Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It shouldn’t feel this exciting to be stalking another woman, god this is so wrong. But you can’t stop, you take another photo of the blood analyst. You sit in your car, your shirt sticking to your body and a sweat bead coming down your temple, the Miami sun wasn’t forgiving. But your commitment to this stranger was all too consuming. 

You take another picture of Dexter Morgan crouching low to the ground, examining the crime scene talking to the other officers. You made sure to park at least five cars down, so as to not be suspicious. That's not suspicious right? You think to yourself. 

As you ponder that, Dexter looks right at your camera, and–really looking at your camera, like she can see you, as if it wasn’t even there. You immediately roll your window back up and start up your car, driving mindlessly in a panic. She didn’t see me, right? No, no way. You bite your lip in worry. 

Excitement and nervousness settles in your gut as you park your car, and you couldn’t really explain it. 

Something has been growing in the back of your mind, and it weighs heavy. This feeling, this–need. And becomes stronger and stronger with each passing day. It started off with small animals, usually rats, or the occasional squirrel, but it’s been growing. 

The biggest thing so far that you’ve managed to kill is your neighbor's dog, it was quite big and old, and you hated to see it suffer. It was a large husky with two different colored eyes, the dog whined any time you’d pass by it. And you couldn’t bear to see it suffer in the miami heat anymore, your neighbor has never even taken the time to groom the poor dog. 

It’s fur matted and hard, and you thought it your duty to put it out of its misery. Or–that’s the excuse you used to cover the miniscule guilt you felt in your chest. And well, long story short, the dog is no longer in the complex, and now you are in possession of a husky’s heart, which you took the time to clean off the fresh blood it’d been pumping. 

You took your time admiring this wonderful piece of beautiful life, in fascination that this hunk of meat kept everything alive. And now that hunk of meat was beneath the dirt of a large plant in your living room, the first of many. 

Knowing that it was safe and no longer supporting such a sad sight filled you with satisfaction, and made you feel whole–for a time anyway. 

It seemed right in your head, but you knew that you shouldn’t have killed that poor dog, but what else could you do? Let it suffer and die a horrible sad death? Absolutely not! You thought as you held that camera close to your chest, and hurriedly walked to your apartment, your hand shaking as you missed the keyhole a couple of times before you successfully put it in and opened your door. 

You set your camera on the kitchen island, and your phone beeps as you shut the door behind you. It’s a message from your coworker, Josh at the warehouse.

“SOS!! Can you come in a little early? We got a shit ton of shipments all off schedule”

You roll your eyes and sigh, looking like you’ll have to save the photos for later. But for now, you gotta make some money. You rush to your cluttered bedroom and hastily put on your work uniform, you run your hands through your hair enough to at least look a little presentable and you are out your door. 

Arriving at the warehouse you see exactly what Josh was talking about, the port was filled to the brim and it was only Tuesday. There were people running around, yelling for different things.

“You’re here! I thought you’d be asleep or something.” Josh said breathlessly.

You pat his shoulder, “I better get overtime for this, or I swear—”

Josh merely barked out a laugh and led you inside, where the manager, Tony was red in the face, sweat pouring down his temples, and out of breath. When he spots you he sighs a breath of relief.

“Thank god you're here.” He puts a hand on your shoulder, “You’re needed in the back.” He smiles widely.

You raise your eyebrow, “You gonna give me overtime? I’m five hours early to this shift.” You cross your arms and Tony immediately plasters on an apologetic expression. You’re not surprised, but you’re unmoving.

You’re not going back there without the extra pay. You have bills to pay damnit! So you stand there, glaring at Tony, a frown permanently on your face. After a beat of staring at him he caves, and sighs loudly. 

“Fine! Only because I like you.” He then skitters off after hearing a loud pipe fall to the ground. 

You smile brightly and head into the break room to fetch your helmet and clipboard. Josh is called by someone else and runs off. You watch his back as he runs, Josh was a great guy to keep around, real easy to talk to, and didn’t ask many questions about you. You liked it that way, it also helped with being well liked at work. But there were always going to be whispers about you being–strange. 

As you walked through the maze that was the warehouse, there were fewer and fewer people around. With more and more, crates, containers and miscellaneous objects to move. You stop in a near empty spot, where nothing appears to have been moved, you flip through the pages of your clipboard. And yeah, it looks like two different companies overlapped their shipping and it all got sent at once. 

You sigh heavily, no fucking wonder they asked for you five hours before your shift. But before anything, you take your earbuds and stick them in, blasting your favorite playlist, there was no way you were working without your music. 

Now you could start working. You begin with the small stuff first, small to medium sized crates you can lift on your own, moving them to all of their correct places, careful to not mix the product with the wrong company. 

The work is methodical, and mind numbing as you work your way through the aisles A to Z. About two hours in you’re done with the small stuff and now need a forklift, you head down the aisle to find one available and start it up. Driving down the large walkway, back to where you were to move the bigger stuff. 

You line up the forklift with a rather large container and raise it to the shelf right above it, you watch as the container is raised in the air and placed down on the shelf. And your eyes land on a trail of blood, following the trail to a body, it was an older man. 

His eyes are peacefully closed with at least five stab wounds to the chest. You blink once, twice, before it clicks in your head, your heart beats heavily in your chest. You rip off your headphones and stare, before you can do anything, you turn the key to the forklift to the side, the engine cutting off leaving you alone with just the distant sounds of yelling and the scraping of machinery bouncing off the walls. 

The man was killed recently, at least a day or two. Your hands itch, excitement pooling in your gut, you’ve never seen a body that wasn’t protected with police tape, you take a step closer, minding the blood pooled around him. The man was well and truly–dead, is the conclusion you come to as you crouch near the body. 

You wonder what it’d be like to do that, take a life, steal their heart. In your daze your phone brings you back to reality, it buzzes against your leg, it’s Josh. 

“Let’s get lunch! I’ll wait for you down in the break room :)” 

Well that was going to have to wait, you had a dead body to admire. You wanted to take a photo, and the urge to just open his chest up and take a peek at his heart was all too consuming. But your common sense overrides that idea, so you call 911.

“911, What’s your emergency?” The man on the other line asks. 

You pause for a second, a normal person would react badly to this right? Right, what do they even do in the movies? Shaky voice, hitched breath, and…traumatized? How do you even sound traumatized?

You think about that for a second too long. 

“Hello?”

You put on your best performance, “T-There’s a body in the warehouse I work in! I-I-” You add in a sniffle to really sell it. 

“Is the man breathing?” He asks. 

“N-No! He’s been stabbed…please you have to come quickly!” 

“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to be calm, where do you work?”

“T-The Global Warehouse on Northwest Forty-seventh Avenue!”

“We’ll send an officer there immediately.”

You calmly stand as you walk back to the front of the warehouse where Josh was, but you realize, how are you going to explain the cops? So you half jog to the front making sure to catch everyone in the area's attention, you breathe in heavily to really sell it. 

Josh spots you as you pretend to heave and struggle to catch your breath, “What happened? Are you okay?”

You contort your features to where you think you’re furrowing your brows, you definitely have the frown down, but looking panicked? You’re not sure if you ever perfected that one in the mirror. 

“There’s a body! I found it behind a container when I was lifting it. I already called the police!” You shudder your body, you would add some tears if you could–but you weren’t that good of an actor. 

Josh led you to the break room and sat you down as you had to act shell shocked. The rest of the warehouse was further sent into disarray as droves of people ran to the back to see the all new side attraction: A dead man–A murdered man, to be more precise. 

Time flew as you waited for the cops to arrive, but all you could really think about is if you were going to be paid overtime or not. Maybe sent on paid leave because of the, “trauma?”

Your thoughts were interrupted with a cop coming into the room saying they were going to need your statement. You recognized the cop, Debra Morgan, it was Dexter Morgan's sister. You did your research, and you were more than willing to give it to her. 

Soon the warehouse is cleared out, you lead the cops to the dead body, and you hear Debra making a call, “Yeah, we have some blood, we need you over here quick.” And you knew exactly what that meant, Dexter Morgan was coming to your warehouse. 

You feel giddy, and can’t wait to watch her work, but Angel Batista– from the news, talks to you like an old friend, you give both Debra and Angel your statement. And you stall a bit, just enough until Dexter arrives on the scene.

And you can barely contain your excitement, but you mask it, you couldn’t be suspicious around cops of all people. She comes onto the scene with her white gloves, the classic salmon pink polo, and her blood kit. God she looks so much better up close, all of the cops surrounding greet him with a huge smile, and she smiles back. 

But it looks strained, the smile doesn’t reach her eyes, you watch her intently as she crosses the threshold of yellow tape and she does her thing. You’ve always wanted to watch her work her magic, and she does. 

Dexter takes one look at the scene and comes up with a story, “There was a struggle,” She positions herself as the attacker, holding an invisible knife, “The attacker overpowers the old man and knocks him to his feet.” She gestures to the blood spatter on the ground. 

Debra speaks up, “Jason Letterman, the vics name.”

Dexter nods, “Then the attacker–obviously, stabs Jason five times in the chest,” She points to some blood that was splattered across the top of the shelf. “Jason died instantly,” Then she looked around the warehouse, “The only question is why.” She mutters to herself, her eyes calculating. 

Debra and Angel scoff, they’re not surprised at her abilities but you are, how could she figure all that out just from the blood? You bit your lip, your eyes wide and watching. You were brought back to reality with a flash of a camera, you blink rapidly, and see Vincent Masuka, with a large camera in his hands. 

Then all of the cops–detectives, start muttering to each other, more cops coming in from outside. And with some strong hands on your shoulders ushering you out, with a quiet, “Thank you.” From Batista. 

You feel a whine die in your throat, you wanted to watch Dexter a bit more, but she had a job to do or whatever. And on the bright side, you got off of work early. But that damn overtime…!

**

Once you get home and practically peel off your uniform you immediately get to work on those photos you took. Plugging in the SD card into your computer, you now could add the photos to your extensive collection. 

You spend the next hour going through the photos, trashing the blurry or not in focus ones. You feel giddy as you look at the photos, you swoon at your computer, you can’t believe she was that close to you today! The smile on your face widens. 

You smile until you hit the very last photo from today, where Dexter is looking straight at your camera, your heart skips a beat. You zoom in on her face, your breath hitched, there’s no mistake, she’s looking directly at you. Then you think: What if she knows I’m following her?

You mean, you didn’t exactly make the most discreet exit of all time. You run a hand down your face, you should’ve played it cool damnit! You shake yourself and lean back in your chair, thinking, you’ll need to lay low from taking pictures for now, which is more than disappointing. 

But luckily, or unluckily, depending on how you look at it, you have something else that deserves attention. That Itch, you feel, the very same that you felt when you put that poor dog out of its misery. You can feel it at the base of your skull, thick on your teeth. 

You feel unsatisfied, you need more than a dog, or a rat, you need something bigger. But wasn’t stalking already too much? Being a stalker and a murderer was quite the combo, you shake off the idea and the feeling altogether. 

It’ll go away eventually, just like the rats, just like the dog. 

Right?

Two weeks later…

Your eyes flutter open, your vision bleary and a seriously annoying noise keeps going off. And you don’t know what it is for two seconds too long, at the mercy of your heavy limbs unable to move. A few more seconds and you realize it’s your alarm on your phone, you grab your phone and just blindly press on the screen, hoping that you hit the stop alarm button. 

Eventually you get it, and you haul your ass out of bed, it was about six-thirty, and you only had an hour to get ready and get to work on time. So you methodically go through your routine: Shower, get dressed, breakfast, brush teeth, grab your shit, and you are out the door. 

You’ve pretty much perfected the routine, but more on one occasion you forget the last step, forgetting your headphones and phone. 

You head out on the road, locking your door, and running into your neighbor. He was a scruffy old man, balding and unshaven, “Ya seen that damn dog around here?”

As you turn toward him you feign surprise, “No? I was wondering where it went, hope you find it soon!” You say as you pass him and walk toward the stairs, “Well if ya seen it tell me.” Was the last thing your neighbor said before yawning and walking back into his room. 

I really got away with it. You think to yourself as you unlock your car. 

Arriving at the warehouse, Josh greets you with a pat on your shoulder, as you both enter the breakroom you want to roll your eyes as you spot David. He’s currently harassing your female coworker, caging her into a corner, David was a large guy and also somehow the guy with the most sexual harassment cases in the entire building. 

You walk over to the both of them and only address your coworker, “Hey Ness? Josh needs you.” You say levelly, she nods and rushes past David and Josh takes her outside. David scoffs and crosses his arms looking down on you. 

He doesn’t scare you though, why should he? 

“What’re you? Some white knight?” David says, shoulder checking you as he passes. 

You glare, “No, but I’m decent. Unlike some people.” 

David merely gives you a side eye and walks out to the warehouse, but as you watch his back as he leaves something hits you with hard clarity.

Him. He’s the one I want. The voice in your head doesn’t feel like yours. Everything clicks into place, like the world just shifted into place, coming into sharp focus. You want to kill David Marino, no you need to kill David Marino.

Giddiness fills your chest, the same giddiness you feel taking your photos of Dexter.  And suddenly work feels small compared to this need you feel. The itch coming into full force, a pressure building behind your eyes. 

You're suddenly shaken out of your stupor as Josh’s hand finds its place on your shoulder. With Ness in tow.

“Thank you for that, I owe you.” Ness says gratefully. 

You just nod, “No need for that.” 

You spend the rest of the shift day dreaming of different ways to somehow capture David and kill him. But all you really wanted was his beating heart in your hands, the blood running down your arms. 

And then soon it was time to go home. Tony catches you and hands you your overtime in the form of a check, along with your usual paycheck, this momentarily distracts you from your thoughts of David. You take the check gratefully, now you had a little bit of wiggle room between your finances, that camera was not cheap. 

You go home thinking of David and his corpse, you sigh and eat your dinner. 

**

The next day you volunteer to close down the warehouse, along with David, because he usually was the one to close the place down. 

Tony shrugged and let the both of you close down. 

You’ve been thinking and planning since last night, you had the zip ties, the gloves…

“White knight helping out? You tryin’ to get a promotion or what?” David now had a cigarette in his mouth, the foul smell of it invaded your space, burning your nose. 

You crinkle your nose, you don’t give him a response, locking up the breakroom. He scoffs in reply to your silence. That feeling is ever present in your body, like any second you’ll just rip his throat out and let him bleed out there on the warehouse floor. But you steady yourself, you need time to think. 

But maybe not, you’ve been thinking all goddamn day, just do it.

The voice that wasn’t yours echoes throughout your mind. It was getting harder and harder to ignore. The twitch in your hands gets worse. 

David put the rest of things in order, the sun was already dipping below the horizon, the heat finally calming down. The question was, how would you even get him home? Or just off workplace grounds? 

You reach up to bring down the gate to the entrance of the warehouse, David sniffs next to you also reaching up for the gate, “Now I gotta take the damn bus home…” He mutters to himself. 

You clench your jaw, “I–could give you a ride home?” You manage out. 

David turns his head to the side, you both pull down the gate with a loud thud, he inhales the cig smoke and blows it out on your face, “Why fuckin’ not? Thanks White Knight.” He gives you a smile that frankly, makes you shudder. 

You lock up the gate and the both of you head to your car, he at least has the decency to put out the cig under his boot before getting in. Once both of you are in your car your heart starts to race, you grip the wheel hard as you back out of the lot.

“Where do you live?” You ask.

“Just follow this road and turn right on the second turnoff.” He leans back in his seat, no seatbelt, his throat exposed. You gulp, you could do it right now, slit his throat open and let him bleed out. 

Not yet, patience, patience.

Right. Patience.

You keep going until as if right on cue your car started to slow and little lights and alarms started to go off, “Woah what the fuck? Do you take care of your damn car or what?” 

You don’t reply to him, and you drive to the side of the road and park, you open your door and check your car, and yep, your back left tire is out of air. Earlier that day you deflated your tires, the alarms have been going off all morning. 

You let out a noise of frustration, “Tires out of air, I have a spare in the back, can you give me a hand?” You call out to David, to which you hear a haughty scoff. He shoves the door open, and inspects the tire with you, and shakes his head. 

“The spare’s in the trunk can you get it?” You shrug mindlessly, smiling at David, he rolls his eyes and makes his way to the trunk, while you open the door to the backseats to grab the tire iron, you round the car, hiding the weapon behind you. 

While David struggles with the extra tire, you stalk behind him, watching him. The weight of the tire iron is heavy in your clammy hands, excitement courses through your veins and your eyes are blown wide. 

You raise the weapon and bring it down onto David's head, with a sickening crack!

He slumped to the ground, unmoving, you heave, air felt like it was getting thin. You kneel down next to him, moving him onto his back, and you place your hand onto his chest right where his heart would be. And it beat delightfully under your hand, warm and inviting, just begging to be taken out, and oh how you wanted to. 

But you needed to get off the side of the road first, so you take the extra tire out and haul David’s body into your backseat. The only flaw in your grand plan was that now you actually had to change your tire, you sighed but hey! It was your first time doing anything like this!

You eventually change your tires and start your way to David's house, of course you knew where it was. The guy was not quiet about his parties, and of course you followed him home, you wouldn’t go into this that unprepared. 

You make sure none of his neighbors were lurking about, but the neighborhood seemed dead more than anything. You haul David’s body into his house, fishing his keys from his pocket to open the door. His house was unsurprisingly messy, with styrofoam cups littering most of the surfaces, along with wrappers from various fast food chains. 

You then realize you forgot your tools from your trunk, you blush momentarily feeling sheepish. You grab your gloves, some zip ties, muttering to yourself that you should really remember something that important. 

The feeling in your head chuckles, and that in turn, makes you chuckle. What was so funny anyway? The pressure building behind your eyes was reaching its peak, the heart in his chest was yours to have forever, you couldn’t stop smiling. You grab a knife from his kitchen and walk over to him. 

You zip tie David’s hands behind his back, and his feet together. You cage him in between your legs, and you study his face, placing your hand back onto his heart, which is beating slowly, with your other hand you slap his face multiple times. 

His eyes flutter open, and it looks like he can barely even see you in his blurry vision. “What..? What’s goin’ on?” He attempts to move beneath you, but he can’t get very far. 

“Hi David.” You say almost shyly, your face grows hot, being face to face with your very first human heart, it was almost like confessing to your crush for the first time, butterflies in your stomach. The anticipation almost too much that you don’t even want to hear the reply. 

“You! You crazy bastard! What the fuck are you doing? Let me go!” He starts to struggle even more under you. 

There it is. 

His heart quickens in his panic, and that’s what you wanted. You can feel the thud beat of his heart, you press down further, and with your knife you hold it to his neck, “Don’t move.” You say, the voice is unlike yourself. 

You raise his shirt to expose the skin underneath, he was a toned guy, very hairy too, his chest like a rug. “P-Please don’t kill me! Please! Just–Just let me go–I won’t even call the cops! I won’t say nothin’!” 

Anger flares in your chest and you hit him in the face with the knife handle, “Be quiet!” You shout, David groans and writhes in pain beneath you. His heartbeat quickens, and you can’t take in anymore. 

“David, you were a piece of shit when I knew you.” You say breathlessly, using all of your body weight, you place both hands over his chest and press down as if you were doing chest compressions to bring him back to life. 

You keep going until he howls in pain, there. You kept doing them until you felt the flesh give a little, now you’re sure you broke the bone deep underneath. He has tears in his eyes now, begging and pleading, but you can’t hear because the blood rushing between your ears is too loud. 

You raise the knife and his flesh squelches as you bury the knife deep until only half the knife is left. Blood weeps out of his chest as you have to use both hands to even cut downward, David howls in pain. 

Dig deep, let the blood run. 

So you do, it takes a couple of attempts but you manage to get the knife out of his chest and toss it to the side. You dig your hands deep into his chest, spreading the initial incision wide enough to see the broken ribs beneath, you take those pieces of bone and toss them aside, leaving a large enough gap to pull his heart out into the air. 

And David's well passed out by then, you watch and listen pleasantly to his heart beating, and beating hard. Blood coats your hands, the warmth satisfying, you cup your hands around the beating organ, you breathe a sigh of relief.

It’s as if you pluck a fruit from a tree when you pull out the heart, using your knife to sever the arteries, and when you do, that feeling, that pressure, is satisfied, you groan in satisfaction. The heart still pumps even after it’s taken out, splurts of blood coat your face.

Though hearts don’t last that long out of a human body, it’ll eventually die, a sad sight to see. But knowing that you did it gave you some peace of mind. You stood in a daze with the heart in your hands, walking over to the sink to clean the blood off of it, you then left the house without another word, putting the heart in the ice chest behind your seat. 

As soon as you got home, you placed it beneath another plant of yours. Soon the roots would begin to grow around it.

That night, you slept soundly. 

**

You wake up feeling lighter than you’ve ever been, feeling energized and ready for work. Then you realize, it’s Saturday, and you slump, what’re you supposed to do now?

Your eyes wander over to your camera. It has been two weeks, that’s gotta count for laying low right? Right. 

You leave your house with some nondescript hat, and some classic Miami sunglasses, you peruse the usual spots you’ve seen Dexter at. Some small cafes, some sandwich shops, that donut shop she goes to everyday during the week. You’re walking down the beach sidewalk, when you spot her in one of the restaurants. You stop and stare at her, your mouth opens a little–What a coincidence.

You immediately make your way to the restaurant, taking a seat just a few tables away from her. You hide behind your menu, though you didn’t bring your camera no, that would be way too obvious, you did bring your phone. 

As you watch her, she looks calm and collected, her eyes scanning every which way, like she’s looking for someone. She pays you no mind, you order a sandwich with some chips on the side. You wait another couple of minutes enjoying your sandwich before you call her. 

You dial her phone number in and you watch as she takes her phone out of her pocket and up to her ear, “Hello?” You smile wide, your face is hot and you're excited. You don’t know it but you’re breathing heavily into the phone. Dexter pulls back the phone and stares at it before putting it back to her ear. 

Her eyebrow is raised and she looks real impatient, “Hello?”  She waits for a response before getting ticked off and hanging up. You have to hide your laugh behind your glass of your favorite soda, lifting the drink to take a sip. 

You continue to watch her with fascination and maybe a bit of imagination. You imagine that you’re over there with Dexter on a lunch date, sharing a plate together. She smiles at you with those eyes of hers, you sigh happily. 

Then you realize you’re in a public place, and you need to reign in the creepy factor just a bit. When you’re back to reality you see that another woman is sitting across from Dexter with an arrogant grin, they’re talking but you can’t hear very well. Something about blood? Body? Wounds?

You want to lean in closer, was someone threatening Dexter Morgan? You feel a flash of possessiveness in your chest, but you couldn’t be so sure. You watch on with slight suspicion. You try to take in the other woman’s appearance, she was a stout lady, but she looked strong. 

A bright, flashy smile with blue eyes, she dressed smartly, enough so that the arrogance basically poured out of her. The smirk was one that couldn’t easily be wiped off, watching the both of them interact was like watching a stand off. There was clearly something wrong, especially with Dear Dexter looking so stiff and apprehensive. 

You frown, just who was this chick and why was she interrupting your date? Suddenly, the stout lady stood from her chair rearranging the watch on her left hand, she leaves past your table and you watch as she goes out the door. And then–you get the bright idea to follow her, though you sour at the thought of leaving Dexter here–you decide it’s best to see if that woman was of any kind of threat. 

You snag a waiter for the bill and you pay hastily, as you put down a twenty dollar bill, you spare one last look toward Dexter, who was deep in thought, her fists covering her mouth. Certainly, this woman was unpleasant.

Walking out of the door, taking a second to scan the area before spotting her walking to a parking lot nearby. You jog lightly to catch up with her, staying at least six feet behind her. As you follow her, you call Dexter one last time for some good luck you decide, the line trills, “Hello?” She sounds beyond exasperated, and even a little annoyed. 

Your heart breaks, whatever this chick said, she will pay for–or not–you’re actually not sure you want to kill another person. You haven’t given it much thought, but it was somewhat terrifying at what you did to David, did he even deserve it? 

“Whoever this is, lose the number–stop wasting my time.” Dexter says with venom before hanging up. Well so much for good luck, you think to yourself. 

Hot on the footsteps of the stout woman, you round the corner with him to her car. She drives a flashy red sports car, she’s wealthy–or at least lives like she is. You take note of her license plate, you get closer to her, now or never. 

You bump into her shoulder, “Oh shit! Sorry, are you okay?” You furrow your brows, the stout woman groans in irritation. “Watch where you’re going next time.” She turns to unlock her car, and you can’t let this slip, so you stutter out, “That’s a pretty nice car! What do you do for work?”

The stout woman looks you up and down, no doubt thinking you’re crazy. She licks her lips before responding, “I’m a consultant for Miami Metro.” 

Is that why she was meeting with Dexter? 

You hum in reply, plastering a smile on, “Makes sense. Anyway–sorry for bumping into you.” 

The stout woman smiles in return, her shoulders relaxing, “Ah, it’s no problem.” She pats your shoulder, “Have a nice day.” She unlocks her car and climbs inside as you walk away. You walk away with your phone in hand, searching for consultants for Miami Metro, what comes up is a website link to current consultants in the area. 

As you scroll through the site you get to multiple links, classes, protocols, and different instructors, you click on the instructors. And boom, her face was plastered across the header, that’s who was causing Dexter such grief. 

“Emmanuelle Washington–Former Detective for Miami Metro offers classes on interviews and analysis.” 

What could  former detective Emmanuelle Washington want with blood analyst Dexter Morgan? The question would certainly yield an interesting result, so what did Emmanuelle say to Dexter that could make her react that way? What did you hear again?

Blood, body, wounds. The voice that wasn’t yours supplies helpfully. So…Analyst stuff–but again, why did it look like Emmanuelle had won something that Dexter lost? There was a missing piece that you couldn’t put together, but it was intriguing, some liveliness to your relatively dull life. 

A week passes…

You’re coming back home from the warehouse, and you stop at a nearby gas station, yawning into your hand as you enter inside, waving at the equally tired employee. It’s been a week and no one has raised any alarms to David's disappearance, which was not all that surprising, sure he was popular with his party house. 

But he was an asshole, and apparently an asshole with no friends nor family to check in on him. The only one to have raised an alarm was your manager, only because they didn’t have enough hands. It helped that David had gone on week long benders before, coming back to work on a Monday, usually drunk and smelly. 

But not this week, not that coming Monday. You sigh contently as you think of his heart that lay beneath your plant. 

And that wasn’t the only thing on your mind at the moment, Dexter was also a constant in your head. Always happy to follow her to her workplace to take a photo or two. Calling her late at night just to hear her gruff voice. Your infatuation was only getting stronger. 

You walk down the aisle to buy some snacks for the ride home. Bunching the bags of chips in your arm you place them on the counter for the cashier to scan. You drum your fingers along the counter.  

The cashier hands your snacks back in a bag and you head on out, walking out into the night, standing under the loud fluorescents of the station. Your boots scraping along the concrete, when you get a feeling.  

What’s that by the bathrooms? 

Something pulls you toward the side of the station, first you see a boot, then a leg and then a chest, with five beautiful bleeding wounds, his shirt was stained through and his eyes were rolled back. You stand there, staring, what are the odds you find the second victim of the same killer? It’s almost funny as you gaze upon the body, obviously the course of action here would be to call the police. 

But you stand still, staring. Maybe it’s the artistry of the body, how careless the killer was in killing this poor man. You slowly grab your phone to call the police, but you’re in no mood to be acting right now. 

You dial the number, and you give the details and nature of the crime, urging them to get here. But all you can think of is: What a nuisance. You were on your way home to eat some junk food and fall asleep watching tv or something. 

They come with their flashing bright lights, and what a pleasant surprise, it’s detective Debra Morgan and Angel Batista that are back on the scene, Debra regards you with a raised brow, “What are the fuckin’ chances?” She mutters to herself as she passes you to inspect the body. 

Angel once again questions you, and you give your story, there’s a crowd now, with new people entering and exiting, and who do you see? Emmanuelle Washington. What are the fuckin’ chances?

She spots you in surprise and approaches, “Hey, you’re from the parking lot right?” 

You raise your eyebrows, “Yep.” Not the most eloquent response, but you just got off of a fourteen hour shift of lifting and yelling and managing. 

“What’re you doing here? On your way home?”

“Well yeah, I came here to buy snacks and found a dead guy instead.” You say as if any part of this conversation was normal. 

“Are you okay? Weren’t you there at the first murder?”

You nod, “Yeah, I found that one too.” 

And as you look at Emmanuelle, for just a split second you see a glint to her eye, and you get that feeling again. There was something wrong with Emmanuelle, you squint your eyes but as soon as you blink the glint is gone.

Maybe you’re seeing things, you’re just tired from the long shift today, nothing more—besides, maybe your hate for her just made you see things that weren’t there.

Emmanuelle smiles at you, “Well I hope you can sleep well tonight, most normal folks don’t handle a dead body as well as you have.” She pats your shoulder and walks off.

You shudder, the chill running through you wasn’t natural. But you have little time to wonder why because Dexter Morgan passes you to inspect the blood at the scene. 

Your heart jumps and you almost immediately forget about Emmanuelle, she just looks so good when she’s analyzing a scene like that. This time she has the camera and taking bright flash pictures, and you suddenly wish that you had your camera on you. 

Dexter talks to Angel, and Debra, while ignoring Masuka’s nasty jokes. You could stand and watch them forever, so you do, until Dexter's eye finds yours among the crowd, and it feels like time stops. 

She watches you too, you’re not just an observer anymore, not just a passing name of some chick who found that body during some case, you wonder what she’s thinking. You blush harshly, but you hold her eye, there’s no glint there, just—calculation, a question she wants to ask maybe?

But the moment passes, and she returns to the scene, and you feel disappointment douse you cold. You linger until you’re told to go home, you climb into your car and you think about Dexter.

A growing wetness down below makes your pants suddenly feel tight and your breath heavy. You clench the wheel of your car and park, and you try to hold yourself together. But you can’t, there was a different kind of pressure you felt, and it was down below. 

You writhe in your car, palming at your vagina through your jeans, in your fervor you call Dexter. Your hands trembling, the line trills, and trills, until—“You again.” 

You gasp and your crotch twitches  at that accusation, you rub your clit with much more desperation from before, “Who is this?” You have to stifle a moan, your head thrown back. 

You imagine her hands trailing all across your body, your breasts, your hips. You imagine her hands to be soft, and a dark chuckle that belongs to her. She uses her fingers to go inside of you, teasing your clit, your eyes roll to the back of your head.

“You’ve been following me.” 

Yes. You want to whisper back into the phone, you feel that you’re about to come any second now, the car feels too hot, and the pressure is not nearly enough. 

“Why?”

All you can do is breathe heavily, imagining Dexter below you, taking you in her mouth, and a moan escapes from your throat, and Dexter stays silent on her end. 

“How long?”

So long. You answer in your head, and there it is, the pressure builds, your body hot, and you come in your pants, a dark spot forming on your jeans, you slump, “Fuck…” you mutter to yourself.

When you come down from your high, Dexter is still silent, and hangs up without a word, it makes you smile. 

**

 “David Marino was found dead last night, he was murdered.” Debra Morgan explains to you, and suddenly your head was light and you couldn’t think very clearly. She was there with a man named Joseph Quinn, they were both there to question the workers—now just question you. They want to question you because they were called in for David, found the body, but he had no car in the driveway, so the next logical conclusion was to figure out how he got home. 

Then with some expert detective work they came back to your warehouse to check the cameras to figure out what happened last night. And while watching the footage back, they saw that David Marino got into a car with you, and that night he died. Though there were no cameras surrounding David’s property, nor did the surrounding neighbors. 

And suddenly, you’ve become a suspect, you want to sigh heavily and rub your eyes with the heels of your hands. So when Debra Morgan tells you that your coworker is dead, you have to widen your eyes and gasp lightly in shock, “H-He’s dead?” You gulp. Placing your hands on that cold metal table, the nature of the interrogation room was cramped and cold. 

Debra looks you up and down, “You’ve found the last two bodies of the same murderer, how the hell did you manage that?” She raises her eyebrow, and you choke on your words, but Joseph Quinn nudges her shoulder and tells that they weren’t here for that. Ah, so they’ve talked about this before, they’ve–or she has been talking about you. A potential suspect, perfect. 

You blink, she sighs, “The cameras from last night show that David went into your car after work, why?”

You have to shrug and give a shuddering breath, and blink a lot, you have to make it look like it’s hard for you to grasp the concept of someone near you dying.

“When–When we were locking up…He–” You swallow, “He mentioned something about having to use the bus, and y’know it was late, I thought it’d be nice to give him a ride home.” You finish, truly, a beautiful performance, Detective Quinn looks like he feels bad for you, but Debra only has a stone face. 

“And what happened when you took him home? Did you see anything suspicious?”

You shake your head, you look down into your hands which are still resting on the cold table, and you have to make it look like you’re thinking long and hard. “What was your relationship with David? You two worked together?” You nod,  and twist your lips and furrow your brow. 

“Yeah, we were just coworkers, not really friends–he wasn’t well liked.”

Debra pounces on that, “What do you mean?”

“Well–” You lean back in the steel chair and scratch your chin, “He’d go after all the women, he’d–cage them into dark corners and–you know. All of us reported him to the manager, but…I’m just saying, he had the highest count of sexual harassment reports in the entire damn place.”

Detective Debra and Quinn both gave each other a look–hopefully one that silently said: This isn’t our suspect. 

“And where did you go after dropping off David?”

“I went straight home, passed out on my bed.” That part was true enough. 

Both detectives sort of slump, they don’t have much evidence against you, and you were incredibly lucky that night, so they let you go. You thank them to seem just the right amount of pathetic, and you were released.

Standing in the middle of the office, your eyes pull toward a small cramped looking office on the other end of the room, there’s a small window, and you see eyes peering back at you. Heat flushes your face and suddenly everyone around you doesn't matter anymore, it was just you and those wily eyes of hers, you smile and wave. The eyes blink in surprise, you turn to leave.

Walking into the elevator you intend to reel over that encounter, exhilaration washes over you, and as the doors are closing a hand stops it before it fully closes. You watch as Dexter Morgan walks in and stands with you, and your knees almost buckle, your smile fights to be present on your face. 

She smiles that fake strained smile at you until the doors close and her face falls into something with no expression at all, nothing but a piercing dead stare. That only makes you swoon even more, how does this woman continue to do that? A question sure to bother you later. 

But for now, you two exist in one space as you wait for the elevator to start, wherein she says: “You’re the one who’s been following me.” Like she was talking about the weather, a simple accusation–one she’s right about, it felt strange to be found. 

You turn your head toward her, your smile still not wiped from your face, you nod, “Why?” She leans into your space, her eyes searching your face–looking for any sign of threat, leaving you no room of your own. 

But you’re absolutely fine with that, being this close to her was a dream come true, her face was handsome and strong, her eyelashes long, and her lips, oh dear god her lips. It’s like she was intentionally teasing you! 

Too fascinated with her face you don’t answer, you just stare with wide eyes, “Well?”  

You laugh lightly, mostly to yourself, “I’ve liked people before, but not like I like you.” You say, you’ve almost been dying to get that off your chest, and to be able to tell her personally? What a dream!

Dexter blanks at your answer, you assume she was expecting a more dangerous answer, you assume she’s never had a fan before–you don’t mind, most people don’t. 

The elevator doors ding open and you have half a mind to skip out in your delirium, you’re on cloud nine as you unlock your car and drive home, watching Dexter in your rearview mirror. 

**

A day goes by, and you’re watching Emmanuelle, she’s working in her office, and you’re watching from outside. The night blankets your presence, keeping you safe from the warm light of her office. 

You take photos of her, just sitting at her desk, writing things down. You don’t know what you want to find, but there’s an impossible itch that you can’t scratch on your own. Not even Dear Dexter can scratch it—but something pulls you toward Emmanuelle, like a shroud surrounding him that only you can see. 

Darkness lingers about her, but you can’t put your finger on why. So here you are, it’s been about an hour of her writing and signing, and occasionally leaving for the bathroom. Nothing very important, but—once most people in her building leave for the night, she gets that glint in her eyes. 

There’s anger brewing behind those eyes of hers, a small but hard frown graces her face. Her hands grip the Manila folder in her hand, as she flips through photos that you can’t make out. 

Five minutes pass and she leaves for the bathroom again, so you take this chance. You put your gloves on and open the window slowly, and slip inside the room, you open the folder to find photos of multiple different men, two you recognize—and then it hits you. 

Oh. 

Oh my. 

She was just like you, stalking and killing—though you don’t know her reasons for doing so. And from what you’ve found on your own about those murdered men, they were all family men, usually with large families, with a count of three children.

You flip to the next picture and it’s someone who, to your knowledge, hasn’t been killed yet. There’s no information on this particular man, only that he was tall and lanky, with curly hair, holding his wife in one arm, and presumably, his baby in the other. Two more kids were standing on either side of each parent, smiling wide.

Oh and Emmanuelle was a consultant! Helping the police with her crimes? Your first thought was of Dexter—did she know? You think back to the restaurant, Emmanuelle had won something Dexter had lost.

Ah. 

Lots of revelations on this fine evening it seems. Your working theory was that Dexter knew and tried to stop the first murder, but she failed to do so—and somehow—Dexter couldn’t tell her cop sister? Wait, was she threatening Dexter actively to keep her mouth shut? 

You scrunch your face in disgust, but you take photos of Emmanuelle’s little pictures for evidence. But why hadn’t Dexter reported her? Surely the police would trust and protect one of their own—especially her sister.

You flip to the very last page and—there is a pretty picture of Dexter Morgan, the last target for the list. Anger flares in your chest, you grit your teeth, why the hell would Emmanuelle Washington want to kill Dexter Morgan? You kind of don’t care, only that someone was trying to take something very near and dear to you. 

You hear footsteps coming down the hall, you have half a mind to just wait for Emmanuelle and confront her, but you decide that’s not a very good idea, you close the folder and slip back out of the window and shut it as quietly as you could. You duck under the window just as she walks in, you make your way to your car. 

You know what you need to do, and that rushing pressure rises throughout your body once again, needing release—at least now you know who to kill this time. As you sit in the silence of your car to think, something very curious happens. Dexter Morgan’s car passes through the parking lot, passing yours, you watch with wide eyes. 

What the actual fuck was happening right now? Are you going crazy? Did you somehow hit your head on the way out of the window? You watch as she only passes through the parking lot, slowing down at Emmanuelle’s car, and then she drives off. 

Interesting…

**

You unfortunately don’t get another opportunity to get close with Emmanuelle, you are woefully reminded that you actually do have a relatively well paying job with a demanding schedule, you haven’t even been able to take any photos of Dexter for god sake!  

You walk heavily up the stairs to your apartment, your neighbor has stopped asking about the dog, calling it: “A damn mutt.” As soon as you turn the key and cross the threshold of your apartment, you notice something's off. Really off, you can’t put your finger on it, something in the air has changed—yet, nothing in your apartment has physically been moved. 

That dark feeling in the back of your head clouds your mind. 

Someone’s been here. 

But how? You ask, but the cold unfeeling thing in your head doesn’t answer. No, no, you’re just tired from that last shift, they really worked you to the bone today. No one’s been here, at least…you don’t think so, nothing’s out of place, but still—that nagging feeling sits in your chest as you willfully ignore it. 

You head to your shower, letting the warmth envelope you, but that nagging is incessant, persistent and annoying. The logical, rational part of your brain is telling you that you’re exhausted, but that Other part of your brain is telling you that someone was here. 

You finish your shower with a frown, wrapping the towel around your body and finishing up your routine. The tiredness is clawing into you, but the paranoia is keeping you awake. You stare at the ceiling for ten minutes before letting the Other part of your brain win. Your landlord had security cameras, most of them were fake because of money–but a couple of them did work, the one down your hallway. 

You call your landlord to get permission to get a look-see, making up a story about some crazy ex-boyfriend. He happily obliged you, letting you look at his computer, leaving you to scrub through the past couple of hours. 

As you went through it, it was a whole bunch of nothing, just your neighbors going in and out of their apartments until—your entire body is flushed hot, blush creeping up into your face, you’re flattered by what you see. It’s Dexter Morgan, walking down the hallway in a tight green long sleeved shirt, her muscles beautifully defined as he walks. 

With black gloves she unlocks your door by lock picking it, and entering inside coolly, she’s in there for no less than ten minutes before she leaves. Your heart skips a beat, and you have to let a hitched breath pass between your teeth. You have to calm down before you literally explode, she found you, found where you lived. 

But why? Although the question barely crosses your mind, you still have to somewhat consider it. Dexter works for Miami Metro, you’re in danger you have to assume. But you can’t get over the fact she visited you. 

What did she touch? What did she see? What did she look like going through your apartment? You then wonder if she ever found your precious hearts beneath your plants, probably not, you didn’t see any disturbances with them. A small relief is spread throughout your body. 

You thank your landlord and speed walk to your apartment, and call Dexter excitedly, the line trills, and for a moment you think she isn’t going to pick up, your heart races as you sit in your chair. It trills and trills until he answers, and your breath hitches for a second time. 

But this time she doesn’t say anything, you both stay silent, like a game of chicken to see who’d speak first. Usually you never spoke on the phone of the people you followed, but Dexter was different, she followed you back, something that’s never happened before. 

You open your mouth to speak, your tongue suddenly thick in your mouth, you never realized the pressure needed to speak like this. 

Finally finding your voice you speak, “You found me.” You say endearingly, the smile in your voice evident. 

And for once, there’s heavy breathing on the other side, you imagine her breath to be hot and present on your neck. “How?” You ask breathlessly.

You can hear the shaky breath she lets out, “I found your fingerprint at David Marino’s crime scene.”

Ah, so I wasn’t as lucky as I thought. You feel your heart drop a little, but it picks back up. 

Elation fills your chest, “You didn’t turn me in.” 

“No.” A beat of silence stretched between you two before she asks: “Why did you kill him?”

You blink, you spoke before you thought, “I needed to.”

“Needed to?”

“Yes. It was an itch I needed to scratch, a need.”

Dexter's breath hitched when you said that, you wondered what that meant to her. 

“You stole his heart.” An accusation.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I think I want to ask a question.”

Silence, then, “Okay.”

“Why were you in my apartment?” 

“I needed to.”

There was a sarcastic lilt to her voice, and you guess she wasn’t going to reveal why. 

“Well that’s just not fair. I haven’t been to your place.” Annoyance bleeding through, you cross your leg over the other. 

You hear something akin to a scoff but you can’t be sure. You begin to speak again before Dexter interrupts you. 

“I have to go.”

And the line is dead. But you don’t really care how abruptly it ended, just the fact that she visited you all on her own was enough for you. 

**

It’s the weekend and you use your free time to follow Emmanuelle, she books a hotel room and uses the day for what seemed like—a spa day. A spa day? She’s a murderer and she’s taking a spa day?

But you can’t complain because you're lounging in the sun with sunglasses and some nice clothes, because why not enjoy stalking a woman you hate with every fiber of your being?

The Miami sun today is actually bearable, and if you ever get too hot you can always just take a dip in the pool. Right now, Emmanuelle is talking to some men at the bar, a wide flashing smile, with a wink to boot.

It disgusts you. This is what she’s doing in her spare time? You think as you take a sip of your margarita. It tastes good at the very least, and you have a great buzz going. 

You’ve been watching Emmanuelle for more than an hour and she’s finally managed to talk this man into her room, he’s laughing and holding onto her shoulder, and she has her hand on the small of his back. She’s clearly filled with glee as she passes your lounge chair.

You know she’s not going to kill the beautiful man in blue, she’s just here for pleasure, but still—you think it’s better to keep tabs on her whereabouts, even if it’s about Emmanuelle scoring a guy for the day.

She’s stumbling as she gets inside the hotel, you’re sure that when she does her thing, she’ll pass out and leave the beautiful man out to dry, which is unfortunate. 

You take another sip of your margarita, as you lazily watch people take laps in the pool, and of course your mind wanders to Dexter, you wonder if she’s also following you–or Emmanuelle apparently, with her car showing up to her work. Jealousy nags at you, and you finish off your drink. 

You lie in the sun for a while until you need to go to the bathroom, you get up, a bit woozy and lightheaded, the alcohol buzzing happily through you, your face is warm and you slowly make it to the nice bathrooms. You bump into several different women making your way to the urinal, relieving yourself. 

Washing your hands in the sink you see someone familiar in the reflection, Dexter Morgan, you whip your head around, eyes wide, and there she stands. She eyes you with contemplation, “What are you doing here?” She asks. 

You blink slowly, was the margarita that strong? “Why are you here?” You ask accusingly, though your words are a bit slurred. You move closer toward Dexter, she doesn’t seem real, you’re staring, you know, but she’s just so beautiful up close. Dexter scoffs and grabs your arm and drags you out of the bathrooms, though your hands are still wet.

Her hands are big and strong wrapped around your bicep, she pulls you to a relatively quiet corridor. She sets you against the wall, and you realize she’s wearing the same green long sleeve shirt, with those same gloves on, you gasp lightly at the realization. 

“Are you here for me?” You whisper loudly, you’ve never really been the best with your alcohol you have to admit. The confused face Dexter gives you is almost comical. 

“You’re drunk.” She says simply, you laugh slightly, “Just–just a little bit.” 

“Why are you here?” She asks again. Now you have to choose, do you want to tell Dexter that you were stalking Emmanuelle Washington because she was going to kill Dear Dexter? Or were you going to lie and say you were just relaxing on the weekend? Why was Dexter here anyway?

“I’ll tell you, if you tell me.” 

You can tell that Dexter absolutely does not have the patience to be dealing with you right now, but she’s still standing there with you for whatever reason. 

You sigh, “I was here for Emmanuelle.”

Dexter’s eyebrows raise in question, and then her eyes squint, her voice goes low, “Were you going to kill her?” She looked around suspiciously, making sure no one was around. 

You scoff and roll your eyes, “No, no—just keeping tabs on her.” 

“And getting drunk, lounging at the pool.” She sighs heavily, “Where even is she?” She runs a hand down her face.

“She’s in her hotel room with some guy, pretty sure she’s just, y’know.” You make a vague gesture with your hand, Dexter backs away from you, “Why were you here anyway? You’re wearing the same thing from the other day. Do you have a costume or something?” You laugh. 

Dexter doesn’t laugh with you, she just looks miffed about the whole thing, “I was-” She pauses, thinking, “I was also here for Emmanuelle.” You blink, does Dexter want to take out Emmanuelle herself? As far as you’ve seen, Dexter could fight but you didn’t know if she could kill. 

“Are you trying to kill her?” You say an octave too loud, as a family passes by, Dexter quickly turns back to you and clamps her gloved hand over your mouth, “Be quiet!” She hisses, your eyes go wide with shock. 

You both are breathing very heavily, and your chests are touching, and you're not ashamed to say you let out a slight breathy moan. Fuck she’s strong, you don’t think you could get her grip off of you if you tried. Your eyes hood and she lets you go, realizing how close she was, and that you both were in fact, in a public place. 

She scowls as she moves away from you, she takes her gloves off and shoves them into her back pocket. She makes a move to leave and you follow, “Why don’t we get some food?” You ask almost a little too eagerly, she gives you a side eye, and no answer. 

“I’ll just call you when you’re gone.” You say, and that makes Dexter stop, he turns to you fully once again, “If we get food will you leave me alone?” Her tone is hard and annoyed, her brows are furrowed and her chest is heaving. 

“Yep.” You say all too happily. 

Inside the hotel restaurant, you’re sipping on some soda as you watch Dexter read the menu, she must’ve been over it twenty times because the menu only has like ten items. But you’re more than okay with that, you’re content with just watching her. And as you do, she squirms ever so slightly under your gaze, and that sends shivers down your spine, excitement bubbling under your skin. 

You pat your chest as you burp into your fist, “So you were following Emmanuelle too. ” 

Dexter looks up at you from the menu, and sets it down, “Yeah.” And she doesn’t give you any more than that. 

“You didn’t answer earlier, were you going to kill her Ms. Blood Analyst?” You lean forward on the table. 

Dexter tilts her head at that, he looks like she’s debating something inside. Whether to say something or not, and for fucks sake you can feel the anticipation growing, but whatever she was debating in her head, she decides not to say anything and you’ve been hung out to dry. 

You take a sip of your soda, and you get a feeling from that Other part of your brain looking at Dexter. She is like you, you know that much well enough, but how alike are you two? You’ve murdered someone and you’re planning to do it again, but has Dexter killed? Or was she just someone who only followed people to gain enough evidence to turn people in?

“You’re thinking very loudly over there.” Dexter says dryly. 

You huff, “Well–you’re not talking to me, so might as well talk to myself.” A little petty, but that margarita was still buzzing through you, even if it’s not as strong as before. 

“Fine.” She says, you keep her gaze, “That's…a nice shirt you got there.” 

You blanch and the both of you sit there in a moment of silence, before you burst out laughing, the sheer awkwardness was hilarious. You try to stifle it but the giggles just overflow, and Dexter stares with wide eyes, before scoffing herself with a small smile. 

“You’re so awkward! Oh my god, I didn’t think you’d be so cute.” Your face hurts from smiling, and Dexter takes her own sip of water with a face of incredulity. 

“Cute?” She mutters, and you nod and your heart swells, this is exactly what you’ve dreamed of, going on a date with Dexter Morgan. But you’re sure she wouldn’t agree on that last bit. 

Your food finally comes at last, and it’s a large cheeseburger with a healthy portion of fries, your mouth waters at the sight. You quickly thank the waiter and take a huge bite, Dexter didn’t order anything, so she watches you as you eat. 

Halfway through your burger you ask, “How the hell do you have time to workout with your job and follow people? There can’t be enough time in the day.”

Dexter just sputters and shrugs, “I get my exercise in sometimes.” Super vague, but you’re quickly figuring out that that’s just how Dexter spoke, especially when she was holding something back. 

“You’re holding something back, just say what’s on your mind. You already know I killed someone, and have been stalking you for weeks. And I know that you stalk people too—mutual destruction, just talk.” You take another big bite of your burger and look at Dexter expectantly.

And she just sits there, thinking, “Why his heart?” She asks, and my, what a personal question, you never realized how close you held your little ritual to your chest, saying it out loud was intimate. Your face heats up, and you set down what little was left of your burger, “Have you ever held one in your hand before?”

“Can’t say I have.” Dexter answers. 

You almost gush as you speak, “Feeling that heart still pumps after it’s been removed is beautiful, still trying to keep the body alive. It’s warm and—” You stop speaking once you see the look on Dexter’s face, it’s not demeaning or disgusted, but something else that you’re not sure what. 

You nervously eat the rest of your burger, you chew longer than you have to because Dexter’s just staring at you, and now you’re the one squirming in your chair. 

“Are you going to kill Emmanuelle?”

“Yes.” You answer quickly.

“She’s done nothing to you. So why?”

Anger flares in your chest, yes, she absolutely did do something to you, she threatened Dexter, and is now upcoming in her little kill list. Dexter was yours, and you just couldn’t bear the thought of losing Dexter at this point. 

“I found a folder in her office with pictures of her victims.” You start, and Dexter leans in closer to you, “And her future victims, you were the last on her list.” You say with a finality. 

Dexter squints her eyes in thought, “You’re going to kill her–” She pauses, then she blinks in realization and her eyes snap to yours, though your gaze never left hers, “For me.” 

“Of course.”

Dexter pauses, and leans back in her chair, thinking, and you watch her face as it stays carefully blank, but her chest heaves. Silence stretches between the both of you until her phone starts to ring on the table, she takes a beat to even register the fact that her phone is ringing, as she’s just staring at you in disbelief. 

“You might want to get that.” You point to the phone. 

She blinks rapidly and stares at the phone dumbfoundedly before picking it up and answering. She grimaces at what the other person on the phone says, she lets out a sigh and says, “I have to go.” She seems almost disappointed at that.

She looks at you expectantly, “Go, go, I won’t kill Emmanuelle—at least not today.” You wink at her.

Dexter scoffs and quickly walks off toward the exit. And you watch her back as she leaves, but this time, strangely, she looks back at you just before she turns out of the restaurant completely. 

You’d say that date went relatively well. 

**

Emmanuelle Washington needs to die soon. 

Or else you’d probably kill some poor bastard on the street. And on top of that the new work week was absolutely killing you, since you killed David, it’s been all hands on deck. You’ve never been more exhausted and keyed up at the same time, you can barely find time in your day to follow Emmanuelle or Dexter. 

You could feel the pressure rising behind your eyes once again, the twitch in your hands becoming ever present. A problem that’s affecting you at work, even Tony and Josh have taken notice. 

You think about all these things as you’re parked outside of Emmanuelle’s work once again. You’re not thinking very straight, the tiredness is really getting to you, your thought process may be a bit skewed, and that Other in your head is deliberately quiet. Though you’re not sure how to take that. 

You wait until most of all the employees are gone, and slink inside of Emmanuelle’s office. You wore gloves and some nondescript black clothes. Footsteps sound down the hall, the loud click of her heel echoing, adrenaline hits you and wakes you up a little more, you don’t even have a plan. 

Just that you need to kill her, though all you have is a switchblade in your back pocket. As soon as Emmanuelle enters the office you pounce on her. She shouts as you both tumble to the ground, elbows to faces, knees to stomachs, you both become a mess of limbs. But in the end, you’re on top straddling her, and she has one of her hands against your face pushing harshly against you. 

Her fingers are across your lips, forcing one of your eyes shut, you both struggle against each other. And finally, finally, your Other is practically singing inside your mind, this is what it wanted—what you wanted. The both of you sag in tiredness after another minute of struggling, and now the only sound in the air was your heaving breaths in sync with one another. 

Her neck is thick around your hand as you clench down on her airway, her hand falls from your face, and you pin both above her head. You gasp for air bent over her, you’re sitting heavily on her hips.

“You! What are you doing?” She asks, her voice strained and laced with panic. Her eyes are bulging wide, and her teeth are clenched together, with her hair a mess and plum lipstick smeared across her face.

“What does it look like?” You breathe out, you release your death grip on her neck allowing her to suck in some air, but you keep the hand around her wrists bruisingly tight. You stare into her eyes, and she stares back, when she blinks like she just solved an equation, her panicked state dissipates into a calm, hooded eye look, a smirk ghosting on her lips. 

She readjusts herself under you, “You’re here to kill me.” She says, now the smirk in full effect, “Yes.” You say, barely audible, blood rushing in your ears, only because of your grip on her wrists, you can feel the pulse of her racing heart, which completely betrays her calm demeanor. 

Fuck. You think, the heat and feel of her heartbeat is intoxicating. But you can’t forget why you’re here, Emmanuelle threatened Dexter, had her in her damn kill folder!

“You don’t want to do that, friend.” She says. Your hand goes back around her neck, not quite squeezing hard enough to choke her out, but enough as a warning. 

“Why’s that?” You ask. 

She scoffs haughtily, “I’m a former detective, I’m consulting for Miami Metro. I’m too important.” True arrogance radiates from Emmanuelle, but she’s right unfortunately—fuck you weren’t thinking clearly, your possessiveness over Dexter clouded your judgement. 

But you’re already here.

The Other supplies, that’s right, you already attacked this chick, who’s to say she wouldn’t turn you in if you let her go?

“Who gives a fuck? I saw your little kill folder. You killed those two men I found, right?” 

Emmanuelle chuckles, her voice deep and velvety, you can feel her throat against your hand moving up and down. “And? C’mon friend, what is it you want? Justice? Money? Revenge? What do you want?” She asks simply, and you don’t even notice that you’ve leaned in closer to her face, utterly magnetised by her. She stares you down as if you were the bull and she was the matador. 

It’s suddenly very hot in the room, apparently, for the both of you, sweat beads on Emmanuelle’s temple, and sweat falls down your neck behind the collar of your shirt. “You threatened Dexter Morgan. Why?” You ask.

A flash of anger crosses over her features for just a moment before she composes herself, “She threatened me first. I don’t simply back down from a fight.” She turns her nose up literally, exposing more of her neck, and you wonder. 

If you slit her throat now, you’d be able to watch as she bled out on the floor, the blood spurting at the beat of her heart, a beautiful fountain of red, pumping out blood until it couldn’t anymore. Fuck. 

You blink rapidly to clear your mind, back to the task at hand. What in possible hell could Dexter have threatened Emmanuelle with that would make her a target on her list? You’re sure Dexter didn’t have the status in the police department to prove anything really and have someone back her up. But you’re not even certain on how police politics even work. 

“What? How?” Why are you even asking questions at this point? 

Just kill her! The Other becomes impatient. 

Emmanuelle readjusts herself under you again, “She tried to get me arrested for tampering with a crime scene, and hiding evidence, that bastard.”

So Dexter lost that kind of battle, trying to put her in jail. “So she knows you’ve killed those two men.” 

Emmanuelle merely hums, “And what about you huh? What’s a woman like you concerning yourself with someone like Dexter?” She says lowly, her voice raspy, the heat of her breath hitting your cheek. Your hand clenches impossibly harder around her wrists, the pulse of the heartbeat making you dizzy. 

“That’s none of your business.” You remove your hand off of her neck and move for the switchblade in your back pocket, opening it and pointing the tip of the blade to her throat. She gulps, her face was flushed now, red spreading across her face. 

“Is Dexter yours to have?” You snap to attention, your eyes blown wide, “I recognize the look in your eye my friend.” She smiles widely, the whites of her teeth blinding. 

“Shut up.” You hiss, the knife going in deeper, blood shining out and pooling at the tip of your knife. Emmanuelle adjusts herself once more, and you realize—with startling clarity, and a side of incomprehensible horror. She slid her knee in between your thighs, and she had been grinding her knee against you.

“You know,” She starts, practically groaning as she says, “Dexter saved me from a crime scene after her little stunt.” She rolls her hips, the heat and pressure all too consuming, “I thought she had a change of heart. But, I then find out—she’s been saving me for later.” That stops the heat pooling down below, you stop and blink. 

“Oh?” She laughs, “She’s saved you too? She’s killed before you know, we’re both next.” Her laugh is haunting, and your heart almost stops, but you can’t take Emmanuelle’s word for it, right? You have a goddamned knife to her neck! She could be lying out of her ass to save her own. 

You lean in, what looks like you’re about to kiss her, but you go past her face and next to her ear, but you don’t get to say what you want before you’re being roughly pulled off of Emmanuelle. In a flash you’re thrown into a wall, the impact startling, and suddenly Dexter Morgan is standing next to you, in a ridiculous Hawaiian shirt and some cargo pants, not the costume she uses for stalking. 

She’s staring down at Emmanuelle, and then she whips around to look at you, her eyes are blown wide and her chest is rising and falling quickly. She grabs you by the arm and hauls you out of the building, with no answers for your questions. She’s silent and fuming, her grip on your arm like a vice. 

She drags you to her car, leaning you against it, and staring at you with furrowed brows. “What the fuck!” You shout, “Why’d you stop me?” 

She crosses her arms and looks away, “When the hell did you even get here?” You ask again, the anger lacing your voice, the Other mostly holding all the anger, because it couldn’t release this damned pressure. Bewilderment and anger is the only thing you feel, your heart going a million miles a second, you pace around and the twitch in your hand is furiously ticking. 

“You can’t kill her. Not yet.” She says imploringly, though the flatness of her voice is not very convincing. 

You stick your finger into her chest, “I was going to kill her for you!” 

“I know that! I just–I thought–” She stutters, very out of character for her, and that reaction is enough for the anger to mellow into a sad sputtering ember, the only thing left is the twitch in your hand and the horrific confusion caused by this woman. 

“What?” Exasperated, you fall against her car, and glare at her. 

Her face goes through many different emotions before she can even open her mouth, “I thought–you were going to–You know what it doesn’t matter. You just can’t kill her now.” Her tone is hard and set, her jaw clenching. Your eyebrows raise in question, and your mouth drops open just a bit. 

“How long were you watching me?” 

Dexter stills, she’s been caught, “When you pulled the knife out.” Fuck, she probably saw what Immanel was doing. Could he hear what you two were talking about? 

You run a hand down your face. You need answers, you need sleep, you need release. You’d care tomorrow, but either you’d have to endure another day of this fucked up celibacy, or kill someone tonight. 

Your head is filled with static, “I need to go.” You say clipped. Dexter grabs your shoulder to stop you from leaving, your hand twitches. “Let go, I need—”

“What?” She interrupts, she moves her head to catch your gaze.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, “I need something, I need to scratch this goddamned itch!” You grate your teeth, you felt like you were going to explode. 

You hear Dexter mutter something under her breath, something about a need or something like that, you’re too in your head to pay attention. You think back to the knife that was right there, against Emmanuelle’s neck, fuck, you should’ve just pushed in—

Dexter brings you back into the real world, “Hey,” She shakes you gently, “I might have something for you.” 

She digs in her pocket for her phone and shows you a picture of a man, “Who’s this?” You ask. 

“I–heard about him at work, he got away with a murder just a few days ago. I can bring you to him.” 

An olive branch being brought down to you by Dexter Morgan, fuck. Your vagina twitches a little bit, “Fine.” You relent, she gives a look up and down, lingering on your crotch before looking away. “Just follow me on the road.” She gets into her car, and it revs awake, you reluctantly get into yours. 

What the fuck just happened? What? Dexter’s leading you to a kill..? 

What?

You follow the ever familiar car down the road for about twenty to thirty minutes before she leads you down a dirt path, into what looks like, nowhere. Too much happened too quickly, suddenly Dexter’s a killer too, and you’re on her list, but you can’t trust the words of Emmanuelle—could you? Though you could still feel that Dexter was holding something back from you. 

You park your car next to hers, and you stand shoulder to shoulder staring at what looked to be more a broken down shed, than a house. 

“He’s inside.” Dexter says simply, and leads the charge, walking up to the house, opening the door no problem, the lights are off and it's quiet. Save for both your breathing, and quiet footsteps. 

She’s going to see. 

The voice that’s usually at the back of your mind is suddenly at the forefront. Ah, that’s right, she’s quite literally next to you. You wonder vaguely if she’s going to watch you, that sets your heart going again. What an intimate setting, but your pressure, your hunger, your need, overrides any thought of that, something deep inside of you just needing the blood, no longer caring about what little ritual you have. 

Dexter finds him in his room, and steps aside to let you have the floor, as you pass her she gives you a nod. What sort of fucked up situation was this? You’re being given permission to kill some guy. 

It’s like your body moves on its own, you grab the man, he’s stocky and big, but you drag him to the living room anyway, the pressure rises impossibly. You straddle the man, he’s whimpering and begging you not to, but you can’t find it in you to care. Dexter watches from the corner of the room, her face obscured by shadow, the moonlight from the window being the only light on her face.

You pull out your switchblade, and finally, fucking finally! A smile spreads across your face despite how indifferent you feel right now, you place your hand on his chest, his heart beating so hard you think it might burst, you do the chest compressions, the man howls in pain. 

Then, finally, you raise the switchblade and bring it down, the man chokes. The switch isn’t long enough to even reach his heart, it shouldn’t even be able to get as far as it did in the first place, that’s just the amount of force you put behind it. You tear down his flesh and blood spurts from his chest pitifully. 

The pressure is up and up, the twitch in your hand unbearable. The itch about to be scratched, your Other about to be pleased for once, Dexter watching you in the corner with fascination, an amalgamation of exhilaration and triumph wash over you. You dig through the man's chest, and you pluck his heart out, severing the things that connect it to the man. 

And there it is, a sigh of relief, cradling the heart in your hand gives you a comfort that was greatly needed, the pressure released, the itch scratched. You cradle the heart close to your chest, dripping blood all over your front, but you don’t care. 

Dexter somehow materializes in front of you, her footsteps unheard, and she crouches near you. Since the pressure has been released, the twitch gone from your hand, you have the nerve to blush as you hold the muscle in your hands—the thing still beating. You look away, bashful, she just saw your ritual, to you, more intimate than anything.

But if it’s Dexter, you decide, you don’t mind. Even if you were yelling at her like thirty minutes ago. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, it was shuddering and long awaited, you stood, and walked over to the sink and cleaned the heart. 

The house was silent, but you could tell Dexter’s mind was loud, her mind going a mile a minute, but the nights been long, and you want to collapse into bed. You clutch the heart close to your chest and open the door standing on the porch, a light breeze hitting your face. And it hits you as you stand there, Emmanuelle was right. 

Sure, Dexter’s a blood analyst, but—no one, and you mean no one, would be that calm watching someone kill another person like that. But how many has Dexter killed? A couple? A dozen? Your mind is sluggish, this realization will hit you harder in the morning when you’ve actually slept. 

Dexter joins you on the porch, “Thanks…” You say, your voice being taken by the wind. She hums, “Yeah.” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, we need to talk.” You say plainly, you give her one last look, and you can just feel the unsaid words she wants to so desperately say, but you don’t wait around for that. You can feel your eyelids becoming heavy and droopy, you’re not sure you’re gonna make it home safely. 

Your car door closes heavily as you start the car, the drive home is quiet, and long. The heart in your ice chest. You lift your heavy feet up the stairs of the complex, the ice chest in your other hand as you unlock your door, you drop the chest near your door. You spot your bed and you only get your shirt and shoes off before you hit the bed and sleep clutches you in her arms. 

**

When you first wake up, you don’t have the strength to move a single limb in your body, the manual labor of the warehouse took its physical toll on you. The mental labor not being able to kill someone made you more tired than ever, but at least you feel somewhat rested. 

And once you find the strength to move, you check your phone and see that it’s noon, you just want to flop back on your bed and sleep a little more, but you’re an adult damnit. 

You dial Tony’s number, and say that you need a sick day and that you caught some flu-type thing. Tony of course is irrationally angry, but understanding, he threatens to come to your house and pull you out of bed himself. 

Now you get that under control, you fall into your routine, taking a shower, brushing your teeth, and getting dressed. You have some sweats on and are about to choose a shirt, there’s a knock at your door. 

Looking through the peephole, it’s Dexter, looking sheepish as ever with a bag of some kind. And then last night hits you with full force, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.

What the fuck was that with Emmanuelle?! You want to bang your head against the wall. Dexter saw you two—doing whatever the hell you were doing! It felt like cheating—was that crazy to say? Yes, it absolutely is.

Then Dexter interrupted and basically led you to a kill, what the fuck? Why was it so hot when Dexter just watched you kill that random guy? Like some kind of voyeur—

Another knock snaps you out of your thoughts, and you open the door, Dexter holds up the bag, “I brought donuts.” She shrugs and tries for a smile. 

You can’t help but scoff, you let her inside, gesturing to your small dining table. “What the fuck was that?” You asked exasperated.

Now it’s Dexter's turn to scoff, “We should just start slow, starting with Emmanuelle.” She opens the bag of donuts and hands you a glazed one, you take it as you sit down across from her. 

“Like what the hell you were thinking going there without a plan.” She holds a stern tone, looking at you with hard eyes, a shudder goes down your spine.

You take a bite of your donut, “I needed to. You know that.” 

“Without a plan?”

You stop chewing and ask with your mouth full, “How’d you know that?”

Her eyebrow quirks up, “It was obvious, you were sloppy. There was no finesse, or thought put into it, you just went in there and attacked him.” 

“Well I wasn’t exactly thinking straight. And you don’t have any room to talk.” You eat the last of the donut, 

“Yeah?” She challenges, there’s a certain edge to her voice. 

“Yeah. Look how you reacted last night. Threw me off of her like a sack of potatoes. Not to mention how you looked at her!”

“It looked—it looked like you were doing something else with her.” Dexter admits, and it feels like the air has been sucked out of the room. 

Your eyes widen, it’s almost like you’ve been caught, because when Emmanuelle had done that it probably didn’t look great. You flush, “It wasn’t, it was just—a lot of adrenaline.” Even if you mean it, you don’t know what you would’ve done if Dexter didn't intervene. 

“Is that why you stopped me?” 

Dexter stills, and looks everywhere but you, and your face heats even more, and a smile creeps up on your face and your heart is so full suddenly. You lean forward on the table, catching her eye, “You got jealous.” 

She stays silent but her face betrays her, her face flushes lightly, and she avoids eye contact with you, you catch her wrist, turning it over quickly to feel the pulse, you sigh contently, though she tries to pull away–your grip is too strong. And you can see in her eyes that she’s realizing many, many, things, but which things? You’re not exactly sure. 

“When’d you get jealous? When you saw me on top of her?” 

You let go of her hand, and round the table, as you approach her as she stands, you put your hand on her chest forcing her back down on the seat, her eyes squint as she stares at you, “Well?” You ask.

And Dexter's breath hitches, “Yes.” She whispers, a shiver goes down your spine as you smile. Her eyes hood as her chest begins to rise and fall heavily.

You blush harshly, and you cup Dexter's face, bringing hers close to yours, breath on breath, it’s suddenly very hot. You motion forward, and Dexter leans in, and your lips meet, Dexter’s lips are soft and pliant, and it feels like a breath of fresh air. 

Dexter leans in hungrily and he opens her mouth, allowing your tongue inside, she moans as you do. When you two part, the only sounds were your heavy breaths.

Dexter then blinks rapidly, realization crossing her face, you raise your brow, “You ever been with a woman before?” And from the way her eyes go wide, she hasn’t. 

You back away from her, but she follows, “Do you want this?” You ask her, if she wasn’t ready you weren’t going to force this on her, that’d be unfair. But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t disappointed.

Her face contorts into a range of emotions, her mouth falls open and closed, trying and failing to say anything. “I–” She starts, before a shrill phone call breaks through the both of you, she holds her phone in her hand debating whether or not to pick it up, but ultimately, she does. 

As she puts the phone to her ear, and then finally– “...Yeah, I’ll be there.” She says with no real commitment. The phone already in her pocket as she walks toward you, but you back away, Dexter frowns. 

“I’ll see you around, Dexter.” A hint of disappointment laces your words, you think this is the last time you’ll ever interact with her. But she kissed you back! You think to yourself, no, no, no time for convincing now. At least you got a kiss out of it, maybe you could still take photos of her after this. 

You open your door, and she reluctantly walks through, turning around but not saying anything. And if anything, you dare to assume that her expression has a hint of longing, and she walks off. You watch her back as she walks down the stairs. 

Fuck.