DISCLAIMER: The Dexter characters are
the property of Showtime. The story contents are the creation and property of
Djinn and are copyright (c) 2013 by Djinn. This story is Rated PG-13.
The Monsters are Still
Here
by
Djinn
Buenos
Aires is all Hannah imagined. Bustling and beautiful and expensive as hell, so
she's glad she has the money she lifted from Miles. No one looks twice at her
and Harrison. They can pass for German-Argentinian, at least until they open
their mouths, although she's slowly getting better at Spanish.
Harrison
is sucking it up like a sponge. When they first got here, she had a long talk
with him over what not to say, and he seems to have stuck with the approved
story. She told him it would protect his father till Dexter can be with them
again.
It
was cruel and someday she'll have to apologize for it, but for now, it will
keep him safe, and that's what Dexter wanted. That's why he gave her his son.
She
was going to move to a farm, but Buenos Aires has captivated her. She's opened
a flower shop in one of the trendy districts. She specializes in orchids. She
calls the shop Amor Dulce y Triste,
because that's what love feels like now: sweet when she's holding Harrison and
sad when she thinks of Dex.
She
gets hit on all the time. She says no every time. She wants to get settled in
her business and be a good mom to Harrison. She wants to do honor to the two
people who died as she fled. Dexter who she loved.
And
Deb, who she might have learned to love.
She
cried over both of them. At night, when Harrison was asleep. He mustn't know
yet that his father and his aunt are gone. He deserves to be happy. To live
free from the pain Dexter knew. That Hannah knew, too, as a child. All she
wants is to love and protect him.
She'll
die for him. More likely, she'll kill for him. Neither thought bothers her.
It's
probably why Dexter didn't think twice about giving Harrison to her. He knew
she'd do whatever had to be done.
##
Astoria
is gray much of the time. The life of a logger is predictable, which soothes Dexter
in some ways. He reports for work before it's light, gets in the truck, and drives
out to the site, high up in the hills where they're clear-cutting. The trees
get loaded up and he stays in the cab usually, pretending to doze. Then he
drives the trees to the mill and drops them off. He does this
two or three times a day depending on the weather.
The
other guys don't like him. That's fine. He never wants to look at a group of
coworkers and realize they've become friends. That he...loves them. That he'll
miss them. That he feels pain because of them.
He's
turned off his feelings. Or maybe he hasn't. Maybe his dark passenger took them
with him when he left, when he sat with Deb on her hospital bed and ended her
life. Or earlier, when he killed Saxon in the open, on camera, not caring if it
ended up being the thing that undid him.
But
it wasn't. Batista didn't understand completely what he was seeing, but Quinn
did. Dexter thought he might have come to like Quinn—if things had been
different, if Deb had survived—when he saw the way Quinn was looking at him
after watching the tape of him stabbing Saxon in the neck. He'd looked at him
with respect, wolf to wolf. Or maybe coyote to wolf—Quinn did have a tendency
to think small. But at any rate, they were two men who both wanted to kill
Saxon.
For
Deb. Who's gone now. Like Rita. Like Harry. Like Vogel. Like Zach. Like all the
people who've died because of Dexter.
No
one dies now. His dark passenger has gone silent,
drowned perhaps when he set Deb into the water and watched her sink. The
blackness swallowing all his foolish hopes and dreams as surely as it swallowed
up his sister.
Now?
He feels nothing. He wants nothing. He expects nothing.
And
nothing is what he gets.
##
Jamie
sits in Atlanta, drinking coffee in the clinic break room. She had to leave
Miami after Dex died, after Deb died, after Harrison
disappeared.
What
was Dexter doing in his boat during a hurricane? And why would he take Harrison
with him?
She
misses Harrison. She's been the closest thing to a mom the boy has had for
several years now. She's lost him. She's lost Joey. She's lost Dex and Deb.
She
still has Angel, though. Only the life has gone out of him. First Maria, now
this. He's questioning whether he wants to stay on the force again.
She
doesn't blame him. She wishes he'd come up to Atlanta. There are hardly any
good Cuban restaurants. He could make a killing.
And
she misses him. Her big brother. It's in her nature to take care of people and
now she has only these temporary charges. She probably should pay more
attention to the men who look at her, find a nice one, settle down, have kids
of her own.
But
that feels wrong. Too soon.
She's
lost everything. She's lost nothing at the same time. They weren't her family,
her blood.
Blood
isn't everything, though.
The
clock on the wall clicks down to her next appointment. She finishes her coffee
and gets up, leaving thoughts of Miami for her next break.
##
Quinn
stares at his desk, wondering who will get off today after doing something
horrible. Someone that Dexter might have tracked down.
It
shocked him, for a moment, as he watched the video of Saxon's death, watched it
with Dexter and Angel. The calm brutality as Dexter put down Deb's killer. He
watched it again later, over and over, fixating on the way Dexter stared down
at Saxon's body, then reached over to casually punch the call button.
Most
people would have punched it in panic, over and over. They would have backed
away sooner.
LaGuerta had been convinced that Dexter was the
Bay Harbor Butcher. Doakes had been, too, from what Quinn understands. And
Quinn thinks they were right.
But
the Bay Harbor Butcher offed assholes, criminals, killers. People the system
failed to lock up.
Was
that so bad?
Was
Dexter so bad? He loved Deb. He loved his son. Quinn saw that. He was great to
Jamie. He was even good to Quinn, cleaning up for him that one time, saving his
ass. All when Quinn had been hot on his case. But Dexter had done it for Deb's
sake.
What
wouldn't Dexter do for Deb?
Still,
Quinn wishes he'd been the one to kill Saxon. He still does. He wanted to be
the one to make things right.
He's
been thinking about that: making things right. How he would do it, if he were
going to take out bad guys the way he thinks Dexter did.
He's
not a blood spatter guy, though. He's not one of the geeks who knows how much
you can leave behind without meaning to. He's not even that great a cop. Although
sometimes in Miami Metro, that doesn't matter. Deb was a great cop. Look where
that got her.
So
even though he thinks about trying to be like Dex, he
doesn't do it. But he's shot a bit more freely lately. He's been rougher—Angel
even had to caution him the other day.
Like
it matters? If he gets suspended, or even terminated.
What
the hell does any of it matter now that Deb is gone?
##
Hannah
is sitting in the flower ship and Harrison is drawing. It's a picture of the Slice of Life. She can tell Dexter is
driving it and Harrison is sitting on the floor, a life jacket on. He's drawn a
blonde woman on the back bench seat, but Hannah's not
sure if it's her or his mother.
Then
he pushes that drawing aside and starts a new one. This time the Slice of Life sits at anchor and he is
drawing another boat, a smaller one. Dexter and he are in it, fishing.
"What
is that, Harrison?"
"Life
raft. We tested it and afterwards, I wanted to fish."
She
touches the life raft. "Did you catch anything?"
"No."
He keeps drawing.
Dexter.
Life raft. Only wreckage of the Slice of
Life itself was found after the hurricane. Nothing else. No Dexter. Well, Deb's
body eventually washed up in Fort Lauderdale. Hannah figures Dex went to the hospital, turned off her life support, and
took her to sea to bury her.
She's
pieced this together from what she can find on the net, from what a very
discreet private investigator could find out, and from what she knows of
Dexter.
He
was at the end of his rope. She should have made him come with her. Nothing he
could do would have saved Deb. Killing Saxon wouldn't make her safe, not from
the clot that ended her.
Dex had turned off, though. Hannah sees that
now. He tended to wallow, to blame himself. It was one crucial way they were
different. She knows that not everything wrong with her life is her fault. Although
plenty is—she doesn't lie to herself.
Dexter
never seemed to get there. He would want to punish himself. He'd delivered the
killing stroke too many times to think that suicide was a fit punishment. Death
brought peace: to him—and to the victim. The horror was over for them. Dying in
a hurricane was poetic, but would it really be punishment?
What
if...?
She
touches the picture again. She wants to talk to her private detective. Have him
start looking. Dex could be anywhere, but if she
knows him, and she thinks she does, he'll live on the fringes, now, not in the
middle of society. He'll deny himself that comfort. It'll be expensive to look
for him, but she can afford it. "Can I have this picture, Harrison? When
you finish?"
"Sure."
She
kisses his forehead. "I love you."
"I
love you too, Hannah."
##
The
Oregon days wear on. One into the next into the next. Gray, cold days with an
icy damp that Dexter's Miami-thin blood can't stand. Nice days, when the spring
comes, then the warmer summer. Here on the coast, it's never too hot. But
tourists come, filling the beaches, making traffic slow.
Fortunately he doesn't drive the main roads for long.
He's on the logging roads more often than not. And when he's on the main roads,
he's not in an SUV anymore. He's in a huge truck with logs that'll crush most
cars if it tips. People show him some respect.
The
summer is over now. The seasonal places are closing up. He parks his rig and
walks home to the boarding house, to his shithole room that he refuses to
decorate because that would mean caring.
He's
lived here long enough the landlady asked him if he wanted to borrow some
things from her to dress the place up. He said no.
She
flirts with him occasionally, but not very hard. Something about him probably
screams "Stay away" loud and clear.
It's
ironic. Now that he's not a serial killer, people probably think he could be.
He
gets closer to the house and sees someone sitting on the stairs. He can't tell
who it is; they are wrapped up in a jacket, a baseball cap on their head.
The
person stands and the face comes into focus as he gets closer. She takes the
cap off. Long blonde hair cascades down.
Hannah.
"I
think you've done your time, Dexter. Your son needs you. I need you."
"You
found me."
"I
always will." She walks toward him. "I know why you came here. But it's
time to let everything go and come home with me."
"I
don't exist."
She
pulls a blue passport out of her pocket. "I'm good with that kind of
problem."
He
takes the few steps to close the gap between them, looks at the passport. "Dexter
Morgan." He smiles and it may be the first smile he's made since he's been
here. "Using a dead man's ID?"
She
smiles, too. "It seemed appropriate. And you're a dead ringer. Go figure."
He
tries to hand the passport back. "Everyone I love dies because of me,
Hannah."
"No,
Dex, people die because it's their time to die. Or
they die because they don't like what they've done—like Harry, turning you into
a killer and not being able to live with that. Or they die because you made a
stupid decision. Like Deb."
He
closes his eyes. But he likes this. That she's not sugarcoating things. That
she'll let him bleed a little as she peels the ice off him.
"It's
not who you are that gets people killed. It's what you do. It's how you do it."
She takes his hand. "Have you killed since you've been here?"
He
shakes his head.
"Good.
I think you'll like Argentina. And Harrison is ready for you to come home. We're
happy, but he'd be happier with his father there, too." She touches his
cheek. "And so would I."
"I
don't know if I can love you anymore."
She
wipes his face— is he crying? "You left me to keep me safe. I'd say you've
proven you do. Now, is there anything in your rooms you need? I think the
lumberjack clothes are not going to fly in B.A."
He
smiles. "There's nothing I need here."
"Is
there something you need in Argentina? Two somethings, maybe?" She looks
as if she is trying not to cry, and he feels something, something good and
strong. The feeling of his heart beating again, maybe?
He
nods.
"Let's
go home, Dex."
He
turns his back on the rooming house. He turns his back on logs, on men who
swear the same as anywhere else, on gray misty days and nights with absolutely
nothing to do but wait for sleep to come.
And
as he does it, he feels her hand tighten on his, and he hears a light laugh
that is not Hannah's. He looks around, but there is no one else there.
"You
were meant to be happy, so you need to go fucking be happy." Deb's words. Deb's
voice. He hasn't let himself think of her, of her smile, of the way she gave
him his freedom.
I love you, Deb.
"Dex?"
He
can't see. He stops walking.
"It's
okay."
"Deb."
He dashes the tears from his eyes.
"I
know, honey. I know." She kisses him and whispers, "I liked her at
the end. I'm sorry I tried to kill her."
"I
think she knew that." He takes her hand, lets her lead him to her rental
car. "Who are you now?"
She
smiled. "Hannah Morgan. Name only." She leans in and kisses him
tenderly. "For now."
"I
want to see Harrison."
"Good.
That's good." She strokes his cheek. "That's very, very good."
##
Quinn
sits in a bar, nursing a beer. His cell phone rings and he sees it's Jamie,
answers it and says, "Hey."
"Hey.
How are you?"
"I'm
here. How's Atlanta?"
"It's
different. Okay, I guess." She sighs. "How is Angel doing? He sounds sadder
each time I talk to him."
"Yeah.
He's lost so much. We all have."
"I
know." There is a weird silence. Then she says, "I've met someone,
Joey. I guess...I guess I want to hear from you that we're done. So I can move on and not worry that I should be there for
you."
"We're
done, Jamie. If you've found someone good, grab on with both hands." He
smiles and tries to sound like a big-brother cop as he asks, "Do you want
me to check him out for you?"
"No.
Jonah's total white bread Americana. He's from Nebraska of all places. He's
alone, no family left. I think he likes the idea of my big family, but I told
him he might want to rethink that once Angel faces him down. He said he's used
to that: his dad was a piece of work. I...I really
like him."
"Good,
that's good, Jamie. If you ever need anything, you know where to find me."
"I
do. Take care of yourself, Joey."
Quinn
hangs up the phone and goes back to his beer. As he drinks it, a short, slim blonde
woman slips onto a stool a few down from him. He nods and lifts his beer to
her.
She
smiles, then turns away and orders a coke.
"It's
on me," Quinn tells the bartender. "Add it to my tab."
She
smiles again. "Sure you can afford it?"
He
laughs and nods. Then he realizes she looks familiar. "Have we met?"
"I
don't think so. I came down to see someone, but I found out he died in the
hurricane."
"Lot
of that going around." He takes a long pull of his beer. "I lost
someone I loved."
"Me,
too." She lifts her glass, and even though she doesn't look like she's
going to cry, she somehow resonates a sorrow that is soothing to Quinn. "To
departed loves."
"To
departed loves." He clinks his glass against hers. "We're toasting. I
should know your name, shouldn't I? I'm Joey."
"Hi,
Joey. I'm Lumen."
FIN