Chapter Text
“Put your hands up!”
The hiss of a voice clashed against Debra’s eardrums. The grating screech as someone – a man – shook her. She didn’t understand, was this not enough? Her position, hunched over in a corner, presumably babbling to her attacker for mercy though she could not hear her own voice. Was this not enough to prove that she posed no threat?
Hardened strands of hair were like razors to her skin. Spattered with dried blood, Debra sat awaiting her fate. There was no point opening her eyes, she had broken her glasses some time along her way to this cold, concrete room, leaving her effectively blind. Thank fucking god she wouldn’t be alive to experience the embarrassment of trying to describe her attacker, she would be the worst eyewitness known to man.
“I said put your fucking hands up!!” the same voice repeated, shaking Deb to her core.
She wasn’t surprised to find an ache in her arm as they instinctively flew over her head to prove that she was cooperating. She didn’t need to make this any more torturous than it already was, yet she also believed that would be impossible. Despite her inability to see in her current state, she found her eyes straining to the room which suddenly seemed to be far brighter than she remembered it being two minutes prior. Perhaps it was the lack of a looming shadow over her, a light even, or maybe someone had opened the door.
A door. Right.
Suddenly any previous discomfort in her legs, any shake to her step, had been overridden by her desire to survive. Faint yells passed her as she somehow managed to throw one foot in front of the other and dart for the open door. Unsurprisingly, her path was blocked by a taller figure.
She slammed face first into a body, and large, rough hands clutched her bony shoulders. Surely at this point the world must be mocking her. Whatever god was watching over her, she’d make sure that as she met her fate, she would roundhouse the fucker in the face for this experience alone, maybe another two or three times for everything else that has gone wrong in her life. God forbid she have a single day of peace-
“Debra!”
…Oh. What?
Suddenly, the weight of reality hit. The calloused hands moved gently across her face; hell, they were even shaking as fingers grazed the skin on her cheeks. This wasn’t her attacker, this was…
“…Dad?” Good fucking heavens, was that voice even Debra’s? She didn’t know she could sound so…so broken. God, she must look like a mess right now. Still wearing her clothes from her night out, a skimpy crop top she had sworn made her look older, hardened blood stuck to the fuzzy hairs on her face. Dad had to see her like this, how pathetic.
Comforting arms clutched her into a tight warmth, and Debra’s mind was yet again elsewhere. When was the last time her father’s arms had held her? Always so focused on Dexter, Debra was always left behind. Even after her mother died, she found minimal comfort on behalf of her father. As much as part of her wanted to forgive him and excuse his lack of availability for his own grief, the sixteen-year-old girl part of her refused to allow his image to be put on a pedestal right now.
So that is why she resorted to a night out at a club. Perhaps those older men could’ve helped her, she had said to herself before she was brutally dragged and kicked down into concrete.
Whatever questions dad was asking her, she wasn’t paying attention. She wasn’t even sure that she could tune into his words right now, so she simply nodded hoping that they were yes or no questions. The disappointed look on her father’s face told her that she was wrong.
Debra felt as if she was walking on air as her father guided and sat down, and not in the sense that she was having a pleasant high. Rather that a single gust of wind could throw her off her track. Debra’s world hardly warmed as a thin fleece was wrapped around her to protect from the cold of the night, yet she wasn’t present enough in reality for it to warm her core.
The calloused hand found hers, and it caused her to look up. The blur of a figure in front of her helped her realise her father stood before her. The gentle brush of his finger startled her especially when she was in no position to see, yet she could hazard a guess that it likely wasn’t the only reason a sob poured from her throat. Timelines blurred together, and she was unable to shake the fear that somehow her attacker still had access to her.
Debra only flickered her view back to the ground, allowing her hair to hang over her face.
——
Shit, Dexter had felt something was wrong. Call him emotionally stunted all you want, he knew when Debra was upset. Though he guessed it wasn’t that hard to infer that she would be upset considering it had been four and a half days since Doris had died.
Debra was far more broken up over it than either he or Harry, but seriously? Dexter was never one for partying, he saw no point. The concept of his hurt little sister sneaking out at night and throwing herself into a club was far different to the view he had of her two or three years prior. Perhaps even a week prior in some senses. She had always made stupid decisions, but this had been downright reckless.
Dexter had gotten the call at 5:28 am. He was an early riser, but this was perhaps an hour too early for his liking. Not that it mattered, considering Harry's frantic, wavering voice was shaking down the phoneline, a rather rare occurrence. He explained nothing more than that he was at a crime scene, there were two people dead, and that Debra was alive but involved. What did this entail? Surely she wasn’t the perpetrator. She made stupid decisions, but she wasn’t murderous, not like Dexter was. He doubted there was a single experience in this world that could break a moral compass quite like Debra’s.
Dexter sprung out of bed and hastily slung on his shirt, bouncing on one foot three or four times before he finally got his foot through the leg of his pants. He remembered the quiet mumble Harry gave of ‘bring a pair of Deb’s glasses’ and opened her bedside drawer to take one of her spare cases. He gave two glances to the address Harry had sent him to punch it into his GPS, speeding off in whatever direction it gave. His actions almost indicated some sort of fear, especially considering everything was such a blur he could hardly remember moving from the house to his car, yet Dexter honestly believed he was incapable of those feelings. If he was capable, he would surely feel that way about any dire situation Debra was placed into.
Flashing lights in the distance of this open landscape told Dexter he was headed in the right direction. All that existed here was a dirt road, very few trees and a small shack. There were remains of a knocked down building, but the area seemed generally uninhabited. He parked outside of the police tape, stepping outside of the car with the glasses case in hand. It took just a moment for Dexter’s eyes to find Debra, wrapped in a thin blanket while sitting in the open doors of an ambulance. Spatters of blood seeped into her usually glowing skin and soft hair, instead leaving her looking dirty, no less likely feeling that way too. Her expression held only anguish, hands balled into fists. He almost wondered if she would hit him with them for getting too close to her right now.
Dexter had a one-track mind right now, get to Debra. One too many steps forward without supervision reminded him that he was, in fact, at a crime scene when a larger officer placed a hand on his chest. Dexter tuned back into reality, realising the officer was talking to him.
“Kid, this is an active crime scene, you need to stay behind the tape.” The man was taller than Dexter, possibly 6’1. He could hardly keep his mask intact, darkness seeping through the edges as he imagined all the ways he could take the officers face and slice it clean-
“It’s okay, that’s Harry’s son. Let him in.” a familiar voice, Bobby, snapped him out of his daze. The officer glanced between the two before moving out of Dexter’s way. He beelined directly for Debra; Bobby would understand their lack of interaction. Now was not the time.
“Deb!” he ran forwards to his sister, calling out. She barely startled, in fact he’s not even sure if she heard him. The dry grass crunched under his shoes, and that seemed to be the thing that snapped her into reality. Dexter recognised that she was wary of danger.
“Hey, hey. It’s only me. Dexter.” His voice wasn’t exactly soft, but it was lower than usual. As he waited for a response, he glanced around for Harry. Ah, he must’ve seen Dex coming and taken the opportunity to talk to other officers about the situation.
He wasn’t exactly surprised when Debra squinted at him. She didn’t have any glasses on right now and always complained about how contacts hurt her eyes. He took this as an opportunity to take the glasses out of the case and lift them to her face. She leaned backwards feeling the temples graze her skin, but when she registered them as glasses, she stopped.
It took her two blinks to register Dexter before her, yet it still felt like she was seeing through him rather than looking right at him. What on earth had happened to his little sister? Never once had he felt like Debra was the soulless, masquerading Morgan of the family, yet this was giving him a different impression.
What should he do? It was hard to understand someone else’s feelings when you’re hardly emotionally intelligent enough to comprehend your own. What would Dexter want right now?
“Do you want me to get you a bottle of water?” way to go, Dex.
She stared directly at the ground, considering the words, breathing out harshly. She nodded slowly. Hardly even a word of argument about how he wasn’t able to support her. Huh.
Dexter moved for a bottle from one of the officers but never strayed too far from his sister. He wasn’t quite sure if she was in the right mind right now, if she wouldn’t jump up and run off at any point.
He eventually returned to her, handing her the bottle. This was the moment she finally acknowledged him, looking him in the eye. She took it and whispered a quiet ‘Thanks Dex.’
Such simple words that held no meaning yet carried so much emotion.
In reality, if it were Dexter in this situation, he would likely want to be alone, sit with his thoughts, maybe go hunting. But Debra wasn’t him, so he sat beside her.
“Do you wanna talk about what happened? Dad didn’t give me much detail.”
Debra shook her head slowly. This was getting nowhere. A hug, maybe?
Dexter opened one arm to prepare before placing it around Debra gently. Even as he moved with extra precaution, she flinched away from him, staring at him as if he were the monster. As much as she would be right, it didn’t necessarily apply in this situation.
…Maybe he and his sister weren’t quite so different in their need for alone time after all.
“Uh, sorry.” He pulled his arm away, feeling a little helpless. They sat in silence for a little while before he was mildly startled by a weight on his shoulder.
Debra leaned her weight cautiously onto Dexter, before slowly allowing herself to actually lean against him. Dexter lifted a hand to warn her that he was going to touch her and give her room to say no, but when she did not push him away, he gently laid it on her shoulder.
This seemed to be where silent tears fell. She did not sob, only sniffled. That in itself caused alarm to Dexter because Debra Morgan did not just cry. She wailed if driven to the point of tears.
He pulled his little sister further in, allowing her to hide in his chest. He would need to wash this shirt later.
——
“Do you know what day it is?”
They had placed her in a quiet room alone for an hour and a half by now. What was the point of this again? Why couldn’t she just go home? They were already aware that she had no other evidence to bring to the table, all the perpetrators were arrested anyway. After facing general checkups from doctors with Dexter by her side, she was now expected to answer questions about her mental state.
“June 4th, 1990.” She thought about making a snarky comment but couldn’t seem to come up with anything smart. That was unlike her.
“Good, do you have any preexisting conditions that you are aware of?”
Debra only laughed, that was enough of an answer. Of course she didn’t, there was nothing wrong with her, only the situations she was shoved into, like right now. The minimal scratches of the doctors (psychologists?) pen against his notepad were driving her insane. The contrast of the silence she so desperately craved, and the edging of only a minor inconvenience preventing that reality made her skin itch. She just wanted to go home.
“Alright, I just want to talk through your situation. You don’t have to tell me about the details, but you can give me a gist of what happened, right?” The audacity blew Debra away.
Debra stared at him with furrowed brows. “Is that fuckin’ important or something? I thought we were here to see how I’m doing, not what happened.” Her chair creaked beneath her as she leaned back and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up in response. Why did they do that?
The doctor nodded, not making eye contact with her as if it would overwhelm her too much. He simply looked up at her for a few moments but generally stared at his notes. “Usually, the brain blocks memories that cause distress. To be blunt, it’s a subtle question of ‘have you experienced this phenomenon?’”
Deb simply rolled her eyes. “I can remember.”
“Alright then, please give me a brief summary.” She was going to fucking punch this doctor.
Though Debra did eventually look back in her mind, finding only a blur. She lowered her head. She did not want to look him in the eye right now.
“Uh. Well, I went out to a club and got taken.” That’s all she gave. Or…all she could give. Huh. It was a strange feeling, being unable to relay an experience. All these years of gossiping with Sofia taught her she was pretty fucking good at that.
He stared, as if waiting for more. When he got nothing, he pressed. “And the other girls?”
…Other girls?
Her expression must’ve flashed with confusion, because it wasn’t long before he turned to his notepad and began writing.
“Alright,” the doctor began as his pen continued to scribble.” You were there with two other girls, both assumed to be from the same club. The two have both now unfortunately passed.”
Oh. That…. explained the blood, she guessed.
The blood that still clustered upon the skin on the back of her neck. She needed a shower.
Yet again, he would continue when given no response. He must get this a lot.
——
Being home was nice, but things didn’t seem to be the same as before. Debra was unsure if they will ever go back to being the same either. Though she cannot remember her experience, she knew it formed her current being. By this point, what was she without her flinches? Her inability to sleep? The dark trenches surrounding her eyes? She had made absolutely no attempt to return to school within the past week, there was no point, she wouldn’t be able to concentrate anyway.
She couldn’t handle the stares, not when she looked like this. Her name had never been released alongside what happened, but they would know. She was sure of it.
So instead, she gave a poor attempt at relaxing. It was a Saturday today, and dinner was soon. Dad wasn’t home, it was only her and Dex.
Debra hated the pity that came along with what happened, but Dexter…wasn’t like that. She wasn’t quite sure if it was because he didn’t get it or understood far more than she ever would. Maybe Dexter himself didn’t even know.
So, they stood together in the kitchen, throwing together a nice dinner to share. Steak had always been one of their favourites on nights like this, but they didn’t get them often. Not since they were much younger, back when they actually had a healthy mother to help them cook.
But now…they were both somewhat free with their time.
She had missed this.
“Mind passing me the salt?” he didn’t look up from the counter where he was preparing the second steak. Dexter always enjoyed getting a T-bone, considering he practically got two steaks in one. Greedy fucker.
Debra lowered herself to open the cupboard by her knee, opening the door and grabbing the Himalayan saltshaker. She glanced up and handed it to him. She turned back to the cupboard to get the jars of bearnaise to go with her steak as Dexter put it on the stovetop.
And then there was a loud slam. Unable to find the source of the noise, Debra tried to turn around in case she needed to defend herself, and that’s when she noticed the figure looming over her, and the whole world crumbled-
( . . . )
Her attackers’ hands were shockingly gentle against her skin- her weirdly damp skin. His eyes only held something akin to danger, yet his touch spoke to her like a beagle they’d run violent tests on. A puppy believed to be too forgiving while awaiting anguish.
The only question she begged to ask in her state is: why was she still here? How had she gotten back here? The gritty concrete felt cold against the bare skin of her thighs, a chilling reminder of the reality she has been thrown into.
She knew what was going to happen. She was saved last time, however now, she was the only victim. There was no reason for them to wait anymore, this time she was the main attraction.
Deb's whole state of being had shifted, it was dizzying. She needed to get out, but how? Go where?
As the soft fingers traced her cheek, Deb gave a shaken breath. She couldn’t fucking do this. Not again.
The man's face was a blur. She must’ve dropped her glasses again. She could make out a black blur where his hair should be and larger dots of red to contrast his pasty skin (far too pasty for someone who lived in Miami, if you asked Debra) but that was it. A shadow opened and closed around his jaw. He must be talking. Any words seemed to pass right through her.
Yet even with her daunting experiences, her knowingness of what was to come, even as satisfaction pooled in her attackers’ guts like a rich, blood-like shade of red…Debra could not control the fluttering in her chest. There was not an ounce of adoration for the man standing before her, rather for the thrill of it all. Perhaps it was terror, but something told her it was far more than that.
Why did the gentle hand tug her back in? Why bask in the sweetness? Why did the metallic scent of bloody murder entice her so suddenly? Possibly the worst part of all of this is that Debra could not even understand her own reactions. Her body shivered with anticipation as she remembered how the men had entered the cabin. A loud slam of the door collided with the wall as they shoved the final girl through.
Debra felt out of her body, yet strangely unbothered by the concept of that. It would make her death less painful if she had the opportunity to not pay attention to her pain, to allow the tears in her eyes to spill over and cloud her awareness of her surroundings.
Maybe his touch really was just a sweet nothing, and it was wrong for Debra to lean into his hand. She felt very little at the moment, unable to find it in herself to care as the sound of a shrieking woman finally hit her ears. She thought she was alone here? Maybe they had brought other women again, only prolonging her fate. A taunt. A-
“Deb, please!”
( … )
The sensation of her raw throat caused a realisation that the screams she heard had been her own.
She blinks. Hard. That’s all it took for her vision to clear a little, and she noticed her brother. Her stupid, ginger, saviour of a brother crouched before her with a hint of fucking worry carved into his brow. One hand was on her cheek – ah, that explained a lot – and his gaze was absolutely flooded with concern. Since when the fuck did Dexter give her that look?
“W-What…” a broken whisper, questioning her situation. Fresh tears pooled into her vision all over again. Dexter's head tilted to the side, his lips pursing at the same rate that his eyebrows furrowed.
“Hey, it's just me. You’re okay.” Dexter did not close the distance, as if he was aware she would likely throw her arms out in an attempt to escape. She was thankful for that.
Debra is quite obviously shaken, and that’s watering her situation down quite a bit. It’s almost like a euphemism to even insinuate she’s anything less than fucking traumatised. She wasn’t used to feeling so helpless like this.
“What the…fuck was that bang?” Her eyes darted around. Has someone broken in?
She was quickly calmed by her brother's hand gently brushing her shoulder. Not too much, but far more than too little. How on earth did he do that?
“I knocked the salt shaker off the side. Then you…ah. You dropped the béarnaise.” Debra followed his gaze after he winced, noticing the spatter of sauce and glass across the floor. Apparently, she had. Shit.
“Fuck,” Deb shakily darted for a cloth to clean the floor with, “that shits expensive too.”
Dexter took the cloth from Deb, and she gave a confused look. She could do this herself!
“You should go sit. I'll finish cooking, okay?” though Dexter’s gaze did not hold pity. Suddenly she did not feel so bad about just…letting him help. She took the hand he eventually extended towards her and stood up.
“Fuckin- yeah, you’re right.” She glanced towards the stovetop, expecting it to be off. The steak was still cooking. “Um, Dex?”
Dexter followed his sister's gaze and hissed in panic as he rushed to take the pan off the stove and turn the gas off. How long had that been cooking?! Dexter continued to check the steak on both sides, cursing quietly. “…how do you like your steak well done?”
Debra startled herself as she barked out a laugh. This was…probably the most normal she had felt in the past week.
——
Whatever sense of normalcy she had felt from a few days prior had fizzled out by now. It always did when she was left alone. Dexter was a shockingly good distraction from her thoughts, he was a comedic genius, and he didn’t even fucking know it.
Yet everything changed in the darkness. To say she felt pathetic was an understatement, she couldn’t even sleep with the lights off anymore. Dad was present and clearly worried over her situation, however he was also incredibly busy. Deb didn’t need anyone else, she could take care of herself
(Though she wouldn’t be lying if she said Dexter helping her clean after her silly freak outs provided a sense of comfort to her.)
Every noise in this house was elevated, everything was far more noticeable now. It’s as if Deb was always alert. So that’s why she felt her whole body shaking as the front door creaked. She knew it was the front door, it wasn’t designed very well. The door was very slightly too big, so it took a few – three. She knew exactly how much - tugs to pull it out properly. An inconvenience she had previously learned to live with, and now it was a security warning to her.
The soft creak as the door moved from downstairs freaked her out. Not like she was trying to fucking sleep or anything. Dad was home, it couldn’t be him. Dexter was a lazy shit-nuts, she didn’t doubt he’d be conked out by now. Was someone coming inside, or were they leaving? She should check. She really needs to.
Debra’s feet shakily hit the floor, and she walked on her toes to reduce any sound she made. A perk of living in Miami means night time is pleasantly warm, no need for a coat. She hardly needed to make a detour to change out of her shorts and tank top.
She silently made her way down the stairs, stopping off at the kitchen to grab one of the larger knives. There was already a knife missing from the stand.
That left a chill in her spine. Someone had taken a knife. She distinctly remembered doing the washing up earlier today.
As she opened the front door, she noticed as the bushes moved in the little forest nearby the end of the cul-de-sac. Whoever was there had gone that way. Was she really prepared to endanger herself like this? Surely it was okay now.
But the thought of danger coming for her again, getting an opportunity to spy on her and pounce later…if this was truly an attacker, she wanted to slash his fucking throat for even thinking about turning her world upside down all over again
(How would the blood pour, she wondered? How would she inflict the wound? A slash to the neck would bring a slight trickle, perhaps spurts. A stab to the chest would likely only splash back if she removed her knife after impact.)
(...or something. Fuck, what was that all about?)
She shook her head, deciding to rush in. This wasn’t rooted in any sort of revenge, she was sure of it. This was purely for her safety.
Deb pushed through the bushes, trying not to make a sound. Her hands tighten around the blade. If something bad happened and she somehow managed to get a hit in, her fingerprints would be all over this knife. If she decided to flee, she’d have to take it with her.
Distant, higher pitch cries around the corner startled her. She knew she wasn’t insane, she wasn’t alone out here! Deb followed the direction where the sound was coming from.
The sobs grew louder as she continued on. Has a woman been attacked out here? She changed the position of her hand, holding her knife in a manner where she expected to attack.
And then she saw the source of the cries.
A figure, taller than Deb, stood before a wounded deer. A fucking deer had been making those sounds, how stupid could she be! Of course that’d be the answer, she was in a forest for fucks sake-
A crunch beneath her slip on shoes startled the figure before her. It suddenly occurred to her that this man was holding a knife.
Profuse coats of blood stained the man’s – the perpetrators – hands. Even in this minimal light, the black drips audibly pattered against the forest floor. The poor deer must’ve been put out of its misery just moments prior to Debra finding the source of the sound, if the organs sprawled across the grassy floor told her anything. This was a fucking fully grown deer, and here it laid, with its intestines slowly sliding from its original place.
She was petrified. Far too scared to even consider looking the perpetrator in the eyes. So why did she?
Because the horror that awaited her shocked her to her core.
There stood Dexter, giving a shaken breath. Lips parted, tongue rolling back into his mouth after catching some of the blood from the open cut on his lip. His brows were furrowed, giving off such an intensive aura of danger that Deb wasn’t quite sure this was even her brother. Her geeky, dorky, socially awkward brother, who stood before a fucking gutted animal like a psycho.
Though his eyes showed a flash of fear, undoubtedly from being caught in this state, they still seeped with pure menace. His pupils were sharp, zeroing in on Deb.
“Deb.” The vulnerability in his voice did not match his expression. He took a step away from the carcass but moved no further as Debra took a step backwards in response.
Worst of it all, is Dexter had the audacity to look hurt by her rejection.
Her gaze flickered back down to the carcass. The intestines had further pooled out now that it had been shifted. Considering Dexter’s leg was previously making contact with it, she wouldn’t be surprised if that was why.
It suddenly occurred to her that she was completely infatuated with the now steadying blood flow. The shine of the poor deer’s organs, its blood spilling and staining the forest floor a sickly, metallic red…she couldn’t quite find it in her to look away.
The pressure in her throat burned. She’s not quite sure she’s breathed this whole time, she could only gaze at the work of her brother.
“Why…” she started, pausing to swallow and find her voice. “Why aren’t you asleep, Dex?”
His mouth closed, and his eyes bored into Deb. He hardly even considered her words before responding.
“Couldn’t stop thinking.” Such a vague statement, one that neither were quite sure he was going to complete. It was very clearly unfinished, and the pause of consideration made Dexter’s eyes flicker between Deb and the floor. “About blood.”
That was possibly the most straightforward answer Dexter could’ve given. Hell, she was mainly focusing on the fact that he hadn’t fucking lied to her. He stood before her, speaking the truth, and only the truth.
What did this make Dexter? A psychopath?
“Do you…do this often?”
A small nod. Holy shit, when had this started, why hadn’t she noticed?
“Why…?” Debra’s voice wavered, swallowing back the lump in her throat.
He considered her words this time, planning an answer out into his mind. “I find blood…” a pause, “enticing.”
Her mind and soul absolutely shattered. Hardly like it made much of a difference at this point. She stared at her brother, waiting for him to continue.
“It’s as if…blood pools in my very being. It’s…heavy, black. It’s exhausting. It’s an urge.”
An urge…there’s a description for what she had been feeling.
But surely, she and Dexter were not the same.
“It- it fills me every second I don’t see it.” Why on earth was he pouring his heart like this? It was utterly unlike Dexter to reveal such things in a moment of weakness. Perhaps he just couldn’t lie to Debra after the recent events of her life. “I don’t know why I’m like this, Deb. I would never hurt you- “
“Are you okay now?” her voice rose above Dexter’s, leaving them both a little stunned.
Dexter responded with a meek nod, and Deb breathed out heavily. She took a few steps towards Dexter, hesitating before weakly taking his wet hand in her own. Both held their knives loosely in their other hand.
She did not look him in the eye, staring directly at his hand as she ran her gentle thumb across her brother's bloodied skin. Her fingers intertwined with his as she slicked her own hand with the blood of the beast. Though in this scenario, the true beast was better classified as themselves.
She pulled her hand away, messing with the blood between her fingers. Parts of it were curdled, Dexter must've gotten a lot of this blood by touching the deer's insides rather than just carving it open. She was left curious, how would its intestines feel in her hands? Would they be stronger and harder to tug? She wondered how much force she would have to put in for them to snap. Would it stretch along the force, or would it just reach that point of snapping without deforming?
…Shit, there really was something wrong with her.
“You…should come home. Get cleaned up.” She looked Dexter in the eye at last, shivering under the disturbance in his expression. He surely had not been expecting this response, and frankly, neither had Debra.
Dexter nodded, and the two of them walked back home hand in hand, leaving the carcass behind. Debra was still in the state where she wasn't even sure this was real, that she could wake up in a cold sweat any second. Dexter’s cold hand reminded her that this was reality. That they really were just that fucked up.
Dexter whispered something about how dad shouldn't know about this as they reached the front door. One push, another, and then finally the door opened. The floorboards creaked beneath their feet as they tiptoed to the kitchen. Dad wouldn't think to do any extensive checks for blood on the knives, so they just washed up normally with dish soap.
The two cleaned up after themselves, parting after they finally reached the top of the stairs. Their bedrooms were on opposite sides from here. Debra’s still damp hand reached for her big brother, and she dragged him into her arms. No amount of touch aversion could possibly break her bond with Dexter. Especially now.
His bicep eventually curled around her, the meat of his arm flattening out against her body. Dexter radiated such a comforting warmth, she couldn't help but sigh into his shoulder. She stood on her toes to even reach that point, but her discomfort didn't matter right now. Dexter is all that mattered.
Debra's hand found her big brother's neck, and she clutched for the hair on his nape. In the process, her fingers grazed his pulse and Dexter hardly shivered. This was her new priority. She desired to count how fast his heart ran and memorise it.
Would his heart race faster in his sister's hold? Would it do the same as he plunged his blade into yet another helpless fawn?
But she had to let go. She gave a final sniffle, breathing in her brother's scent, before pulling away. They looked each other in the eye, though Deb wasn’t doing a very good job with her vision. Tears pooled in her eyes, and before Dexter could ask if she was okay, she turned towards her bedroom and closed the door with a soft click.
Debra wasn't quite sure why she slept so well that night.