Chapter Text
There should have been blood.
There should have been blood, and Brian Moser naked on a table, wrapped in plastic like a garish Christmas present, the blood cooling beneath the shrink wrap. Festive, if you have the kind of tastes Dexter has.
But there was only Dexter and a knife no longer poised to make the killing blow. Dark eyes stare up at him.
Biney’s eyes.
Dexter drops the knife. The metal clatters to the floor, makes a sound so loud it’s like the roar of the ocean. Brian still stares up at him, his mouth knife-slash neutral. There’s not an ounce of fear to his expression, nor hatred, nor disgust. Nothing.
Biney’s not like the others.
“You can’t do it,” Brian utters. The words can’t be more than a whisper, but they drown out the pounding of blood in Dexter’s ears. “You feel the connection, too.”
Dexter’s jaw hinges open, mouth agape. Words try to form but die on his tongue. It isn’t the first time Dexter’s stumbled over words, but that’s usually reserved for awkward social situations. Not the killings. With each victim, as many as there have been, Dexter’s never had this kind of trouble finding what to say.
Brian’s gaze leaves him, gives him some respite. “I can say it even if you can’t.”
A sharp intake of breath from Dexter. He crouches to retrieve the knife, fingers white-knuckling the handle. His heart is thudding in his chest. Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump. He wills it to slow; wills his thoughts to stop racing like darting fish escaping the catcher’s net. It’s so hard to think. It’s never been this way before. Especially whenever Brian looks at him and he goes tumbling down the rabbit hole all over again.
Because his brother has a point. A point so fucking valid that it unravels Harry’s Code with the same ease Dexter’s knife glides through flesh. With every word out of Brian’s mouth, Dexter is tempted to throw all this morality not fit for a monster in the trash. Years of discipline, of keeping the delicate balance required to be the person he is, all gone to rot just because Brian Moser knows how to get under his skin.
“I’m not like you,” Dexter insists. Even to his own ears, it sounds uncertain, lacking that flat confidence he exudes in the face of his victims.
“You are,” his brother insists. “You’ve just been fed lies that you’re not.”
Lies. Is that all Harry’s Code is? Dexter has always suspected. Even when he has monsters of men on his table, when his mind is so adamant in those moments that Harry’s words are truth, he’s suspected. Normal people don’t seek to commit murder even when the victim is a murderer themselves. At least not by their own hands. They’d much rather someone else enact the vengeance protocol. That itself separates Dexter from other people.
“Let me off this table and you can fulfill your potential. You could be so much more than you already are. We could do it together. You’d have the connection you’ve been missing all your life.”
It’s usually not a request Dexter ever considers. Once his victim is on the table, he’s committed, right down to the final stab. This is Brian, though. This is Biney. His sibling through blood. The man he shares a cold, dark secret with that would send ordinary people scurrying for daylight.
For the first time, Dexter considers letting his victim free. It makes his mouth dry, his palms sweaty. He almost drops the knife again. Brian seems to know Dexter is on the verge of cracking. He pushes a little more.
“I can imagine what you’re going through right now. If you want to talk about it, I’m listening.”
Dexter doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t even want to think about it. But he inevitably has to. He has to weigh the consequences, make a decision. The knife is in his hand. It would only take one stroke to end all this. Brian was a threat to both Dexter and Deborah, and Dexter would have nothing to lose from eradicating him. Would he? Dexter isn’t so sure. That uncertainty keeps taking great big bites out of him, whittling down his resolve. If he kills Brian, than he kills the only understanding anyone will ever have for him in this world. Harry tried. But even Harry’s disposition towards his adopted son was one of general heartache.
Not that Dexter knows what heartache is like. He’s never felt anything like that before. He might if he kills Brian. He may just feel a genuine emotion. That’s what truly scares him, not knowing what he might feel or not.
Just like that, Dexter sets the knife aside. Not before slicing a slit in the plastic wrap that holds Brian down, though. His fingers scrabble at the gap, tearing it away layer by layer. Until Brian’s bare chest is free. Then Dexter’s cutting away the rest of the plastic, letting Brian go.
Dexter’s pressing his forehead to Brian’s now, overcome with something he has no words for. He feels their connection so deep in his bones. So deep he’s putting Deborah and so many others at risk by letting Brian go. The only one he truly cares about is Deb. Everybody else is fair game.
They part and Brian sits up, rotating the kinks out of his body like a cat’s claw unfurling from its sheath. He takes Dexter into his arms then, embracing him in a bear hug, no shame that he’s still fully naked. The two freeze like that, poised in the moment. Dexter, for the first time, feels his heart swelling. He knows there will never be tears, but if there was ever a moment where he was close to them, this would be it.