present," she adds fondly, looking at her heavy golden bangle and watch.

"I'm glad you love it," I say as Cody shifts to pull his pocket watch out of his jeans.

"My watch is better," he digs at his sister, showing off his heirloom. She pokes her tongue at him but it's with a good nature. They both admire their own new timepieces. Harrison notes this.

"They got watches from you and I didn't," he comments, hurt. It hadn't occurred to me that it would look like that to him, but of course it would. I unbuckle my own watch from my wrist and take Harrison's hand and secure it onto him. Even on the tightest setting it is much too loose for him but he beams up at me. "Thank you, Daddy," he says, and reaches his arm up to show his siblings. They make a show of being jealous, commenting that his is the best watch of the three, but it's clear on each of their faces that each child honestly believes that theirs is the best one from me: Astor, with her brand new golden wristwatch chosen especially for her, expensive, engraved eternally with a personal message to her; Cody, with his three-generations-old pocket watch from a grandfather he never knew but would love to claim as his, an heirloom to prove his place in my life and my family; and Harrison, with his basic stainless men's watch, oversized, worn and scuffed, not worth anything after so many years of daily wear... yet still warm from my arm, which makes all the difference.

I've given my three children the gift of time. I hope that's true in every sense.

"I wish I didn't have to leave," I say now, very honestly, "but I'll see you all again soon. Wednesday," I tell Harrison, when he asks when, "and maybe in a couple of weeks for you two."

Astor and Cody grin, hopeful, and Cody, who is still hugging me (content for this minute to just be a kid and stop pretending so hard that he's an adult now) asks, "Can we come to you? Can we go out in the boat?"

"Can we?" Harrison demands. "And Cody can drive us?"

"I haven't been out in a while. I'll take it out this evening to check everything's shipshape," I say, an idea forming. "We can talk more about your decision and how to go about it."

"Yeah, alright." Cody smiles and reluctantly lets me go, and I pick up Harrison for a quick, special cuddle.

"I love you," he and I murmur at the same time, and I add, "I'll see you in a few days. Listen to your aunt," and he whispers in my ear, "I will."

I put him down and meet my sister's gaze. She comments, dryly, "The sooner you leave the sooner we can get back to teaching your son bad language and exposing him to inappropriate media, so get out. We were having fun before you got here."

I'm sure I'm supposed to roll my eyes or emit a long-suffering sigh, but I grin at her. She's never going to change. Thank God.

"Jerk," I call her, playfully, the way she says it to me, and I lean over Harrison's head to pull her roughly close in a one-armed hug. Her arms go around me loosely. I feel her hands on my back. Her chin slots exactly over my shoulder, exactly where it's meant to go, and I feel the warmth of her cheek against mine. No, she's not perfect, but she's perfect for me, and since I only received one sister in this lifetime I'm glad I got all the luck and received the very best one that there is. I let her go; it's not really letting go. Deb's part of me. Everywhere I go, she is with me, even when she's not. I am not sure whether it works the other way but at the end of the day, I'm the selfish and dependent one: so long as her spirit is always with me, where I need her, and so long as she's happy, it doesn't matter whether she needs me in return. She wants me around, and that's even better than need.

"Loser," she retorts, allowing the embrace for a moment and then pushing me away. "Go on. Fuck off. I'll see you Wednesday."

"Wednesday," I agree. I pick up my bag and gather the umbrella, ready to open it outside. I push the door open and look back at them – my four most precious people – and feel the swell of emotion in my chest. The same way any other loving father and brother feels saying goodbye to his family. It hurts. I don't like it. Yet I do. "Take care of each other."

I step outside. All at once Deb says, "Bye, Dex," and Harrison says, "Bye, Daddy!" and Astor says, "Bye, Dexter," and Cody tries out for the first time, "Bye, Dad." He only blushes a little; the other kids glance at him curiously but without judgement, and don't comment on the new name. I decide I like it, the same as I like my other three names, and I cast them all a warm smile over my shoulder as I move out into the rain.

I know my children are still watching me from the doorway or from windows, so I toss the small suitcase into the backseat instead of the trunk. The sounds of activity inspire Elway to start making noise as well, desperate sounds intended to draw assistance over, but there is no one about to hear him. I ignore him as I start my car, and I smile and wave at the distant faces of my kids and sister. They are blurry and indistinct through the rain and the foggy glass of windows and that makes me even sadder – I hope I see them again soon, because blurred, distant and dream-like is not how I'd like to remember their faces for too long.

Why should I have to remember them at all? Why am I leaving them, for any length of time?

I consider, momentarily, taking my key back out of the ignition. I consider going back into the house, grabbing Deb, Harrison, Astor and Cody into a strangling embrace and never ever leaving them. I imagine their faces lighting up. I imagine the wonderful feeling inside me in response to their happiness. I feel it.

My hand is on the key but I force myself to let go. Jacob Elway is in the trunk. Complicating matters. Regardless of what I do after, I need to dispose of him, and quickly, before he manages to upturn my life any further. I just need a few days to get rid of him, and Hannah, too, to finish the task I started of putting those two in Agent Reid's crosshairs. And then things can simmer down and my new life can truly begin. A life where I am a proper father to my three children, and a supportive and caring brother to my one sister. Perhaps I'll continue killing, if I feel I want to; but the need hasn't struck me since I learned to substitute it with loving human connection and forgiveness, so I don't know. Where killing was once the backbone of my identity, I now no longer even care whether I find time for it or not. It's not like it's necessary to me anymore. I smile wryly at the thought. A Dexter without blood on his hands? Who would that guy be? I might even get to meet him. He'd probably be a better dad and brother than the current Dexter.

I like that thought. I'm still looking at the house as I take out my phone. I open the messages function and type a text to Deb.

Things will be different when you get back to Miami. I promise.

I wait there in my car until I see Deb look away from me to check her phone. Content that she got it, I finally pull away and drive off.

The drive back is slower than the drive into Orlando, with congested traffic due to the weather. I stop a lot at lights and just in general when everybody slows down, but I'm not stressed. I have a bound and gagged human being in the back of my car, big deal. It's pouring with rain, and getting heavier the further from Orlando I get, and nobody is out walking around the city to overhear the muffled cries for help. I don't respond to them at all. It was a long time ago, but my brother once abducted my sister by binding her and gagging her and transporting her in the trunk of a car. I know it was terrifying – the confinement, the darkness, the stuffy air thin with oxygen, the not knowing what's coming – and though of course I wish it hadn't happened to her, I feel very satisfied to know that same terror is being felt by her attacker. On Tuesday night he made her scared, and he tried again today. How many chances have I now given this beast of a human? How many times have I now said, "If I catch you near my sister again..."? Too many. I should have finished the job in the forest. Sent Deb away after she tranquilised him so she wouldn't have to watch. This time she won't be around to sway my judgement, for me to protect or consider. This time I can just get rid of stupid Jacob Elway.

Miami is a ghost town. The rain is much too heavy for people to be out and about unless they really must, and the wind blows the palm fronds horizontally, like colourless flags against a miserly grey sky. It looks like by tomorrow this storm will be reaching its more dangerous stage, but for now it's mostly just rain.

As evening falls I head straight past my hometown and go to the riverbank I dressed as Elway's dumping ground, where I tranquilised my sister. The crime scene is dismantled; with this weather, any clues that were not already gathered will be washed away by the time it's safe for the forensics team to come back out here. I decide that the near-violent encounter I had with Deb out here has been washed away, too, because aside from a new snide remarks – and, I suppose, the fact that she tranquilised me in retaliation in our workplace despite immense risk – we've been unusually peaceful since then.

I park the car in the glade and find an empty water bottle in the backseat. I don't know who left it there. It doesn't matter. I pull on some gloves, step out of the dry interior of my vehicle and hurry through the steady downpour to the river. Even in the darkness I see it's swollen with excessive water, the banks higher than they were on Tuesday. I'm cautious about my stance as I lean to collect water in the bottle. When it's full I walk back up the muddy slope to my car. I sit behind the wheel for a moment, checking my phone. Deb messaged me hours ago, and I've opened the message a dozen times, when I've been sitting in standstill traffic, to reread her words: I'm looking forward to it. I don't have to withhold my smile because there's no one around to notice I'm smiling at a phone. She's looking forward to 'different'. She's looking forward to better. Like I am. I hope that means she's coming around, warming to my request. Quinn will take her back if she puts herself out there. He'll give her whatever she wants. He'll marry her. The mental vision of her dressed up and polished like she was last night, in white instead, smiling and holding onto me as I walk her past everyone we care about, still grabs me as visions rarely do. Other young women get that – I want to see Deb get it, too. She shouldn't miss out on what life and love has to offer while she waits around to see what becomes of me.

She could still say no, and refuse to give Joey another chance, but I don't think, ultimately, that this will be what happens. Right now, she's not in the mental or emotional space to be in a relationship – right now, ours is enough, it's everything, it's all-consuming – but later, when she wants more and I can't or won't give it, she'll need someone else. She'll need him.

And I'll try to accept that this means Joey Quinn will be my brother-in-law. Sigh. Better than Brian, I guess. And even if Deb changes her name, which I somehow doubt, at least Cody's changing his as well, so there will still be as many Morgans as they are now.

It still blows me away that Cody wants my name. He wants public and legal association with me. Poor Deb and Harrison, they got stuck with the name through birth, but Cody's choosing it. Choosing me.

Before I put my phone away I dial Hannah. It rings out. I try twice more but get no connection. I wonder whether she's asleep; she's unlikely to be out of the travellers' centre for an evening stroll, after all, so I can see no other reason why she's not able to hear her phone ringing. I leave a voice message telling her I am nearby, back in Miami, and that I'm thinking of her.

I am. I'm thinking of what time I need to leave my place in the morning to pick her up and get her to the airport, so she can leave and I can start my new life.

Elway has gone quiet. I vaguely hope he hasn't died, because I have questions for him, but if he has, it wouldn't be the end of the world. I don't feel any particular urge to be the one to take his life right now. I just want him to be scared and alone and eventually dead, and can't find it within myself to care how that occurs. Still, I consider reluctantly, I guess it's worth checking out, because if he's dead, there's not much use to this water. I push open my door again and step around the car to the trunk. I pop it open.

Jacob Elway apparently didn't hear me coming, because he doesn't react initially to the open lid on his confines. He blinks in surprise at the feeling of rain drops on his face, and squints up at me with glazed, unfocussed eyes. Hours in the dark will do that. After a second of confusion he sees how close he is to freedom and begins struggling and straining against his binding, but Deb's work is good and he has no hope of pulling free. His broken leg remains limp – he can't use it to push himself upright. He tries to scream through the tape. Even muffled, I can tell he's getting hoarse.

"Don't bother," I say, reaching for the tape covering his mouth. He's acted brave and cocky around me previously but now he shies away violently, desperate to avoid me touching him. "There's no one around for miles. No one can hear you."

I rip the tape from his mouth and he gasps several times. I gather that his broken nose doesn't draw air as smoothly and as readily as he's used to, so it brings me even further satisfaction to know Elway has been near-suffocating during my entire drive out of Orlando. Once he's got enough air, he starts yelling for help again, every word cracked by his dry throat. He cranes his neck to look out of the trunk for anyone nearby. I roll my eyes.

"We're back in your fucking forest, you idiot," I tell him. "There's no one around. Except me."

"You motherfucker," Elway spits, voice crackling with rage and overuse. "You fucking freak, Morgan! Lock me up in your fucking car and drive around all day... who the fuck does that?"

"Me, apparently," I say, rolling the strip of tape from his mouth into a ball between my fingers. He sneers at me, recovering slightly from his fear by this point and trying to hide it all behind bravado.

"Yeah, you," he shoots back, blinking rain from his eyes. "The whole of Miami is looking out their windows for me, worried I'm some kind of bad guy, when they should all be worried about you. You and your freak whore sister-"

I grab his face with my free hand and slam it down to the carpeted floor of the trunk. Beneath my hand I feel the puff of air as he exhales in surprise, and I press my palm over his lips to prevent him from refilling his lungs. My fingers block his nostrils. "It's not a wise idea to bring my sister up," I mention calmly. Elway tries to pull away but he's weak from exhaustion and dehydration and I have the advantages of weight and position. "Not very fair, either. She's not the one who put you in here. She was just minding her business, looking for baby wipes, of all things, and then you came along." I lean close. I can feel the suction beneath my hand as Elway tries to breathe but can't; I feel the beginning of vibrations in his body as he shudders, desperate and suffocating. "You really should have left her alone. I did warn you. I told you I would get you if you came at her again. Although," and now I smile, tauntingly, "if you'd managed to get her out of the car, it mightn't have been me you needed to worry about. I would have loved to see her fuck you up. I think you would have been quite surprised by what she's capable of. Alas," I sigh theatrically, using my teeth to unscrew the lid on the water bottle, "it now falls to me instead. I was going to leave you in a ditch somewhere, but that just really doesn't suit me – you've proven that you can't be trusted running amok – so I've had to formulate a more permanent plan. Relax," I say, as Elway's whole body tenses and his brain gives itself over to instinct and he tries to thrash free of my grip, "I'm not going to kill you."

I remove my hand and he breathes as deeply as he can manage. Halfway through his inhalation I upturn the bottle and shove the bottleneck into his mouth. I hold it there with both hands and keep his nostrils blocked. The glugging and sputtering and choking noises that follow remind me of the horrific dream where my enemies killed my Deb, but I push that vision forcefully from my mind and concentrate on holding my victim still. The water fills his lungs and he starts to drown. His neck and body, stiff from the journey, whip about, limbs bound tightly behind his back, useless, and he is forced to inhale a third or so of the water before I take the bottle away. He gasps for oxygen and coughs fiercely. Some of the water comes back up; some will stay in his lungs.

"I thought... you said... you're... not..." Elway is slow to gasp out his sentence, and I become bored with waiting for it.

"Not going to kill you?" I finish for him irritably. "I'm not. But I have something very special and deserved in mind for you, don't worry." I regard him, swilling the water around in the bottle while he gets his breathing pattern back. "There's another few hours to go in this trunk before we get to where we've got to go. Thirsty?"

I offer him the bottle; he glares at me.

"Fuck you," he snarls weakly. I sigh impatiently and bring the bottle's opening to his mouth, gently this time and to the side, where he can opt to sip from the drink if he chooses. His glare becomes less aggressive and more suspicious.

"I know you're dehydrated," I say. "I won't be opening this trunk again for at least two hours so if you want a drink..."

He takes a few long moments to consider it, and then survival overpowers pride and he turns his head aside to take grateful sips of the water. I keep the bottle tilted at such an angle that the water doesn't overfill his mouth before he swallows, and he keeps drinking until the bottle is empty. I put the lid back on and toss it into the trunk beside him.

"How's the leg?" I ask, eyeing the limp, awkwardly bent limb. He glances down at it.

"I think you broke it," he answers. The anger is draining from his voice. This is normal hostage behaviour. The panic and disbelief stages are done with. Once anger and resistance prove futile, appealing to the kidnapper and acting docile is the next action, but when that also fails, a cycle between resistance and compliance will begin until depression sets in, and then, eventually, acceptance. I think of James Doakes. He was strong, stronger than Elway, a more fitting opponent for a thing like me, and he never reached the depression stage. How long will Elway take to get there?

"I think you're right," I agree. I smile. "I'm glad." I lean over him again. "Have you given much thought to your stunt with the gun last Tuesday? Shooting at an unarmed detective out in the forest, now that's pretty bad, but chasing her and dragging her down like a wounded deer and pressing a heated muzzle into her chest until her skin burns... You didn't only scare her, you scarred her. She could carry that scar for the rest of her life. How do you think that makes me feel? To know I was a few seconds too far behind to stop that? Shut up, it was a rhetorical question," I snap at Elway when he tries to stammer out an answer. "Just listen. Listen and feel regretful. Do you realise that firing your gun right beside Deb's ear like you did has left her partially deaf? You perforated her eardrum. Sounds bad, doesn't it? That's because it is. That hearing won't come back. Did you know that?" I carefully wrap my hands around the sides of his head and lift his face from the floor of the trunk, almost lovingly, but there's no love here. I look slowly over his face; at the nose I broke, the eyes wide with fear and uncertainty, the pupils huge and black, at the grimy skin left unwashed for too long, at the lips cracked from days wandering the forest in the sun without water. At that slimy, stupid haircut. "I'm afraid you broke my sister, Jake, and I'm sure I told you last week that I'm very protective of my sister." I let this sink in, watch his pupils grow even bigger. "Your one broken leg and broken nose is hardly compensation enough for breaking a whole sister, is it? And just to think – today you almost cut her. What price would you need to pay us if you'd cut her, if you'd marked her face? At least her ear and her chest I don't have to look at and be reminded of you every day, but if you'd changed her face..." I press my fingers so hard into Elway's skin that he yelps and tries to pull away. I throw his head down disgustedly. "Just be fucking glad you didn't, because that would have pissed me off more than I can say, and I'm creative."

"What are you going to do to me?" Elway asks now, anxious. I shrug.

"I've been fucked by algae before," I explain, reaching over my hostage for the packaging tape Deb threw in here somewhere. "This time I'm going to fuck you with it. Did you know that forensics can trace species of algae found in water samples to specific sites? I didn't, until a few years ago. It nearly cost me everything. I hope it costs you." I find the tape and noisily unravel a length. I tear it off with my teeth. Elway stares at me, uncomprehending.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"How did you find us?" I ask, dropping the roll back beside him and readying the strip in my hands. "In Orlando? How did you know where we would be?"

"Look, Dexter, I'm sorry about all of this," Elway says hurriedly, seeing the tape, knowing it's going to go back over his mouth. "I didn't... I wasn't thinking. I shouldn't have gone after you or Deb like I did-"

"No, you should have left us the fuck alone," I agree. "Now, how did you find us in Orlando? You were lost in the woods with no phone, no money, no ID. How did you get out? How did you travel so many hours away?"

"It doesn't matter. I won't do it again, I swear." He's not going to tell me. "I'll disappear, I'll do anything you want-"

"You'll disappear, alright," I concur, and lean down to position the tape over his lips. He struggles and makes a concentrated effort to keep away. His words demonstrate his brain's survival strategies – some begging, some negotiating, some cursing of me and the bitch I'm apparently the son of. But I ignore them all. "You've got a couple of hours to rethink your situation, Jake. I'd like to know how you found me. It would be in your interests to tell me." I finally get the tape over his mouth. His screams become muffled once again, and tears of frustration and fear spring to his eyes. "You're in a serial killer's trunk. Think over how you want to play this."

I close the boot of the car down on him and get back behind the wheel. I turn the radio up to drown out the desperate thumps as I drive back into the darkened city.