Dexter Morgan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
secretlabtech) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ataraxionlogs2013-05-04 02:11 am
secretlabtech) wrote in ataraxionlogs2013-05-04 02:11 am
Entry tags:
I was working in the lab late one night
CHARACTERS: Dexter Morgan and Brian Moser
LOCATION: A room on the one hundred and ninety eighth floor
WARNINGS: Blood and gore, or to be more specific dried out icky dead body parts, all neatly divided.
SUMMARY: Having left the medbay in pieces, a pirate is stitched back together by some helpful passers by.
NOTES: This has actually been going on for the last few days, but things have been hectic. The accompanying network post ought to be more timely, though by no means is happening at the same time. That would be complicated.
When they were done, there was something beautiful about the body parts, each of them divided with surgical skill, the blood drained slowly, flesh carefully dessicated. The pieces were spread out on ice made in the abandoned kitchen freezers on the one hundred and ninety-eighth passenger floor, and the cool air radiated pleasantly through the room, making the cramped space feel less claustrophobic. It was smaller than the rooms Dexter usually chose to practice his art, but wrapped in plastic none the less, all of it prepared the only way he knew how, it felt right.
It hadn't been like this for the kill. No plastic wrap, just the chill of the morgue with Brian's presence beside him, just as it was now. With anyone else there Dexter would have felt anxious; company wasn't something he gave into easily, and perhaps only Lumen would have been as safe beside him now as Brian was. But even Lumen didn't understand it the way that Brian did; Lumen had to ask, and the emotions had overpowered her--didn't she know how much DNA there was in a single tear? Brian didn't cry. Brian was placid and silent and safe. Brian anchored him through the high emotion of finally finally getting to kill again, so that Dexter had felt a little less like the euphoria might rent him asunder. Brian was his brother, and the bond of blood they shared made everything fit together on a basic, primal level.
Looking down at the pieces, Dexter felt proud of what they'd achieved. He knew it wasn't Brian's preferred prey, that if a woman had come into the medbay when the need to hunt was a burden to both of them, it would have brought Brian infinitely more relief, but necessity had to come above choice. They needed this. Now that it was done, now that the black roar had lessened to a keening, contented purr, and Dexter could think again, he understood just how overwhelming that need had been. Brian wasn't bound to the rules that kept dear dutiful Dexter safe--how he'd weathered it, Dexter couldn't even begin to guess.
And now there was the question of what to do with all these beautiful pieces, prepared in the tidy, bloodless Moser way. Looking down on this, Dexter's mind retreated to a place where he'd stepped onto that first crime scene and felt the chill rising from the beautiful pieces, an invitation laid out before him.
Hey, wanna play?
It was a much younger Dexter that looked up at his big brother a moment later, eyes wide and hopeful.
"We can't let them go to waste."
It would be criminal.
LOCATION: A room on the one hundred and ninety eighth floor
WARNINGS: Blood and gore, or to be more specific dried out icky dead body parts, all neatly divided.
SUMMARY: Having left the medbay in pieces, a pirate is stitched back together by some helpful passers by.
NOTES: This has actually been going on for the last few days, but things have been hectic. The accompanying network post ought to be more timely, though by no means is happening at the same time. That would be complicated.
When they were done, there was something beautiful about the body parts, each of them divided with surgical skill, the blood drained slowly, flesh carefully dessicated. The pieces were spread out on ice made in the abandoned kitchen freezers on the one hundred and ninety-eighth passenger floor, and the cool air radiated pleasantly through the room, making the cramped space feel less claustrophobic. It was smaller than the rooms Dexter usually chose to practice his art, but wrapped in plastic none the less, all of it prepared the only way he knew how, it felt right.
It hadn't been like this for the kill. No plastic wrap, just the chill of the morgue with Brian's presence beside him, just as it was now. With anyone else there Dexter would have felt anxious; company wasn't something he gave into easily, and perhaps only Lumen would have been as safe beside him now as Brian was. But even Lumen didn't understand it the way that Brian did; Lumen had to ask, and the emotions had overpowered her--didn't she know how much DNA there was in a single tear? Brian didn't cry. Brian was placid and silent and safe. Brian anchored him through the high emotion of finally finally getting to kill again, so that Dexter had felt a little less like the euphoria might rent him asunder. Brian was his brother, and the bond of blood they shared made everything fit together on a basic, primal level.
Looking down at the pieces, Dexter felt proud of what they'd achieved. He knew it wasn't Brian's preferred prey, that if a woman had come into the medbay when the need to hunt was a burden to both of them, it would have brought Brian infinitely more relief, but necessity had to come above choice. They needed this. Now that it was done, now that the black roar had lessened to a keening, contented purr, and Dexter could think again, he understood just how overwhelming that need had been. Brian wasn't bound to the rules that kept dear dutiful Dexter safe--how he'd weathered it, Dexter couldn't even begin to guess.
And now there was the question of what to do with all these beautiful pieces, prepared in the tidy, bloodless Moser way. Looking down on this, Dexter's mind retreated to a place where he'd stepped onto that first crime scene and felt the chill rising from the beautiful pieces, an invitation laid out before him.
Hey, wanna play?
It was a much younger Dexter that looked up at his big brother a moment later, eyes wide and hopeful.
"We can't let them go to waste."
It would be criminal.
no subject
The sensation of a relapse was hard to categorize. With the immediate flush of self-gratification past, it was more like stretching out after a long, long drive, reviving the deep-down muscles sore with disuse, and though it hadn't been all he could have hoped for, it felt almost as good. The victim wasn't quite to his taste, no, but at this point in the game he couldn't afford to look a gift corpse in the mouth.
Especially not with this company. Brian stood just slightly behind him, hands clasped behind his back as though surveying the room; it was a posture that would have fit together more easily with an upturned chin than the downturned glance he was actually giving his brother. He didn't smile. He didn't need to.
"No." Like most of his genuine displays, the interest didn't manifest itself in anything as straightforward as an eyebrow quirk; it was something behind the eyes, a faint lift in his tone of voice. "You've got something in mind?"
He knew he would. The seed of the idea had been common and instantaneous for the both of them, but Dexter was the one with the unblemished record, and Dexter was the one who had taken the pieces, one-by-one. Dexter was also the one with six extra years of life to his name, and letting him take the lead was the truest way Brian had of learning how that had informed his style -- seeing through his eyes, even. Long story short: he got dibs.
It was everything Deb should have been, and later on he would probably consider that with significantly more bitterness; right now, there was no spare room for that emotion to occupy. All that mattered was the overpowering relief, the sense of rightness, no matter how temporary. Even with the certain knowledge that the single black pinprick in his calm would eventually widen, becoming the same abyss they'd only just managed to sidestep, it was impossible not to feel whole. He knew (thought, really, but he'd already gone back to that unfortunate place where everything his brother did was understandable, predictable, phrased in terms of we rather than he) Dexter must be feeling it too, the purposeful, natural sense of pieces coming together as the body came apart. He had to know this was how it was supposed to be.
(I'm here now. I can help you. We can take this journey together.)
Still, it also had to be overwhelming. That was why he was here, navigating it all alongside him, no less undone by the high but maintaining a still, safe calm regardless. For once, the front of affectation he'd gathered around himself was tailored to benefit someone else. This was a matter of survival, yes, but not just that -- it was his responsibility to look after him. That was what brothers were for.