DISCLAIMER: The Dexter characters are
the property of Showtime. The story contents are the creation and property of
Djinn and are copyright (c) 2012 by Djinn. This story is Rated R.
Therapy
by
Djinn
I
know from the moment I meet her.
Well
actually, I knew from the moment her two bosses came to me separately to fill
me in.
"Be
careful with Morgan, Doctor Ross. She's...fragile." Captain Laguerta, her eyes dripping with emotion that I think she
actually thought was compassion. "I have plans for her, but I just need
time."
"Be
careful with Debra, Michelle. She's...special." Deputy Chief Matthews, his
eyes gleaming with what was clearly anticipation. "I have plans for her. She's
going places."
How
can I resist playing with a toy two such powerful people want me to be careful
with?
I
know, I know, I should resist. I'm a licensed and trusted professional. I am
looked up to, relied upon to put Miami Metro's finest back on the street after
a shooting, but not until they're mentally and emotionally ready.
And
I do that. And I will do that for Debra, too. I'd never, ever put the public
good at risk.
But
I like to have my fun. And Lieutenant Debra Morgan is already a pawn. Or maybe
more a sacrificial lamb. Given the case she is investigating, that seems more
apt.
Waiting
for her in her office now, I can tell immediately what I am dealing with. Other
than a slob, of course. I'm dealing with someone who has been in the lieutenant's
office for long enough to unpack, to make it her own, and hasn't.
Massive
insecurity. A sure sense of not belonging in this job. Suddenly both Laguerta's and Matthew's comments make sense.
When
she comes in, she's a walking mass of defense mechanisms covering a flashing
neon "Help Me!" sign. She's so easy to get to—hell, I don't have to
work at all. She gives me everything I need. Tells me herself she is "fucked
up."
Who
does that if they've been dodging the shrink for weeks?
Debra
Morgan, that's who.
This
is going to be fun.
She
makes it so easy to help her. After a
litany of gripes, she says, "Did I mention I just broke up with my boyfriend,
and I don't have a place to live anymore? So, at the end of a day, I can't even
go home. I'm living with my brother and his son—and don't get me wrong, I love
them; it's just there's a reason I'm an aunt, and not a parent—and I just feel
like I don't have a space to call my own right now."
"So
maybe you should get some place that's your own." Duh, right?
And
that's the look on her face—"Duh." I know right then I have her.
##
"For
the first time I feel lost in a place that's always felt like home."
That's
what gives me the idea. Well, to be honest, first it makes me feel sorry for
her. I mean, who wants a police station to be home? But after that, I start wondering
if this woman really has no other life than this? That's when I want to start digging. Of course I can't. Not within the scope of certifying her
after a shooting.
But
I'm very good at making myself indispensable. I have a private practice, after
all. She could seek me out—if she wanted to.
"For
a shrink, you're not that annoying," she says, after I help her figure out
a few basic life skills she should probably already know.
"Thanks."
Dipshit.
I
hand her my card. "Not that you'd ever need a shrink, but you might need a
bookmark." Although the idea of Debra Morgan actually reading a book hurts
my head.
##
Debra
is here. In my outside office, of her own free will. Well, and pushed by the
death of Lisa Marshall no doubt, although she says she just needed a break. It
takes very little to get her going.
"I
mean I show up, right, to question her about her brother, and twenty-four hours
later"—the woman was set up like the Whore of Babylon; I saw the reports
on the news—"I can't help but feel responsible."
That's
because she was responsible to some extent—cause and effect. But that doesn't
mean she was wrong to question Marshall. She may have been harboring a murderer.
I say nothing, though.
Deb
isn't forgiving herself. "You know, I knew that there was something she wasn't
telling me."
"Do
you think she knew that her brother was involved?"
"I
think she knew something was up with him, and I think she was trying to protect
him, which is what a good sister does, and then he ends up killing her. Jesus,
are all brothers assholes?"
"Who
are we talking about now?" As if I didn't know. I talked to her brother
briefly after the shooting. Very closed-off person. Not hostile, but guarded.
"Who
else? Dexter."
Ding,
ding, ding. "So you think he might kill you?"
The
nervous laugh that erupts from her is fascinating. Her expression is one of
true amusement, but she looks away, to the side. Something she's not facing.
I
can use that. I can twist that.
"No,
I don't think he's going to kill me.' Her face is extraordinarily peaceful. I can see that Dexter is the one person in
whom she has faith.
It's
cruel, really, for me to screw with that.
I'm
fully cognizant of that. Does that make it less heinous of me to do it?
Thought not. Oh, well.
"I
think he treats me like shit." There. There it is. The face of the
perpetual outcast. The swearing, the tough as nails attitude, the screw-you clothes—they all hide this little girl that is terrified
the world is going to hurt her.
That
is terrified her big brother doesn't love her.
She's
a bit of a tough one to love, if you ask me. Needy as shit, not the brightest
bulb in the pack when it comes to presenting herself, but a good investigator
according to Matthews. Laguerta sees her as too
rough, oversensitive, too concerned with being part of the gang.
Then
again, Laguerta is a total bitch who's threatened by
any woman with a brain and good looks, so who cares what she thinks. Matthews
is usually a better judge of character, but I don't know why he picked Morgan
for this job. She's not ready. She's not seasoned enough. And she's falling
apart before my eyes. And before the eyes of her team.
Although
I am helping her with that part. I may be screwing with some parts of her life,
but I can still help her with others. That's part of the game, after all. Never
get caught mucking around in a psyche. "Based
on what she told me, my assessment was reasonable," I could tell any
board. "And look how much I helped on this and this and that."
I've
done this before, you see. And never had to go before a board. But if I'd had
to, I'd have been ready.
"He
shuts me out," she says. "He won't tell me
things. Like really important things."
"Sounds
like you two are having a little trouble communicating lately." I should
be shot for lame-ass statements like that. Part of the job, I'm afraid.
"We aren't having trouble communicating. He's
the one that's keeping all the secrets."
"But
normally you're pretty open with each other?"
"Yes.
I tell him everything. I tell him about boyfriends, work. I tell him about
everything."
"Sounds
like a lot of talking about yourself." There's a shocker.
She's
actually pointing at me. "Aren't you supposed to be on my side?"
"I'm
just telling you what I'm hearing." Such a self-centered brat.
"Okay,
yeah, we talk about me. A lot." She laughs, and then looks off to the side
as she seems to tend to do. I assess her as she does it. She's a beautiful
woman. The kind men love, even if she's too skinny, all hard edges and steel
toed man boots and abominable clothing choices. Her face is arresting, her eyes
are the kind that stop you and make you go back for a second look no matter
what your sexual preference, and her mouth is strong. But her expression is so
wary, so pissed off usually, that some of the beauty is lost in the anger and
tension. "But that's what I'm saying. I can't get him to tell me shit all
about jack shit."
Articulate
as ever, our Deb.
And
here I go. I don't even pause to think as I launch.
"Or,"
I say, the little pause giving me extra sensitivity, "maybe he doesn't
think there's any room in the relationship for his needs. Maybe next time you
get together, you could just make some effort to focus on him? His issues."
She
looks pissed at first. But she's processing. Because she loves him and I've hit
her where she lives.
A
slight nod. All I get but it's all I need.
Here
we go.
##
"Dexter's
allowed to have a private life, but is it too much to ask for a little give and
take?" She has a pillow over her lap—classic defense mechanism.
"Would
you say that your brother has always been guarded?"
"Well,
yeah, that's the problem."
"But
if he's always been this way, why would you suddenly expect him to change?"
God, I love asking that question.
"I
don't know but—"
"Would
you expect a chair to suddenly become a table?"
"No,
but—"
"No,
because a chair is a—"
"Chair."
I
nod.
"Dexter
is who he is." She smiles. "You're good."
I
am good. "How does it make you feel when he shuts you out?"
She
doesn't expect that. She thought I was giving him an out. "Alone."
"Where
do you think this comes from? This feeling of being alone?"
"I
don't know. My mom died when I was a teenager."
That
explains the clothing. "That must have been hard. Becoming a woman with no
mother figure."
"Would
have helped if my dad had paid me any attention. That's probably why I fell in
love with someone twice my age. He was shot in front of me. Did I mention that?"
"No."
Jesus. The baggage this woman has. How the hell does she get up in the morning?
"I
was probably looking for someone safer after being engaged to this really great
guy who also turned out to be a serial killer."
The
Ice Truck Killer. I know all about it. I work very hard to keep that fact from
my face, keep my expression as sympathetic as I can. "Would you like it if
we started seeing each other more than once a week?"
She
lets out a huff of relieved air. Again the small
little nod.
For
the first time, I only feel a little bit of pleasure that the game will go on.
##
"Are
you serious? Bowls of blood dropped on my head? It's like a perfect fucking
metaphor for my perfect fucking life. I'm not even sure I believe in God, but I'm
pretty sure he hates me." She looks ready to explode.
I
can't really argue with how much having copious amounts of blood dropped on you
must suck, so I decide to throw her a curveball. "Losing your parents is
difficult. Having a loved one shot in front of you is unthinkable. Finding out
that your fiancé is a serial killer is—"
"Did
I mention that he was Dexter's biological brother?"
I
know I show surprise. That's not in the files. I've checked. "No, you did
not. So wait a minute, the Ice Truck Killer was your
brother?" I know he's not. I've done some snooping through my own sources.
But I want to hear it from her—have to hear it from her, to get her down the
path I need her to go.
"No,
Dexter was adopted so we're not blood related."
"Oh."
Then I wait.
"What.
What does that 'Oh' mean?"
"You
mentioned that your father didn't pay much attention to you. What was his
relationship with Dexter like?"
"They
did everything together?"
"And
without your mother..."
"I
was left behind."
"You
can move forward, Debra. But it's going to mean taking responsibility for your
feelings and your choices."
"What
does that mean?"
"Please
don't misunderstand me. I am very sensitive to the trauma and the tragedy that
you've experienced, but as far as your failed relationships are concerned..."
"What?"
And
here we go... "We are responsible for the partners we choose." This
part is truth, whether or not I end up screwing with her.
"Bullshit."
I
give her my best "I mean it" look.
"How
the fuck was I supposed to know that Rudy was the Ice Truck Killer? Are you
saying that I chose to be with a serial killer on purpose?"
"I
think you have a history of choosing inappropriate or unavailable men."
"Well, what the fuck do you want me to say? That my life is a train wreck of a disaster? That
my life is a shit hole? Well, I already know this. This isn't news to me, okay?
I know that I am broken."
"Do
you know that you don't have to be? You can pick up the pieces."
"How?"
"By
making different choices. By breaking your patterns. Debra, it's going to be
hard. But you can make yourself whole again."
She
looks at me like she's just too tired. But I can see it in her eyes. She's too
tired not to try.
##
"I
had a freak-out at a crime scene today."
"Is
that unusual?"
Deb
looks amused with me. Open and trusting, and for once, I actually like her—it's
crucial that I like them when I play this game. It won't work if I don't.
She
smiles wider. "Yes, that's unusual. I've seen a lot of fucked up shit and
it usually just rolls right off."
"But
not today?"
"You
know what's even weirder is the stuff that usually fucks me up didn't even faze
me today."
"Like
what?"
"Like
Laguerta trying to swing her dick around in the
briefing room. I handled that like a
champ."
I
give her a real smile because I can't stand Laguerta.
If my little girl here can beat her back a little, then go, Deb. "Well,
that's fantastic."
"So
why did I lose my shit when I walked into that church?"
"Does
church have some kind of significance for you?"
"I
don't know—the only time I go to church is to go to a funeral, you know? My
mom, my dad, boyfriends, my sister-in-law."
"So,
you associate church with loss?"
"I
guess."
Work
with me here, Deb. It's not rocket science.
"Whatever,
doesn't matter. My brother showed up. He calmed me down."
"Dexter?"
Important to get the name out there. Even if I know she has no other brother to
show up and calm her down. Move past the brother thing. Make him a man. Dexter.
The man. "Was it something that he said?"
"I
guess." She thinks about it. "Not really. It was more just him being
there. Come to think of it, every time the shit hits the fan, I go to him."
Yes,
you brainless twit, because he's the only real friend
you have. And that's because he's family and doesn't have a choice. I, of
course, don't say this to her.
"I've
even moved in with him a few times."
"He's
your safe place."
"Yeah.
Since we were kids. I used to have these nightmares and I would sneak into his
room and curl up on the floor. He wouldn't even know I was there—is that weird?"
"I
don't know. Do you think it's weird?" This. This is the moment I've been
waiting for. I start playing the string out. See if, like the cat she looks
like, she pounces on it as if it were true prey.
"Not
really. He's my brother. I think it's sweet." And she does think that. She's
not taking the bait.
I
could leave it alone right now. I could let her be. I could work with her in
other ways, mold her and fashion her into something that would give Laguerta nightmares. But that wouldn't be as fun. Because
if she gets strong, she'll stop coming to me.
Whereas
if she goes this other route I envision for her, she'll
be mine. Forever probably.
But
I take the moment. Leave it? Change tactics? Stay the course?
It's
a short moment. The course is set. Full speed ahead.
But
I let her leave today still thinking it's sweet she slept in her brother's room.
And,
of course, it is.
##
The
department is abuzz with what happened earlier. The Doomsday Killer attacking
us, a chemical gas attack. Dexter stopping it, standing by the door and holding
it closed while the woman wearing the chemical gear perished in the exam
room—got exposed himself, I heard. The last guy I'd pick for a hero, but then
that's often the case.
I'm
very glad he was there to save us.
Deb
has had a lot on her plate.
"You've
been talking a lot about your department this morning," I say. "How
are you doing since the attack?"
"I'm
fine."
I
give her a skeptical stern look.
"Pretty
much. I mean, I'm worried about Dexter. He wouldn't go to the hospital. He
keeps saying he's okay."
"You
must be very proud of him."
"He
saved everyone's life. Including mine."
Yes,
Debra, you're part of everyone. I want
to shake her sometimes. For her ability to simultaneously exhibit narcissism
and low self-esteem.
She
is clearly shaken, though, by what happened. "It all happened so fast. You
know if that canister had gone off any sooner..."
"Your
brother holds a very important place in your life." Deb does not seem to
notice the more than obvious u-turn back to Dexter. The
finesse needed for this is, at times, minimal.
"He's
really all I have."
As
I said.
"You
think I'm crazy now, oh, I can't even imagine what a fucking mess my life would
be without him."
"I
don't think you're crazy." Not yet, anyway.
"Can
I get that in writing?"
"From
what I do know about you, you feel things very deeply. Like your bond with
Dexter. What do you think that stems from?"
"Maybe
because he's the only guy in my life that I haven't dumped or cheated on or isn't
dead."
"Is
it possible that your feelings for Dexter are the reason that you have chosen
men in the past who have been either inappropriate or unavailable?" Have
to be careful. I could lose her here so easily.
"Because
they're what? Not Dexter?"
Then
again, maybe I'm giving Deb too much credit.
She
thinks about it. A lot. Finally seems to get it. "That's insane."
"Is
it?" I don't look away.
She
doesn't either.
And
I can see it. She's already seeing the path. She is not opposed to this path. She
may never have consciously considered this path—hell, she may not have
subconsciously considered it. But her ability to pick the wrong partner every
single time will now allow her to screw up the one relationship that really
matters.
"He's
my brother." She's trying to sound angry. She doesn't sound angry, though.
"Yet
you're not biologically related."
Her
mouth is open, her eyes are dilated. It's
almost embarrassing how easy this is. "So?"
"It
would be understandable, given the past traumas the two of you have shared for
you to develop complex feelings for him."
"Why
the fuck are we even talking about this?"
This
is the most insightful thing she has ever asked me. I suddenly see why she
might be a great detective. Her eyes are narrowed, her brain—obviously sharper
than I have given her credit for—is telling her something is not right here. Path
A should not have led us to Destination Z.
"You
mention Dexter. He comes up in these sessions a lot. Aren't you curious as to why
that is?"
"He's
a huge part of my life. That's it." She's mad now. It'd be denial if she
were really in love with him. If I hadn't planted the seed that she was feeling
a moment ago. Now she's just...pissed. "End of story."
"You're
getting upset." Fall back on the classics: State the obvious.
"Fuck,
yes, I'm becoming upset, because you're making it sound like I want to...be
with him or something."
Fascinating.
With anyone else but Dexter, she would have simply said fuck him.
"Well,
do you?"
Again that look. The open mouth. The eyes just
so. Arousal. Then she stands. "Look. I love my brother. But I am sure as
shit not in love with my brother, if that's what you're getting at. We're done
here."
I
don't turn to watch her go.
We're
done here. For now.
##
She
barges into my office at the station. "You were right."
Time
to be firm. "Debra, we can schedule a time."
"I
told him. I fucking told my brother that I love him, and he said 'I love you'
back. Not 'Me, too' or something like that. He actually said 'I love you.'"
"Wow.
That's big, isn't it?"
"Yeah,
I mean, I don't think he understood that I'm in love with him, but still he
said the actual words for the first time."
I
feel sorry for her. That she can think that saying those words for the first
time—a significant milestone indeed—is the signal to land this emotional bomb
on her brother. But that's why I picked her. She doesn't have a clue what she's
doing. She's going to completely ruin the only relationship she has in her life
when he reacts as most people would. Especially a person as emotionally stunted
as her brother appears to be.
And
then what will Debra have left?
Well,
me, of course.
I
did mention I found her attractive, right?
"What
do you think it means?" I ask.
"I
don't know what the fuck it means, that's why I'm here." She takes a
breath. "Is this just horribly wrong?"
"Does
it feel wrong?"
"It
makes my whole life—every man I've ever loved—make sense."
Yes,
we call that rationalization.
"It's
like I've always been looking for someone like Dexter. Or someone who's the
opposite of Dexter."
Okay,
so pretty much the whole male population, then?
"As
a way to avoid the fact that I'm in love with him."
My
work here is done.
"It's
just clear to me now. And I want it to be clear to him. I want him to understand."
"Okay.
You want to tell him how you feel in a way that he can hear you."
"Yes."
She's crying. And smiling. And laughing.
"Is this how it feels to be in control of your emotions?"
I
smile. But then I let the smile fade. I want her to understand. She needs to
know that I warned her. That I'm concerned for her. That this voyage of
enlightenment was never about telling Dexter, and now that she wants to tell
him, she needs to understand this one simple fact: "But you can't control
his. You don't know how he's going to react."
Her
good mood evaporates. She stands and walks out, and I know she's off to do it,
because that's how Debra is. Ready, fire, aim.
She
doesn't know how he'll react.
I
do.
She'll
be back to me. Sooner than she thinks.
And
then we'll really get to work.
A
pretty police lieutenant will be such a nice addition to the collection.
FIN