Title: Darkly Dreaming Debster

Author: Sita Moonlight

Rating: M

Summary: A series of one-shots set during various Debster-centric situations in canon and AU universes.

A/N: Well, this one shot got kind of out of hand. It's almost 7,000 words. Hope you guys enjoy it!

Dexter gets the Flu

Summary: Set after 7x09. Dexter gets sick and goes to the only person in the world who he trusts enough to take care of him.

Debra wants to relax. She's had a long few days and she just wants to relax in front of the television with a beer and takeout and not think about Dexter comparing her love for him to M&M's, or about Dexter and Hannah, and saving the stupid blonde's life when she should've left her there to die after she'd been kidnapped. Dexter didn't know, but the other night when she'd talked to Hannah at the hospital, she'd lingered around the corner while her brother had spoken to the blonde. She'd heard how he told Hannah he'd only been that scared twice in his life - when his mother had been murdered and when Hannah was taken, and then he'd whispered how he felt safe with her.

Debra had left the hospital in tears. She knows Dexter is in love with Hannah and not her, she knows, and yet hearing him say those things to Hannah had felt like a knife in her gut, twisting, and burning, and aching. She'll never be fucking good enough for him. Never. And he'll never love her like she loves him.

It's now twenty-four hours after that had occured, and Debra flips through the channels and tries to relax. She tries not to think about Dexter or anything related to Hannah McKay as she takes a sip of her beer.

It's a few minutes later and nearing eleven o'clock when she hears a knock at the door. Groaning, she forces herself to get up before she tears open her door in annoyance, only to find the very bane of her existence standing behind it.

Dexter looks like shit. He's sweaty and pale, his cheeks are flushed, while a few strands of hair stick to his forehead, and he's wearing way too many layers for the hot Miami weather. Harrison grips his hand, looking half-asleep.

"What the fu - " She clears her throat as she looks at Harrison, before her eyes meet Dexter's. "What are you doing here?"

"I think I'm sick." He says, and she can hear his voice is strained and he sounds congested.

"So?" She says, leaning against the door jamb and blocking him from coming inside. She has a flashback to ten years ago, the last time she remembers Dexter being ill with something worse than the common cold, of spending three nights at his apartment because the motherfucker turned into a giant toddler when he caught an illness. If he expects that kind of treatment after what he's put her through recently, he's sorely mistaken.

"Deb, please." He looks down at Harrison. "Harrison is really tired. Can we come in? Please?" He begs, and he sounds pathetic.

It's a cruel card to play, bringing Harrison into the picture, as she can't resist her sleepy nephew. Sighing, she steps back and grabs Harrison's hand. The boy releases his father's hand and grabs ahold of hers.

"Come on, buddy. Are you sleepy?" She asks. "Do you want to go to bed?"

Harrison nods, and she leads him to the spare bedroom. When she gets him settled and into bed, she turns off the lights in the bedroom and shuts the door. She finds Dexter face down on the couch and she sighs, looking forlornly at her abandoned takeout and beer. She approaches the couch and lifts her leg up, kicking his foot.

He groans but doesn't move, and she rolls her eyes, "Come on Dex, get the fuck up."

He lets out another noise, something that sounds suspiciously like a whimper and rolls onto his side. "I feel horrible." He mumbles.

"Yeah, and you look like hot elephant shit."

He cracks open his eyes, looking at her, "Thanks."

"Come on, you're fucking forty-one years old, not five. Get the fuck off my couch." When he still doesn't move, she lets out a frustrated groan and grabs his arm. His skin is hot and clammy to the touch, and despite her anger and annoyance with the man in front of her, she finds herself slightly worried at how warm he feels.

Sitting on the edge of the couch, she places her palm against his forehead. He feels even warmer in this spot and she grimaces when his sweat coats her palm, "When was the last time you took your temperature?" She asks.

"I haven't." He croaks, and she rolls her eyes, getting up and making her way to the bathroom in annoyance. Why is he such an idiot? For someone so organized and calculated, and who has lived his life killing others, he sure can be an dumb sometimes.

She returns with the thermometer and holds it out for him, "Under the tongue, asshole."

He starts shaking, shivering, as she waits for the thermometer to read his temperature and he looks miserable, she finds herself warring between wanting to comfort him and smack him. Almost of their own accord, her fingers slowly start to comb through his hair, just like their mother used to do when they were sick as children. And God, sometimes she hates how much she loves him.

It feels like it takes forever, but finally the thermometer beeps. She takes it from him, holding it closer to her so she can read it. The numbers 101.4 flash on the small screen and she bites her lip, looking down at him, worried. "Shit come on, Dex. Your fever is pretty fucking high. Let's get you to bed and I'll get you some tylenol and cool washcloths."

"I don't know if I can move." He says and she grabs his arm, helping him sit up. He groans and grabs his head with his free hand. "My head is pounding."

"Come on." She urges him, helping him place his arm around her shoulders. She places hers around his waist and helps him stand up. He's a little unsteady as she guides him to her bedroom.

"Where are you going to sleep?" He asks and she shakes her head.

"Don't fucking worry about it."

They get halfway to the bed when he suddenly turns, and she realizes he's heading toward the bathroom. He's wobbly on his feet, but he still lets go of her, barely making it to the toilet before he starts to wretch, emptying the contents of his stomach into it.

She furrows her brows and tries to push down the concern she's feeling. No matter what he does to her, seeing him like this pulls at her heartstrings. It's rare she does see him like this as he's always someone who only likes to show the strong parts of himself. She finds herself wondering if Hannah, who Dexter claims to love so deeply, has ever seen him weak and vulnerable. She doubts it.

She grabs a few washcloths and runs them under the cool water of the sink. When she turns back around, she finds him laying on the floor of the bathroom, forehead pressed against the cool tile and she sits down next to him.

"Turn over." She says and he slowly does as she asks.

"I feel like elephant shit." He tells her, echoing her words from earlier, and she lets out a small laugh.

Gently, she presses the cool cloth to his forehead, wiping his face and neck with it.

"Here, take off your shirt and jacket."

"But it's cold." He protests, shivering.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Dex. Take off your fucking shirt."

He groans and struggles out of his jacket. He sits up to pull his t-shirt over his head, but visibly struggles with it, so she helps him pull it over his head. He lays back down, shivering as she runs the cool cloth over his chest and abs.

"Mom used to do this for us." He comments through chattering teeth and she nods.

"She did." She moves the cloth over his belly before circling upwards and running it over his neck and face again. "But I just have one question."

"What?" He says, closing his eyes as he crosses his arms over his chest in an attempt to get warm.

"Why the fuck are you here? Shouldn't you be with Hannah? Isn't she the one you feel safe with?"

"You heard me say that to her." He mumbles, groaning. "Can we not do this now? Please?"

"I just want to know why the fuck you're here and not with her."

"She can't - she can't see me like this. Can we not do this? Deb. I feel horrible." He rolls onto his side and reaches for his jacket, pulling it on and she sighs and gets up, walking over to the medicine cabinet so she can grab two Tylenol for him.

"What the fuck do you mean she can't see you like this?" She returns with the pills, also handing him a bottle of water that was sitting next to the sink. "Here, take these."

He sits up downs the pills, shaking his head. "Deb, do we have to do this now?"

"It's not that hard of a fucking question."

"Weak." He groans. "Okay? She can't see me weak. I'm going to go to bed now."

He stumbles a little when attempting to get up and she stands quickly, wrapping her arm around his waist. She then helps guide him to the bed.

"How the fuck do you expect to have a relationship with her if you won't let her see every part of you? Even sick, weak Dexter?"

When they get to bed, he lays down immediately and she helps him pull off his shoes before sitting on the edge of it.

"Deb, I really need to sleep…"

"And why the fuck do I get the pleasure of seeing sick, weak Dexter? Why the fuck am I the one you come to when you feel like shit and are running 101 fever and throwing up all over the place? As soon as you're fucking better you're not going to give a shit about me again." She can feel her anger building, her hurt. The betrayal she feels about Dexter choosing Hannah over her. Of the fact she loves him so much she'd saved Hannah for him when she should've let the woman die. Of how Dexter will always choose someone over her. Always.

"What are you talking about?" He lets out a slight groan with his words and grabs the blanket, covering himself up. She moves out of the way and walks over to the other side of the bed, laying next to him, but not getting under the blankets. "I love you, Deb." He protests, weakly reaching for her.

His sweaty palm encircles her wrist and she looks down at their joined limbs, "But do you, really?"

"Of course I do." He mumbles, scooting closer. And then he lifts the blankets and covers her up, scooting closer so he can wrap his arm around her.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"I don't know. You're warm and I'm freezing." He tells her and she sighs.

"Dexter, I'm not a fucking heating pad." She pushes at him, trying to get him to let her go. "But you might fucking be. Jesus fucking Christ, you feel like a furnace. Get the fuck off me. You're going to get me sick." He coughs against her and she groans. "Great now I'm definitely getting fucking sick."

"Can you stop complaining for a fucking minute?" He asks weakly.

"If you let me the fuck go so I can go sleep in the living room, yes, I'll stop fucking complaining." She shoots back.

"You can stay here." He suggests and she rolls her eyes.

"God, you're the biggest fucking baby when you're sick. You do know you're in your forties, right? Why don't you call Hannah? Ask her to pick you up so you can cuddle her and get her sick. I'm sure she'd be way more agreeable than I am." She bites out.

He sighs and releases her, pulling the covers up higher as he shivers, and again she's struck by how pathetic he looks. She tries to fight down the urge to feel bad for him and to want to take care of him.

"I told you, I'm not calling Hannah." He says softly.

"You're such an asshole." She sighs and turns onto her side, away from him. "You make me feel fucking used, Dexter. You use me." She feels tears stinging at the corners of her eyes. He comes to her when he wants something. He manipulates her, treats her like shit, and chooses a woman he barely knows over her. And yes, she knows it's ridiculous to think Dexter could ever feel for her the way she feels for him. But him falling for Hannah feels like a betrayal. Hannah is the kind of woman Dexter should've killed, not fallen in love with.

Debra knows she's too good for him. She knows. And yet, she loves him, loves him so Goddamn much it chokes her.

She feels his hand on her side suddenly and she flinches, trying to make him move it. It's to no avail, "I don't use you." He protests weakly.

"Okay, whatever." She says, trying to hide her quivering voice. "I'll stay in here with you tonight, but you're going the fuck home in the morning, Dexter. I don't care how fucking sick you are."

"You do know," He says quietly, his voice sleepy. "That you make me feel safe too."

Suddenly she feels anger burning in her chest and she turns to face him, "God, don't fucking say things like that."

"Why?" He asks.

"Because you fucking know how I feel about you, Dexter. Jesus fucking - just go to sleep, okay? Go the fuck to sleep." She hadn't meant to bring up her feelings, but when he talks to her like that, she once again, can't help but feel like she's being toyed with. Either he's playing with her, or he doesn't think before he speaks. And she can't take it anymore.

She turns back around, and after a few moments she thinks he's fallen asleep. She lets her tears fall then, trying to be silent as she cries. Her shoulders shake and she buries her face in her pillow. And she hates him right now. Really fucking hates him. But more than that, she hates herself for falling in love with him. He's a fucking serial killer and her fucking brother, but he's still her best friend and the most important person in her world. And she hates that she can't just walk away from this, from him.

She feels movement on the bed suddenly, and then an arm wraps around her waist once more. He presses his forehead to the back of her head, and she notices he feels cooler, although sweaty. She has the idle thought that he must be sweating out the fever. Her tears come faster, and she tries to stop her body from shaking as she cries. And fuck, she wishes he was asleep right now.

"I'm sorry." He whispers.

She doesn't respond. She physically can't. She just continues to cry, face in the pillow to muffle her sobs. Her heart is broken, and he's the one who has broken it. And yet, she doesn't want to deny his comfort. How fucked up is she?

"I'm sorry." He says again, and then, "Tell me what to do, Deb. How do I make it better?"

"You can't. You fucking can't. Go to sleep. Please." She begs through her tears.

He's quiet after that, and finally, she falls into a fitful sleep. She wakes up before him. He's tangled in the sheets, mouth half open as she drools on the pillow. And if she didn't love him so much, she'd think he was really gross right about now.

It's rare that she wakes up before him in any situation, and she takes a long hot shower before she wakes Harrison up and tries to come up with something to feed the boy for breakfast. She happens to have a little bit of cereal and milk by some miracle, and Harrison happily eats his bowl of cereal.

She calls Jamie, asking the nanny if she can pick Harrison up for preschool. Like a good nanny, the woman doesn't question what Harrison is doing at her house and not Dexter's. Jamie drops by to pick up Harrison a little before nine, and she thanks her.

It's ten-thirty, and way past the time Dexter usually awakens when she starts to get annoyed. She wants him the fuck out of her house.

She enters her room again and finds him with the jacket he'd put on last night ripped off, shirtless and spread out on her bed face down.

"Dexter." She says. He doesn't respond, so she tries again, louder, "Dexter! Wake the fuck up!"

He groans and rolls over onto his back, blinking up at her groggily, "You don't have to yell." He says, his voice scratchy and hoarse.

"You have to go. I have stuff to do."

"What stuff?" He asks, running his hand over his face. He still doesn't look well, but compared to last night, he looks like he's getting better.

"Does it fucking matter? You need to get the fuck out."

He sits up in bed and looks at her tiredly, "Deb, I -"

He looks like he's going to say something serious so she cuts him off, "Dexter, just go. Harrison is already at preschool. Jamie picked him up." She then promptly exits the bedroom, not wanting this conversation to be any longer than it has to.

When he exits the bedroom, she tries to ignore him but he approaches her, "Deb, I just wanted to say thank you for last night. You've always taken care of me and I -"

She rolls her eyes, turning away from him, "Dex, can you just fucking go?"

"No, let me finish." He says, and she turns toward him, annoyed, arms crossed over her chest. "I'm really sorry that I hurt you. I just wish it wasn't like this between us."

She snorts, "Yeah, well, I wish you weren't a serial killer every fucking day, and I also wish you weren't a selfish asshole. But hey, beggars can't be choosers."

"Deb -"

"Dex, go. Go to fucking Hannah and plan your next kill or whatever the fuck you two do together." She bites out and he looks at her sadly.

He leaves after that, and once again she's reduced to tears. Days pass, and she's grateful when she doesn't get sick. She sees him at work on Monday, and he looks completely better. She avoids him the best she can, aside from the interactions that are required to do their jobs.

She thinks about what he's been doing the past few days, if he had really gone to Hannah. She feels sick over how jealous she is of the blonde. And she hates that her whole life seems to revolve around him. She takes a couple extra Xanax that day. She needs something to calm her nerves, as she quickly feels like she's approaching nervous breakdown territory.

Almost a week passes, and once again she's on her couch after a long day of work. She's in her pajamas and it's pouring outside, the typical Florida thunderstorm rattling her windows and pounding against her roof.

She's watching a horror movie, something she probably shouldn't be doing alone as she's jumping at every noise she hears, which is why she almost screams when a pounding starts at her door.

She grabs her chest in surprise before letting out a breath and padding over to the door. When she rips it open, she regrets her decision. Dexter stands in the doorway, soaking wet, his clothes drenched and sticking to his body, hair plastered to his forehead.

"Let me in." He says, and she narrows her eyes at his callous greeting.

"Why the fuck should I do that?"

"Deb, it's pouring outside. Can I come in? Please?"

She sighs and steps back. He enters her house and she goes to fetch a towel. She comes back, handing it to him. He dries himself off quickly, and she tries not to think about how adorable he looks with his hair wet and sticking up all over the place, as he places the towel on her coffee table.

"So what the fuck are you doing here? You don't look sick." She says and he looks at her.

"I have to be sick to come over now?" He asks.

"It's almost 10:30 at night. I'm going to bed soon. What the fuck are you doing here?" She bites out.

He suddenly looks unsure, a feeling which she doesn't normally associate with Dexter. He's usually calm, confident, and calculated.

"Deb, you know, besides Harrison, you're the most important person in my life, right?" He takes a hesitant step towards her and she narrows her eyes, wondering what his endgame is.

She doesn't respond, instead continues to watch him. No, in fact, she doesn't know this to be a fact. She thought Hannah was the most important person in his life, even though he'd only known the woman for a short time.

"You've always been there for me." He continues. "Always. My whole life, I look back, and I only see you. You've taken care of me, you've had my back. Even when you hate me, you're there for me." He takes another step towards her.

She licks her dry lips and suddenly her heart is pounding. She doesn't know what is happening, but something is happening. Something monumental. She can feel the energy crackling in the air as the thunderstorm rages outside.

One more step and he's right in front of her. Close, so close that she can feel his breath on her face. His hands move up and suddenly he's cupping her face with one hand, while the other moves to her hair.

"Dexter…?" She asks, finally finding her voice.

"Since I was sick, since I saw how much I've hurt you, I've been thinking a lot about how much you love me, Deb. And how selfish I've been. I do take from you, and I don't give you anything in return." His words are soft, and he gently combs the fingers of his hands resting in hair through the thin strands.

"Dex, what are you saying?" She whispers.

"I'm saying that maybe I've been looking at everything wrong. Maybe what I have with Hannah isn't as… deep as I thought it was. She's not the one I feel safe with. You are. And maybe I was scared when she was taken, but the thought of losing her doesn't scare me nearly as much as the thought of losing you does. And I'm doing that myself, I'm pushing you away. And the thought of not having you in my life because I've been an idiot terrifies me." He swallows and closes his eyes, letting out a breath that she feels brush across her face. He opens his eyes again after a brief moment and says softly, "Maybe being in love with someone doesn't look anything like I thought it would, because I didn't realize what it was to be in love." He says softly. "It's hard and messy and real. It's not butterflies in my stomach and fucking someone on my kill table because they're pretty."

"... What?" She asks, letting out a surprised laugh at his words.

"Nothing." He says, shaking his head, letting out a small laugh of his own.

"Anyway, it's more like fucking bats." He raises his eyebrows at her words, waiting for her to continue as she tries to slow her racing heart. "Not butterflies, fucking bats in my stomach, because I feel like you're about to fucking kiss me, and I don't know what the fuck to do."

"Relax." He tells her. "It's just me."

And then his lips meet hers, desperate, and raw, and oh fuck she shouldn't want this, but she does. She wants this more than anything. Her arms wrap around him, pulling him closer, and then thunder booms outside, shaking the house, and suddenly they're bathed in darkness.

She pulls away from this kiss with a surprised laugh on her lips, "What in the actual fuck?"

He laughs with her and presses his forehead to the side of her head, before he moves his head down, his lips finding her neck. A moan escapes her lips and her fingers find his hair as he sucks at her pulse point, pressing his body flush against hers. His clothing is still damp and she can feel some of the wetness seep into her clothing, and she shivers against him

She turns her head, urging his lips to meet hers again. When they do, she sighs against his mouth, tongue seeking his. And without breaking the kiss, Dexter lifts her up easily. Her legs wrap around his waist and he starts to walk with her in his arms.

"Don't fucking drop me." She mumbles against his lips. "I can't see a fucking thing."

"Me neither." He admits, which is when he in fact, trips. They both go down, and she lands on her back on the floor with Dexter on top of her.

"I told you not to drop me." She says and he laughs, kissing her again softly. She can feel his arousal pressing into her and her hands move to his back, running her fingers gently across his damp shirt. "Dex?" She whispers against his lips and he pulls back. "What is happening? Are we…?" Everything is happening so fast, and she still hasn't had the chance to wrap her mind around Dexter's earlier words.

"What do you want to happen?" He asks softly.

She sighs and searches his eyes, although she can barely make him out in the darkness, "I want… to be with you. I know I shouldn't fucking want that. But I fucking do. I want to know that this isn't going to be a one time thing, that those words, those fucking things you just said, that you meant them."

He lets out a deep breath and rolls off her and onto his side, he then pulls her against him so they're laying with her back to his front, "I meant them. Every word. But if you're unsure, we don't have to have sex. I can just hold you. Whatever you need."

She closes her eyes and fights tears at his words, at him actually being understanding. But instead of voicing this, she asks, "You don't want to fuck me?"

"Deb." He says, before grabbing her hand and placing it on his very obvious erection. "What do you think?"

"God, you're such a fucking guy." She says, although to punctuate her words, she squeezes him through his pants.

He lets out a small groan, very unlike the ones he was emitting the night he was sick. "If you keep doing that, I'm not going to be able to stop myself." He warns, lips close to the back of her head.

She squeezes him again, because really, she doesn't want him to stop, and suddenly he's flipping them and climbing on top of her. His hands slide under her t-shirt and grip her small breasts and she lets out a gasp as his lips find hers. He presses his lower half against her, and she accepts his tongue as he pushes it past her lips and into her mouth.

Her arms wrap around him, holding onto his broad shoulders as he starts to grind himself against her. It's intense and messy, and the way he's kissing her feels like he's going to suck the life out of her, like he needs her, and this is all Debra has ever wanted.

Right now she doesn't care that he's a serial killer or her brother or how fucked up their lives are. All she cares about is that she's in love with this man, and she wants him. She wants him badly.

"Fuck me, Dexter." She gasps into his mouth and his hands move from her breasts, lips separating from hers. He grabs the waistband of her sweats and pulls them down, along with her panties. It's still dark, the electricity still out, so they still can't see each other clearly, and she fumbles with the buttons of his shirt before she manages to get it off his shoulders.

He sits up and shrugs his shirt off, working on getting his shoes, socks, pants, and underwear off as she pulls her t-shirt over her head, tossing it aside. And because the electricity is out, it's starting to get warm, really warm in her house, but she doesn't give a fuck as she grabs his arm. "Fucking hurry, Dex."

"I'm going as fast as I can." And then he's back on top of her, but he still can't see her well, so when he leans down to kiss her again, his head smacks against hers and she gasps in surprise.

"Jesus fuck, I said fuck me, not headbutt me, asshole."

He laughs softly, hovering above her, "Sorry, are you okay?"

"I'll live. Now - "

"Fuck you. I think I've got it." He teases and she fights the urge to smack him. But then she can feel him positioning himself at her entrance, the head of his cock brushing her folds and she bites her bottom lip in anticipation. "You ready, Deb? The point of no return."

"Oh my fucking God, if you don't stop fucking talking -" But then her sentence is cut short when he pushes himself inside of her and her hands move to his biceps, fingernails digging into him as he slides into her wetness. And everything is happening so fast, and she can't believe that Dexter is inside of her.

Wasn't it only weeks ago that she was confessing her love to him and he was rejecting her? How has everything changed so fast?

He moans and his lips find hers again as he starts to rock his body. She wraps her legs around him, lifting her hips up so he hits her at a better angle, and her fingers move to his hair as he fucks her.

It's quickly that everything gets more intense. He fucks her with desperation, with longing. He fucks her with need. He fucks her like he can't get enough, and she knows the feeling, because she can't get enough either.

Their skin is quickly getting sticky and sweaty as they move together from the exertion and the warm Florida heat seeping into her house. He keeps hitting her in the perfect spot, and every time he does she finds herself biting at his lips, her hands starting to claw at his back.

Suddenly he flips them, and she sits up, tossing her hair back as she starts to ride him. His hands slide up her sweaty front, and he sits up with her in his lap, his mouth moving to suck her right breast into his mouth. And fuck, who knew he was so good at this?

She starts to grind herself against him as he fucks her from underneath, squeezing her muscles around him as she tries to bring herself closer to her orgasm. He releases her breast from his mouth, and instead buries his face in her chest as he lets out a deep moan.

"Come for me, Deb." He places his hands on her thighs, pushing down as he encourages her to grind against him. And suddenly she feels the pleasure building, the little sparks that start low in her belly as they spread out, encompassing her whole form as she goes careening over the edge.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." He curses, and she knows he's getting close as well. He wraps his arms around her, pulling her closer as he pounds into her from underneath. And then he starts to come, his hips arching as he empties himself deep inside of her, and fuck, she normally doesn't let guys come inside of her, but she's never experienced something so hot.

They're both coming down from their respective orgasms, clinging to each other when the lights suddenly flick on, the air conditioning buzzing to life with them. She laughs, breathlessly as she blinks, eyes adjusting to the light.

"Fucking finally."

"Mmm," He says in response, ever the typical post-orgasm response from a male, and she laughs, pulling herself off him as she stands up. She grimaces a little when she feels a wetness between her legs and she grabs her underwear off the floor to clean herself up. When she looks back at Dexter he makes a face.

"What?"

"Did you really just do that?"

"Says the guy who just came inside of me." She shoots back. "It's not like it's not going in the fucking wash. Come on." She grabs his hand and helps him to his feet.

"Where are we going?"

"Ice cream. I'm so fucking hot. And hungry." She leads him to the kitchen and opens the freezer, pulling out a tub of chocolate ice cream and grabbing a spoon from a nearby drawer before she shuts the freezer and sits on the floor.

He looks at her curiously but shrugs, sitting next to her on the floor, "Has anyone ever told you you're kind of weird?"

"Okay, Mr. Serial Killer." She climbs closer to him and settles between his legs, back against his front, before opening the tub of ice cream and getting a spoonful. She eats the ice cream, enjoying the coolness and chocolate on her tongue before she gets another spoonful and hands it to him.

He takes the spoon from her and eats his ice cream before he says, "We're joking about it now?"

"You know how I said not that long ago that it no longer feels like steaks and beers and bad movies on the couch? That my life feels like hired fucking killers, and Hannah fucking McKay, and Xanax to get me through the day?"

She feels Dexter stiffen behind her and he hesitantly says, "Yes."

"Maybe it can still be steaks and beers and bad movies on the couch." She says softly.

He wraps his arm around her waist and gently kisses the spot between her neck and shoulder, "I don't know if I can change, Deb. I'm still a serial killer. It's a part of who I am."

"I know and I'm willing to fucking live with that if I fucking get this, Dexter. I want you. I want to be with you. I want you to put me first." She says, taking the spoon from him and scooping up another helping of ice cream. She eats it and then places the spoon inside the tub and pushes it aside, turning around in his lap so she's facing him, her legs on either side of his.

"You know, I was wrong." He says softly, and she watches him curiously. "I had myself convinced that Hannah was the one who accepted me just because she was okay with my killing, but she doesn't even know me. You do. You know me, Deb. And you're still willing to accept me."

"You're such a fucking idiot sometimes." She says softly. "Acceptance isn't about someone being okay with everything you do. It's about someone being willing to love you in spite of your flaws, even when you piss them the fuck off."

He leans forward and kisses her softly, gently, and she can feel the emotion behind the kiss, the love. When he pulls back, he presses his forehead to hers, "I love you, Deb."

"I love you, too." She whispers and he sighs. A beat of silence and then she says, "So, please tell me you broke up with her already."

He pulls back and has the sense to look guilty, "I haven't had the chance, but I will." She shoots him an annoyed look, when he says. "Is it wrong to break up with her over text?"

"Oh my fucking God, you're such an asshole, but in this case, I love it." She gets up from his lap and starts to make her way to the living room.

"Deb, where are you going?" He asks.

"Getting your phone so I can compose it for you." She says simply, and suddenly Dexter is behind her, chasing her. She finds his pants and gets his phone out of his pocket just as Dexter grabs her.

"Give me the phone, Debra."

She holds it out and away from him, "No fucking way."

He's still holding onto her, and he reaches for the phone again with his free hand while she struggles against him. Suddenly the hand that was reaching for the phone grabs her waist, and he manhandles her, practically lifting her up as he flips her around. She gasps, and then his lips are on hers. She can't resist, so she kisses him back, her hand that's gripping the phone dropping to her side while the other wraps around him, pulling him closer. And without warning, his hand suddenly grasps the phone and he pulls away from the kiss. She glares at him as he steps back, a look of triumph on his face.

"You're such a dick." She comments and he laughs softly.

"Look Deb, I'll break up with her, I promise, but please let me do it."

She sighs and steps forward, wrapping her arms around him. He returns the hug, kissing the side of her head.

"Fine." She acquiesces, stepping back from his embrace. "I was only going to tell her that she was too fucking ugly for you and sucked in bed."

He barks out a laugh, "You really hate her, don't you?"

She shrugs, "So?"

"Because you're jealous." He comments.

She huffs and rolls her eyes, "Fuck off."

He gives her a small smile, the kind of smile she can't resist. And why is he so stupidly handsome? And he takes a step closer to her, "It's okay, you can admit you're jealous, Deb."

"I said," She remarks, grabbing his hand when he moves to place it on the side of her head. "Fuck. Off."

"Deb," He says, his smile faltering as he looks into her eyes, and she finds herself shivering at the intensity of his gaze. "You have nothing to be jealous of. Not anymore. I choose you, okay? I choose you."

Tears spring to her eyes and she hates how emotional she can be. He gives her a small smile and wraps her in his arms once more. And Debra can't help but wonder how she has been able to go from hopeless to hopeful in that matter of a few hours.

"Maybe you need to get sick more often. You know, especially when it brings about epiphanies like this." She mumbles, into his neck and he laughs, and she finds herself laughing with him.

As their laughter dies down, she closes her eyes and inhales his scent, and she has the sudden calming thought that everything is exactly as it should be. As it's supposed to be. That everything is going to be okay.

Because she chooses him. She really does. And finally, finally, he chooses her back.

A/N: Another one shot in the books. Not every one shot will have smut, but these two sure did. As always, your reviews feed me. Please keep them coming! They always motivate me to write more! Also, like I said before, if you have any prompt ideas you want me to explore, let me know and if I'm inspired by your idea, I'll see what I can do!