20. Expressing guilt or remorse (fake or genuine)

A/N: Sorry for the extremely long delay between chapters! Seems like I did not have as much time to get a few of these knocked out as I had been hoping. But I do promise that this will not be left hanging!

Anyways, you could probably set this one anywhere between the beginning of season 5 and the middle of season 6. This took a turn I wasn't necessarily expecting but I hope you still enjoy it. And thanks for sticking with it!

Dexter shifts uncomfortably against the cold metal chair. He stares over at Deb's profile, notices the ashen tone of her complexion. She nearly matches the cinderblocks of the wall behind her as she stares unseeing away from him. He doesn't know what to say so he waits for her. Apparently she's not sure what to say either because all she's done since she walked into the room 10 minutes ago was to stand in the same spot, back turned to Dexter, fingers encircling the thick, white bars in front of her.

He thinks one of them should apologize, but he's not quite sure which one. So instead he continues to wait, continues to watch her. He fidgets slightly, the metal bracelets around his wrists scrape the table sharply and it grabs Deb's attention. He can see her straighten, see the tension heighten in her shoulders. She lets out a gust of air and turns towards him. Seeing her head on he thinks she might be sick, or perhaps she will be burst into tears. But instead her gaze hardens on him and he can see his vulnerable sister replaced by the tough as nails detective that any perp should fear; perhaps Dexter more than any other.

"Why?" She cocks her head to the side and stares him down and he finds himself almost afraid to answer.

Dexter opens his mouth then closes it. He tries again but finds the words stuck in the back of his throat. He looks away from her, stares down at his hands, the shackles around his wrists. He hears her walk closer, sees her hands placed on the table before him as she leans forward.

"I need you to fucking tell me why." Deb grinds out, her voice low and threatening.

"You know why." Dexter continues to stare at the light bouncing off his handcuffs. "You know the story of Laura Moser."

Deb slams her fist against the table in front of him. If he were a normal person it would have startled him. "That's not a FUCKING ANSWER!" Deb screams at him.

Dexter looks up at his sister, her eyes wild and desperate. "We've been over this Deb. I told you everything there is." He pauses for a moment and looks at her sadly. "I told you about Laura and Dad and my Dark Passenger. I told you everything when I tried to talk you out of bringing me here."

"Fuck you. Don't fucking blame this on me." She gestures to the holding cell they are together in. "Exactly what choice did I have Dexter. Was I supposed to let you keep murdering people?"

Her use of his full name indicates just how bad this all is. He thinks he can handle her exposing his life more than he can handle her hating him. His mind flits to Harrison and it's too much to worry on at the moment. He brings his attention back to her and wonders what the point of this conversation is exactly. He can't save himself. Not when she has brought him here, turned over his blood slides, the evidence linking him to the Mitchell family. It's done now and he knows it.

He wants to ask her how she managed to put it together. What was it that allowed her to open her eyes to the truth? But looking at her he knows it's not a good time. Perhaps it never will be.

She's still staring him down and he thinks there's only one thing left to tell her. "I'm sorry." His tone is quiet, remorseful and he watches the anger ooze out of her, leaving her wilted and dejected.

He watches her eyes well, but she fights away the tears and sits down across from him instead. She puts her head into her hands and Dexter watches as she struggles to keep her emotions in check.

"I'm sorry I've put you in this position." He offers again. She drops her hands in return and moves her vacant gaze towards him. He's never seen her look so lost and the fact that it is his fault does something to his gut, a strange sinking feeling like he's stepped off the edge of a precipice.

"What am I supposed to do?" She asks him raggedly. "How do I face them?" Her gaze flits past the bars indicating the others waiting just outside. "What happens to Harrison?" She pauses, her eyes slide closed for a moment longer than a breath and when she looks at him again she seems to have suddenly aged, darkness circling her eyes. "What happens to me?" She whispers, the desolation ringing in the sound.

He almost wants to be angry at her because even in his wildest nightmares he never thought she was capable of this. Despite his unlimited faith in her abilities as a cop, he never thought she could see what was in right front of her; she was just too close. And he had relied on that for years, had absolute conviction that as long as he listened to Harry's advice to hide himself away from her, she would never be able to discern the lie.

And yet, maybe it is exactly for this reason that there is a swell of pride in his chest. This odd gratitude that if anyone were to figure him out, to turn him in, that it would be her. And maybe that's what brings the next words from his lips unbidden.

"You'll be better off. Harrison too. Maybe you could all have been better off from the start if it hadn't been for me. You did the right thing, Deb."

Deb's tears brim and finally spill over. Her voice trembles when she speak. "I trusted you. I loved you."

He can't handle the disappointment in her eyes, the resignation in her voice. Perhaps worst, the declaration of love in the past tense. His eyes fall to his hands as he furrows his brow. He can envision what happens next; the trial, the conviction, the needle in his arm. But he thinks this is mercy because he doesn't know how to survive a world where Deb no longer cares for him.

"I'm so sorry, Deb." This time he means it.