A/N: Sorry it took me so long for this update! Hopefully it will be a much shorter wait for the next one. And thanks for reading as always-hope I'm not scaring anyone too much :)

5. An activity they both enjoy

His passion overwhelms her. When he pins her body against his, his mouth moving like a rapid fire against her sensitized skin, she can't think straight. She is pure lust, bubbling and warm. She is nothing more than what he creates. All she knows is the touch of his skin against hers, the sound he makes as he kisses her.

But sometimes she fears it is not passion. It is consumption. He devours and destroys her. He takes everything she has to offer and gives nothing in return. And when he is done, she is empty, a shell, a void.

The nights he comes to her she knows not who he is. She doesn't know herself either. Maybe that's why she allows it to occur, time and again.

But when he touches her, any reason, any excuse, matters not. She will give him whatever he wants, demands. She will ask for nothing in return. She will welcome his obliteration.

She is surprised when he phrases the question tentatively. The room is dark and she can't see his face. Only the sound of his voice, the slight hesitation, is apparent to her.

They are still pressed together, tangled in the sheets. His chest rises and falls beneath her head, her fingers tracing the contours of his abdominals. It feels like a safe place, with one of her legs thrown between his, their bodies still slick with sweat.

"You want my help…with that?" Her voice is hushed and she doesn't turn to look at him.

"It would make it easier." He says this confidently, but she is sure it is a lie. Why would he need her help when he's done just fine without any?

But she wonders if this is some sort of offering of goodwill. Some desire to seem transparent, to share something that is so deeply his with her. After all, she is complicit now. There is no denying her involvement anymore. It was one thing for her to turn a blind eye, but she has been going far beyond that for some time now.

It had only been the one request at first: Hannah McKay. And at first he had refused her, but then things changed. And for her part she had protected him; first from LaGuerta's investigation, then from LaGuerta herself.

Now there was a tenuous agreement. A file slid across his desk when she would duck into his office. Another slipped to him during their rendezvous. No discussion, just a tap of her finger on the manila surface before he would take it quietly from her. A few weeks later he would hand it back, give her a slight nod, sometimes a smile. Sometimes she would manage to smile back, even if she felt sick, even if she hated them both for this.

So she is sure she is just as guilty, just as wrong as he is. Maybe more so. Because she knows how fucked up he is and she can't figure out any excuse for herself.

Still, this request is uncomfortable. The idea of assisting him, taking action, goes further than almost anything she has done to this point. And yet, when has she ever said no to him?

"Ok." She whispers, though she can't imagine this is a smart idea. That it will lead to anything good.

They meet outside the hotel the next night. A swanky place brimming with the trappings of wealth and opulence. She's wearing some little red number which makes her feel self-conscious, but she enjoys Dexter's heated stare as they subtly acknowledge each other.

The plan should be easy. She dangles the bait, lures the target away so that Dexter can subdue him and take him to the kill room. Dexter assures her she is exactly his type and when she spots the clean cut face in the hotel bar she shudders.

Somehow she pulls it off, manages to flirt with him as she recalls the brutalized corpses of his victims. She holds it together as his hand comes to rest on her knee, as he whispers in her ear that he wants to be alone with her.

She's just fine until she watches Dexter slip the needle in his neck in the dark recesses of the parking lot. Suddenly she is frozen, immobilized as she watches him push the man's limp body into his trunk.

"Deb?" Dexter moves in front of her, wraps one gloved hand around her shaking wrist. "Deb. You need to go home now."

"Fuck." She drags her wide eyes away from the car, looks at Dexter. "What the fuck?" Her voice is ragged, hushed. There is a terrible sinking feeling in her gut as she thinks about what happens next. Why had she agreed to this? Why was she digging herself even deeper into this shithole?

"Deb." Dexter's voice is sharp and pulls her away from her thoughts. "Go home and wait for me. Everything will be fine."

She swallows and nods at him. He hesitates a moment longer before dropping her wrist and climbing into the car. The car drives off, leaving Deb alone in the dark with her panicked thoughts.

He is different after a kill. She has learned the signs. A strange combination of aggression and contentment.

She's still pacing her living room when he comes by, three in the morning, in his kill suit. He looks satiated and reckless, his eyes glinting at her.

"You're still up." He seems confused, uncertain as to why she looks so tense.

She opens her mouth to tell him off, to make him understand that her guts have been churning, her head pounding. But she can't help but think how entirely fucking useless it is and shuts her mouth, sits down and puts her head into her hands.

She can sense his hesitation before he finally moves closer, sits down on her coffee table and waits for her to say something. She doesn't move for a long time, and when she speaks she can't quite meet his eye. "I can't do this again. It's too fucking much."

She feels him lean his head down to hers, his lips pressed against her hair. He sighs, tells her with resignation "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

She can feel his hand moving up her bare leg, the anxiety slipping off of her as he pulls her closer. The fear and angst she felt is slowly being pushed out by that liquid heat spreading from her center and across her body.

The niggling thought at the back of her brain, the one that knows she should run far away from him is quieted as his lips make their way from her chin, down her neck.

That aggression she senses in him is stronger than ever as he yanks her clothes away, leaving her exposed and vulnerable to him. When he pushes his fingers inside her he owns her, and she can see the triumph in his face, his victory over her. It feels too fucking good for her to care and she gives in to him, begs him for more of his touch, for her release.

He takes her to bed then, fucks her until she is nearly delirious with pleasure, her body nothing more than a tangle of warm nerves. She curls into his embrace, earlier worries forgotten, feeling secure and loved and drifts off to sleep.

There is an hour of peaceful slumber before she is startled awake by her own bad dreams. She is still coiled around Dexter's warm body as the anxiety returns to her. She slides away from him, gently slips out of bed and quietly moves out to her desk, turns on the lamp. She sits down in the chair, opens the drawer and pulls out the six, worn, manila folders. She spreads them across her desk like a stack of cards, stares at the names on the tabs.

He might tell her that he shouldn't have asked for her help. She might have given these to him for some degree of her own satisfaction. But in the end, there is nothing she wouldn't do for him. Nothing she won't do to please him. She can still hear Maria's voice on a night like this, the sound of her screams bouncing off the metal walls.

She knows he is destroying her, ruining her. Yet she can't stop him, won't leave him. She will allow him to consume her, because she can't live without him.