Archive of Our Own

It all started with a prank.

A harmless little joke.

Well, maybe not harmless—definitely not for Dexter Morgan, anyway.

The plan was simple. In theory, at least. And like all plans, it started with Masuka’s crude humor. He was leaning back in his chair, grinning as usual. “I’m telling you, Dexter needs to get laid. The guy looks like a walking corpse.”

“Who are you calling a corpse?” Debra snapped, leaning over the desk, her usual fiery energy igniting as she threw a playful punch in his direction.

“I’m just saying, the guy doesn’t smile like a normal human being. It’s all blood spatter and death—no one smiles like that unless they’re seriously messed up.” Masuka raised his eyebrows suggestively.

“Well, maybe he’s just a little…” Batista joined in, adjusting his hat, “I dunno, emotionally dead inside? Maybe he just needs to, y’know, let loose a bit. Go on a date or something.”

Deb’s eyes lit up. “Wait, wait, wait. I think I’ve got an idea,” she said, her voice practically singing with mischief. “I’ll set him up with someone.”

“Who?” LaGuerta asked, glancing over at Deb.

“You know who,” Deb smirked. “James freaking Doakes.”

There was a brief pause. Then, Masuka burst out laughing. “Oh man, now that’s gonna be a show. Can you even imagine those two on a date?”

“I can,” Batista said, chuckling as he leaned back in his chair, “and it’s gonna be hilarious.”

Deb grinned even wider. “I’m totally doing it. Dexter’s gonna freak. It’s gonna be so much fun.”

Masuka raised his hand. “Wait, wait, we have to make sure they don’t know it’s a joke. That’s the best part. A blind date… but neither of them knows who their date is. Classic.”

LaGuerta’s face softened as she considered it. “Doakes really needs to get out more,” she mused. “After his last relationship…”

“Don’t even get me started on that disaster,” Deb interrupted, “but yeah, he’s totally lonely. He just won’t admit it.”

“I don’t know if he’s ever going to admit it.” Masuka grinned. “But that’s where we come in. This is our chance to mess with him—and Dexter. You two in?” He looked between Batista, LaGuerta, and Deb.

“Count me in,” Batista said with a grin.

“Of course I’m in,” LaGuerta replied, a glint of mischief in her eyes.

“I’m the one who has to deal with the aftermath,” Deb said, rolling her eyes but grinning. “Fine, I’m in. But this is gonna be the best prank ever.”

They were all on board. But Deb knew getting Dexter to go along with it wasn’t going to be easy.

Dexter wasn’t like most of the guys in the precinct. Sure, he was polite, almost annoyingly nice—everyone loved him for it. He had that whole ‘charming guy next door’ vibe, always showing up with donuts for the team every morning, wearing his usual awkward but sweet grin. He was kind to everyone, and they were kind back, not because they had to be, but because he made it feel like the right thing to do.

But behind his smile and charm, Dexter was alone. No one knew that, of course. He’d perfected his mask over the years—the sweet, friendly face that everyone saw, the one that didn’t show how empty he really felt inside. Everyone thought he was the ‘good guy,’ the ‘normal’ guy. The guy who could be their friend, their coworker, their guy for moral advice. But it wasn’t that simple.

Dexter couldn’t let them see the truth. His real self was hidden in shadows, buried deep beneath a facade of normalcy. The truth was messy, dark, and dangerous. But no one ever suspected it. They didn’t need to know.

Still, Deb wasn’t going to let that stop her. She was determined to have some fun with this—and if it was at Dexter’s expense? Well, that was just a bonus.

“Alright, here’s the deal,” Deb said, leaning over to Masuka and Batista. “I’ll convince Dexter to go on the date. He’s my brother, so he’ll listen to me.” She grinned mischievously. “And when Doakes gets there, he’ll be the one who has no idea what hit him.”

Masuka smirked. “Just make sure Dexter doesn’t run for the hills before he shows up.”

“I’ll handle it,” Deb said confidently. “Now, what about Doakes? You know he’s not gonna go for this unless we really convince him.”

LaGuerta raised her eyebrows knowingly. “I’ve got that covered. He listens to me, and if I have to, I’ll guilt-trip him into it. You know, tell him he needs to live a little. He hasn’t dated anyone since his last mess of a relationship, and he’s getting older…”

Deb snickered. “Right, you’re gonna ‘encourage’ him into it.”

LaGuerta gave her a pointed look. “I’m going to help him.”

“I don’t see the issue,” Deb said, glancing at the clock. “It’s for his own good.”

“Right, sure, ‘help’ him,” Deb grinned. “Fine, whatever. You just make sure it happens.”

The next morning, Deb found Dexter in the break room, his usual cup of coffee in hand. He looked up when she entered, his smile warm but a little strained—he always looked like he was just a bit out of place.

“Hey, Dex,” she said, her grin already in place.

“Hey, Deb,” Dexter said, giving her a friendly nod. “What’s going on?”

She leaned against the counter, crossing her arms. “I’ve got something fun planned for you.”

Dexter raised an eyebrow. “Fun? You and ‘fun’ don’t usually go together.”

Deb rolled her eyes but didn’t let the smirk fade. “You need to get out more. I’m setting you up on a blind date.”

Dexter froze, his hand hovering above his mug. “What? A blind date?” He wasn’t panicking yet, but he could feel the first ripple of unease. “No, Deb. Absolutely not.”

“Come on, Dex,” she said, voice coaxing. “It’ll be fun. Everyone’s talking about it. You need this. Trust me, it’ll do you good to get out and, I dunno, talk to a person for once.” She grinned at the idea of pushing her brother out of his comfort zone.

Dexter shook his head, looking at her like she was out of her mind. “I don’t need to get ‘out’ anywhere. I’m fine. I’m… perfectly fine, just the way I am.”

“You know that’s bullshit,” Deb shot back, eyes sparkling with challenge. “You’ve been lonely, Dexter. Don’t deny it. You’re always so closed off. This is good for you.”

Dexter opened his mouth to argue again, but then Deb did what she did best. She pulled out the big guns.

“I already told everyone you’re in. You have to go.”

“You… You told everyone?” Dexter blinked, clearly thrown off.

Deb smirked. “Yup. And I made sure your date is gonna be, well, interesting.”

Dexter gave her a long, suspicious look. “Interesting? You’re up to something.”

“Maybe,” Deb grinned. “But it’ll be fun. You’ll thank me later.”

Dexter groaned under his breath, but it was too late now. “Fine. But you owe me.”

She chuckled, walking out of the room. “Deal.”

Meanwhile, LaGuerta was working her own magic on Doakes.

“I don’t need a date, LaGuerta,” Doakes grumbled, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

“Doakes, listen,” LaGuerta said softly, her eyes warm and insistent, “You need to get back out there. You’re still young. You deserve someone.”

He scowled. “I don’t need anyone.”

“You do,” she pressed. “And it’s about time you let someone take care of you, too.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “Fine. But only because you asked.”

She smiled gently, knowing she’d won.

The stage was set. Dexter and Doakes were about to meet on the worst—and best—date of their lives. Neither one knew what they were walking into. But everyone else? They couldn’t wait to see what happened next.

Both men stood in their respective spaces, each trying to act like they weren’t nervous. But neither could shake the growing unease that had settled deep in their bones. Dexter Morgan had spent his life masking his emotions. For him, everything was a performance. His whole life was a careful choreography of smiles, gestures, and words. But as he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, adjusting his collar for the third time, he couldn’t deny the discomfort creeping up his spine.

He wasn’t nervous. No, that wasn’t it. He was just… cautious. Paranoid.

His mind worked in overdrive, picking apart every little detail. A blind date. With who? A woman, obviously, but who? Why? What was the real reason Deb had pushed him into this? Why hadn’t she told him anything more? And why did he feel so unprepared?

The reflection staring back at him didn’t look like a man who was “just going along with it,” as Deb had suggested. No, he looked like someone who had been caught off guard—someone who had gotten tangled in a web they hadn’t seen coming.

The shirt he’d picked out—a crisp white button-down—felt suffocating. It was fine. No, it was perfect. But somehow, tonight, it didn’t feel like him. Was this what people wore on dates? Was this supposed to be his “charming” look?

He smoothed the fabric over his chest and let out a quiet, controlled breath. Maybe he was just overthinking it. Maybe it didn’t matter.

The thing was, Dexter had been taught to be careful, to question every single detail of a situation. It was part of his training, part of the mask he wore. But this time, it wasn’t just about the kill. It wasn’t about his dark passenger. It was about something much more human—and that made it even more terrifying.

He checked the time. If he was going to make it on time, he’d have to leave now.

---

Doakes, on the other hand, wasn’t quite as overwhelmed by his appearance. He stood in front of his closet, arms crossed over his chest, staring at the options before him with the same focused intensity he would give to any crime scene. What did he wear to a blind date? Hell, why did he even have to go on this stupid date?

He scowled at the suit hanging in front of him. Black. Classic. Safe. Was that too formal for this date? Hell, he didn’t even want to be on the date.

LaGuerta had practically guilt-tripped him into it. She had that sweet, coaxing way of making him feel like a total idiot for saying no. But he had to admit, there was something about her insistence that made it hard to argue.

As he pulled a dark blue shirt from his closet, he couldn’t help but wonder who he was even meeting. Was it a joke? Was this some kind of prank, like Masuka had said? He had no idea who this mystery person was. And that made him even more suspicious than usual.

He was a detective. It was his job to be suspicious. Always. So why was he feeling like he was walking into a trap? Like something wasn’t adding up.

He sighed, muttering under his breath as he tried to adjust his shirt. “This is ridiculous,” he grumbled. But the truth was, he hated the idea of being alone. He hated being the hard-ass loner cop, the guy who pushed people away. But he’d never admit it. Hell, he wouldn’t admit anything—especially not the unease he felt at the thought of a “date.”

Was he even good at this?

He checked the time, his gut telling him it was now or never. Sighing, he grabbed his jacket and left the apartment, hoping the night would end quickly.

---

The drive to the restaurant felt longer than it should have. Dexter tapped his fingers against the wheel, his eyes scanning the road, his mind a whirlwind of theories and suspicions. He was definitely paranoid. But this? This felt… wrong. There was something off. Why would Deb set him up with a blind date? What was their game? And why did he have this feeling in his gut that it wasn’t just about finding someone to date?

His grip tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles white. He forced himself to breathe, trying to calm the storm in his head. It was just a date. It wasn’t that serious. Was it?

But then, a thought hit him: What if this was some kind of test?

---

Doakes, meanwhile, was gripping the steering wheel just as tightly, his jaw clenched. He hated the feeling of being vulnerable—exposed. His hands were still a little stiff from the tension he carried all day, but as he drove to the restaurant, the anticipation was starting to get under his skin. Was he about to meet someone who was going to turn his whole world upside down? Probably not. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight wasn’t going to go as smoothly as he’d hoped.

He wanted to turn around. Drive right back home. Stay in his comfortable silence. But something made him continue, made him follow through.

And it wasn’t LaGuerta’s gentle persuasion either. It was the nagging voice in his head, whispering that maybe, just maybe, there was something more to all this.

---

As they both approached the restaurant, Dexter and Doakes couldn’t help but wonder if tonight was going to be something that would change everything—or if it would be a total disaster. Neither man had a clue who they were about to meet. And as they walked inside, both felt a growing tension, a strange, inexplicable force pulling them into the unknown.

They were about to come face-to-face with more than just a blind date.

They were about to come face-to-face with each other.

Dexter was the first to arrive, his nerves starting to gnaw at him more as the minutes passed. The restaurant, a modest spot tucked away on a side street, was surprisingly empty—just a couple sitting in the back corner, sipping wine, and an older gentleman at the bar nursing a drink. It made sense, he supposed, being a Tuesday night and all, but the silence only made the situation feel more surreal. The low hum of the overhead lights felt oppressive. He wasn’t sure why he was so anxious. It wasn’t like he was here for any serious reason. It wasn’t like he needed to be here at all. But something about the idea of being set up by his sister and LaGuerta had set off a strange, nervous energy in his chest.

Dexter adjusted his jacket again, trying to appear like he wasn’t scrutinizing every little detail, from the polished silverware to the wine glasses lined up on the table like soldiers. His fingers tapped against the table absentmindedly, his mind running wild with scenarios. Was this a joke? Was Deb going to walk in tomorrow, laughing her ass off, while Doakes cracked a beer in the break room and acted like nothing had happened?

His grip on the glass in front of him tightened. This whole thing felt… off. Too quiet. Too calm.

Just then, the door jingled open. Dexter’s head snapped up, his breath catching for a moment.

And there he was.

Doakes.

Of course, Dexter recognized him immediately. He was hard to miss. Muscular, tall for a guy, but stockier and broader in the shoulders. The way Doakes carried himself, like he didn’t give a damn about anyone or anything, made him stand out even more. And then there was the glare, the signature look Doakes always wore—like everything in the world was a problem he’d yet to solve.

But now, as Dexter took in the look on his face—those narrowed eyes scanning the room—it became immediately clear that Doakes wasn’t exactly in the best mood. Dexter felt his stomach tighten. He was hoping Doakes didn’t notice him, but that was clearly a pipe dream.

Doakes locked eyes with him. There was a split second where Dexter thought about looking away, but instead, he just sat there, feeling oddly calm—like he was just waiting for the storm to hit.

And then it did.

Doakes walked up to his table with that familiar, gruff swagger, and in his voice, there was an edge that could’ve sliced through glass.

“Funny. I was wondering who else could possibly be dumb enough to fall for this. Guess I found my answer,” Doakes said, his voice low, annoyed. He didn’t bother to take his jacket off, instead walking toward Dexter like he was ready to punch someone in the face. “What is this, huh? Some elaborate prank?”

Dexter raised an eyebrow, trying to mask his growing frustration. He wasn’t sure if it was because Doakes was pissed off or because he’d been right about this whole thing being a joke. “I don’t know, man,” Dexter replied casually, leaning back in his chair. “I’m starting to think it’s some kind of sick joke myself. Who the hell would sign us up for this?”

Doakes gritted his teeth. “I’m gonna tell you right now: this whole thing stinks. You’re probably in on it, huh? Some kind of prank to make me look like an idiot?”

Dexter chuckled, his voice dry. “Trust me, I’m as surprised as you are.” He waved a hand in the air, mocking the entire situation. “Honestly, I thought I’d get to the restaurant, see the place empty, and walk right back out. It’s like LaGuerta’s little revenge scheme or something.”

Doakes narrowed his eyes at him, but the skepticism was clear. He didn’t believe Dexter. “Yeah, sure,” he grumbled, crossing his arms. “I’m not buying it. I’ve seen the way you act—always looking like you’re up to something.”

Dexter smirked, but his smile was thin. “Wouldn’t surprise me if you thought I was the one who planned all this.”

Doakes was about to say something else when he stopped and looked toward the door, almost like he was ready to bolt. But before he could make any move to leave, he grunted and pulled out the chair across from Dexter.

“Fine. Whatever,” Doakes muttered. “I’m already here, so I might as well stay. But I’m not staying for some stupid joke. I’m here because I’m hungry.”

Dexter couldn’t hide the faint chuckle that escaped him, even though the situation still felt off. “Well, I’m not here for the food,” Dexter said, his tone flat. “But I’m sure we can agree on one thing: this whole thing’s ridiculous.”

Doakes looked around, the anger still simmering behind his eyes, but it was obvious he was stuck now. “I don’t know what LaGuerta was thinking, but I know she had something to do with this,” he muttered. “She’s always been too persuasive for her own good.” He leaned back in his chair, resting his elbows on the table, and cast a long look at Dexter. “And you, you just don’t give a damn, do you? I’m sure you’re loving this.”

Dexter, who had been trying to stay detached, leaned in a little, his voice cold but with just a touch of sarcasm. “You know, for someone who claims not to care, you’re making this pretty entertaining.” He was almost impressed by Doakes’s ability to hold onto his frustration like it was a badge of honor.

Doakes shot him a sharp look. “I’m not here to entertain you, Dexter.”

“Clearly,” Dexter said dryly. “But I think I’m the one who’s getting the better deal here. At least I’m not complaining about being here.”

Doakes’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, it looked like he was about to snap back with something cutting. Instead, he sighed, rubbed his face, and then muttered, “I’m just here because LaGuerta wouldn’t stop pushing me to come.” He didn’t look up at Dexter, but his tone had shifted slightly. “You think this whole thing’s a joke too?”

Dexter shrugged, still leaning back in his chair. “Of course. But we both know that doesn’t make it any less ridiculous. LaGuerta and Deb think they can just fix everything by playing matchmaker. They think they know what’s best for us.”

Doakes snorted. “Yeah, they’re great at fixing people, huh?” He crossed his arms again, though there was a slight change in his posture now—less rigid, less ready to fight.

A quiet pause settled between them, the awkwardness lingering in the air like smoke.

“Still don’t trust you,” Doakes muttered, eyes flicking to Dexter with suspicion. “Don’t know why, but you’re the kind of guy who makes people uncomfortable. Always got that weird smile. What’s it really for?”

Dexter’s eyes narrowed slightly, his expression sharpening but staying just as impassive. “If you don’t like it, don’t look.” His voice was cool, but there was an underlying edge to it—a subtle warning, like he was done with this line of questioning.

Doakes grunted, leaning back in his chair. “No need to get defensive. I’m just saying. Something about you never adds up.”

“Funny,” Dexter responded dryly, not missing a beat, “I could say the same about you.”

Doakes glared at him, but it wasn’t as hostile as before. “Whatever. Doesn’t mean I trust you.”

Dexter just let the silence hang there for a moment, not pushing it any further. If there was one thing he had learned over the years, it was that you didn’t give up secrets to anyone—not unless you had to. Not unless they earned it.

The silence lingered for a few more seconds, both men settled in their respective discomforts. Just as Doakes was about to say something else—probably to throw another accusation Dexter’s way—a waiter came up to their table, interrupting the stale standoff.

"Good evening, gentlemen," the waiter greeted, his tone polite but professional. "Can I get you something to drink to start?"

Doakes opened his mouth, but Dexter spoke first, his voice smooth and effortless, though his eyes stayed focused on Doakes.

"I’ll have an iced tea," Dexter said, almost too quickly, as if it was a safe, neutral choice.

Doakes shot him a quick glance, the suspicion still there. But he didn’t hesitate. “Same,” he grumbled.

The waiter looked between the two of them, a flicker of amusement crossing his face, but he didn’t comment. "Iced tea, two of them," he confirmed, and turned to leave.

Dexter raised an eyebrow once the waiter was out of earshot. "You sure you can handle something as mild as iced tea?" he asked, his tone light, but there was an undercurrent of challenge in it.

Doakes shrugged, his usual scowl taking over his face. “I don’t need anything fancy to get through a drink.”

Dexter snorted softly. “Fair enough. Can’t say I’ve ever seen you as the kind of guy to go for a martini or something.”

“Don’t get too comfortable, Morgan,” Doakes warned, leaning forward slightly. “You still haven’t earned that level of familiarity with me.”

Dexter leaned back in his chair, his eyes flicking around the restaurant, scanning the few remaining customers. “Guess you’re not much for small talk either.”

“I’m not here for small talk, Morgan,” Doakes muttered, crossing his arms. “I’m just here because LaGuerta guilt-tripped me. Same reason you’re here. I’d rather be doing a million other things than… this.”

"Same," Dexter replied, but his lips quirked at the edge, like he was holding back a laugh. "But hey, at least we’re not pretending this is some romantic rendezvous."

Doakes looked up at him sharply, then shook his head. “I don’t need your sarcasm, man.”

Dexter’s eyes glinted with something resembling amusement. “Yeah, I’m not really good at pretending, either.”

They both fell silent as the waiter returned with their drinks, placing the iced teas in front of them. Neither of them said anything for a while, the weight of the tension still hanging thick in the air.

But, despite themselves, a little bit of the animosity had softened, like the beginning of a crack in an otherwise solid wall. Neither of them was admitting it, but the dynamic between them was starting to change.

The silence stretched between them, thick and unyielding, until the waiter returned, breaking the moment with a soft smile.

“Iced tea for both of you,” he said, placing the drinks down with a practiced ease.

Doakes grunted his thanks, but his eyes never left Dexter. The man opposite him just seemed too calm, too collected for someone he barely knew—too… pleasant, in a way that made Doakes uneasy. Dexter's smile never reached his eyes, his posture too easy, too open. It didn’t sit right with him.

"Thanks," Dexter said, his voice still smooth, his eyes flicking over Doakes briefly before he leaned back in his chair. He took a slow sip of the iced tea, his eyes lingering on Doakes.

Doakes followed suit, lifting his glass and taking a long drink. His eyes narrowed as he set the glass down. “So... why’d you agree to this anyway?” he asked, his tone still a little gruff, but there was something else there—curiosity, maybe, or maybe he just didn’t trust Dexter enough to leave it alone.

Dexter raised an eyebrow, swirling his tea slowly. “Debra twisted my arm, same as you. Thought I’d humor her.”

“Humor her,” Doakes muttered under his breath, his brow furrowing. He didn't buy it—not for a second. But he didn’t push it further. Instead, he leaned forward, his tone turning sharp. “What about you, Morgan? You actually look like you enjoy being here, sitting with me, in the middle of this whole mess. What’s your deal? You got some secret agenda?”

Dexter's lips curled, his smile a little more genuine now. “I don’t have an agenda, Doakes. I’m just trying to be the nice guy... for once.”

Doakes couldn’t help but scoff. “You’re nice? That’s your angle? Because all I’ve seen is you being a bit too perfect. Too good for your own good.”

Dexter took another sip of his drink, meeting Doakes’ gaze head-on. “You think I’m perfect?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Morgan,” Doakes shot back, but his voice was laced with something softer—something he quickly buried under the weight of his own words. “I just think it’s all too damn convenient. Too rehearsed. Like you're playing a role or something."

The words landed heavier than he’d intended, and for a moment, it felt like the air in the restaurant had thickened between them. Dexter’s eyes flickered, his expression unreadable for a moment, before he set the glass down gently.

“You’re right,” Dexter said slowly, his voice low. “I play a role. We all do, right? But that’s life, Doakes. We all wear masks. Some of us wear them better than others.”

The words hung in the air like a challenge, but there was something different in Dexter’s eyes now—something less guarded. The casual mask he wore in front of others seemed to be slipping, just a little.

Doakes took a deep breath, but for the first time, there was less anger in it. Less frustration. He leaned back in his chair, his arms crossing over his chest once more.

“I’m not like you, Morgan. I don’t fake my way through life. I don’t pretend to be something I’m not,” Doakes said, a hint of defensiveness creeping in. But his eyes didn’t leave Dexter’s, a weird mix of annoyance and something else simmering underneath.

Dexter smirked, a little breathless, but something dangerous flickered in his eyes. “No, you just let people see the anger, the sarcasm, the attitude. That’s your mask, Doakes."

Doakes’ jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he took another drink, trying to cover up whatever weird feeling was creeping into his chest. Something about Dexter’s words had hit too close to home. Something about his calmness, his openness, even if it was a mask—Dexter’s ability to hide it all so effortlessly made Doakes feel… exposed.

For a moment, they just stared at each other, neither of them saying a word. There was something magnetic about the way they sat there, inches apart, but with the whole restaurant between them. Dexter could feel it—a pulse in the air, a tension that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t hate anymore. It was something else.

“Guess we both wear masks, then,” Dexter said quietly, his voice a little softer now. He didn’t smile this time, but his eyes were… more open, more vulnerable than Doakes had ever seen.

Doakes didn’t say anything, but he found himself staring back, his heart pounding harder in his chest. He couldn’t quite place it, but something about the way Dexter spoke, the way he looked at him, made the tension feel different. Less like confrontation and more like... something else. Something a little too close to the truth.

Finally, Doakes broke the silence, his voice gruff, but with something quieter under it. “Whatever, Morgan. You’re still an enigma. I don’t get you.”

Dexter chuckled, low and almost teasing. “Guess you’re gonna have to spend more time with me to figure it out.”

Doakes shot him a sidelong glance. “I don’t have time for this, Morgan.”

“Sure you do,” Dexter replied, leaning in slightly. “You’re not going anywhere, are you?”

And there it was—something between them, unspoken but undeniably there. Neither of them could fully shake it, but for the first time, neither of them really wanted to.

The waiter returned, a polite smile plastered on his face as he pulled out a small notepad. “Are you two ready to order?”

Dexter glanced at the menu briefly, though he already knew what he wanted. “I’ll take the ribeye, medium-rare,” he said without hesitation, handing the menu back. “And an extra side of mashed potatoes.”

Doakes raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t take you for a steak guy.”

Dexter smirked slightly. “Why? You think I just drink protein shakes and chew on celery?”

“No,” Doakes said, narrowing his eyes. “Just didn’t think you had much of an appetite.”

Dexter tilted his head slightly. “You’d be surprised.”

Doakes gave him a long, scrutinizing look before turning back to the waiter. “I’ll take the same. But make mine rare.”

Dexter’s smirk deepened. “Didn’t take you for a rare steak guy.”

Doakes scoffed. “What, you think I drink protein shakes and chew on celery?”

Dexter let out a quiet chuckle—an actual chuckle, and it was the first time Doakes had ever heard something resembling a real laugh from him. It wasn’t that fake, rehearsed chuckle he sometimes let out at work, the one that never quite reached his eyes. This one was… real.

Doakes’ expression faltered just slightly before he waved the waiter away. As soon as they were alone again, he leaned forward slightly, his arms resting on the table. “Alright, let’s get something straight—this ain’t a date.”

Dexter raised an eyebrow, lifting his glass of iced tea to his lips. “Did I say it was?”

“No, but you’re sitting there, looking way too comfortable for someone who just got blindsided into this whole thing.” Doakes’ eyes studied him carefully, like he was waiting for Dexter to slip up, to give something away.

Dexter took a slow sip before setting his glass down, his fingers tapping absently against the table. “What can I say? I adapt. Besides, you’re the one still sitting here.”

Doakes exhaled sharply through his nose, irritated that Dexter had a point. He could’ve left—should’ve left—but here he was, still across from him, still entertained by whatever the hell this was. Maybe it was just hunger keeping him here, or maybe—just maybe—it was the fact that Dexter was so goddamn hard to figure out.

“Still think you’re part of this setup,” Doakes muttered, shaking his head.

Dexter smirked, resting his chin on his hand. “And I still think you’re just mad because LaGuerta played you.”

Doakes clenched his jaw, but before he could respond, the waiter returned with their food. The plates were placed in front of them, steam rising from the freshly cooked steaks. Dexter’s eyes lit up slightly as he picked up his knife and fork, cutting into his steak with a practiced ease.

Doakes watched him for a moment before shaking his head. “You eat like a man who hasn’t had a meal in days.”

Dexter shrugged, not even bothering to deny it as he took another bite. “What can I say? I like food.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Doakes muttered, still watching him with a suspicious squint. “And yet you somehow stay in shape. You got a gym routine or something?”

Dexter glanced up, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing. “Something like that.”

Doakes wasn’t sure if that was a real answer or just another one of Dexter’s vague deflections. Either way, he let it go for now, cutting into his own steak. The two of them ate in relative silence for a while, the only sounds between them the clinking of silverware and the occasional sip of their drinks.

For all his initial irritation, Doakes had to admit—it wasn’t the worst company he’d ever had. Sure, Dexter was still shady as hell, but there was something strangely easy about sitting here with him, even with the tension lingering in the air.

Dexter, for his part, wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that he didn’t mind sitting here with Doakes either. There was something almost… amusing about watching him try to figure him out, like a puzzle Doakes couldn’t quite put together.

And for the first time in a long time, Dexter wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to be figured out.

The meal went by smoother than either of them expected. There were still jabs—Doakes’ suspicion never wavered, and Dexter, as always, played along with that unreadable smirk—but something about the dinner itself felt… easy.

Too easy.

Doakes finished his steak, setting his utensils down as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Gotta say, I didn’t think I’d be able to sit through a whole meal with you.”

Dexter wiped his mouth with a napkin, raising an eyebrow. “And yet, here we are.”

Doakes exhaled sharply through his nose. “Yeah. Here we are.”

Before either of them could say anything else, the waiter returned, placing the check neatly between them with a polite smile. “You two make a great couple, by the way. It’s always nice seeing people enjoy a quiet dinner together.”

Silence.

A beat passed where neither of them moved. Neither breathed.

Then—

“The hell did you just say?” Doakes’ voice was sharp, incredulous. His posture stiffened, his entire body tensing as he stared at the waiter like he’d just pulled a gun on him.

The waiter, suddenly realizing he may have stepped into dangerous territory, blinked in surprise. “Oh! Uh—sorry, I just assumed—”

“Assumed what?” Doakes’ tone was tight, eyes narrowing.

Dexter, meanwhile, was barely holding back a grin. He watched the scene unfold like an observer at a crime scene, cataloging every small movement, every little twitch of Doakes’ eyebrow as he struggled to process what had just been implied.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Doakes muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. “First I get blindsided into this setup, and now people think I’m dating you?”

Dexter tilted his head slightly. “There are worse things.”

Doakes snapped his gaze to him so fast Dexter thought he might actually combust. “Worse things?”

Dexter lifted his hands in mock surrender, still wearing that smug little smirk. “I mean, we did share a meal together. Good food, good drinks. Technically, if you squint, this could be considered—”

“Don’t you dare say it.”

Dexter’s smirk widened. “A date.”

Doakes looked like he was about to flip the table.

The waiter took an awkward step back, mumbling an apology before scurrying off, leaving the check behind. Dexter, still amused, grabbed it and glanced at the total.

“I’ll cover it,” he said, pulling out his wallet.

“The hell you will.” Doakes reached for his own wallet, eyes still flashing with irritation.

Dexter shrugged. “Consider it a peace offering.”

Doakes narrowed his eyes, but after a moment, he sighed heavily, shaking his head. “Fine. But next time, I pay.”

Dexter raised an eyebrow. “Next time?”

Doakes froze, as if realizing what he just said. His jaw clenched. “Not like that. Just—next time I get stuck eating with your weird ass, I’m paying.”

Dexter hummed, sliding his card into the checkbook. “If you say so.”

Another silence stretched between them, this one heavier than before. Something unspoken lingered in the air, something neither of them could name but both could feel.

It was annoying.

Doakes ran a hand over his face again before shaking his head. “I’m outta here.”

Dexter nodded, standing as well. “See you at work.”

They walked out together, not quite side by side, but close enough that it felt… unnatural. Like something had shifted between them in a way they couldn’t take back.

As they reached the parking lot, they both hesitated. There was no reason to linger—no reason to stand there like something was still left unsaid.

And yet, neither of them moved.

Doakes was the first to break the silence. “Don’t go thinking this means I trust you.”

Dexter nodded, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Doakes stared at him for a second longer before scoffing and turning away, heading toward his car.

Dexter watched him go, his smirk finally fading into something more thoughtful.

He didn’t know what just happened.

And he didn’t like not knowing.

The fluorescent lights in the bullpen cast their usual sterile glow, but something felt… off. Maybe it was just Doakes’ mood, which was noticeably worse than usual. He stormed through the precinct, his jaw tight, his glare cutting through anyone who dared to get in his way.

Dexter, meanwhile, carried his usual pink box of donuts, smiling in that friendly, practiced way as he set them down on the breakroom table. Everything was normal. Everything was fine.

Until Masuka showed up.

“You two looked cozy last night,” Masuka teased, wagging his eyebrows as he leaned against Dexter’s desk.

Doakes, who had been on his way to not engage with this nonsense, stopped mid-step. “What the hell are you talking about, Masuka?”

“Oh, c’mon, man,” Masuka grinned, reveling in the attention. “Tuesday night. Small restaurant. Dim lighting. A private table. Looked like a date to me.”

Doakes’ nostrils flared. “You been spying on me, you little pervert?”

Masuka cackled. “Dude, half the department knows. Word gets around fast. Someone saw you two real friendly-like.”

Dexter, to his credit, looked completely unbothered, biting into his donut like Masuka’s words were background noise.

Doakes, however, was not unbothered.

“That wasn’t a damn date,” he snapped, stepping closer, towering over Masuka. “That was a setup. Some bullshit LaGuerta and Deb cooked up, and I—” He cut himself off before he could admit anything further, but Masuka was already grinning like he had won the lottery.

“Riiight,” Masuka drawled. “So you’re saying you didn’t have a candlelit moment? Didn’t gaze into each other’s eyes over a nice meal?”

Doakes looked about five seconds away from throwing Masuka across the bullpen.

Dexter, ever the picture of calm, simply dusted off his hands and stood. “I think the lesson here, Masuka,” he said with a pleasant smile, “is that you shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

Masuka smirked. “Whatever you say, lover boy.”

Doakes growled something under his breath and stalked off, leaving Masuka laughing behind him.

Despite his loud insistence that the night before had been a disaster, something weird started happening.

Doakes, for some reason, kept coming around.

It started subtly. He would stop by Dexter’s lab, arms crossed, scowling as he asked for case updates that he didn’t need.

“What you got, Morgan?” Doakes would ask, leaning over Dexter’s workstation.

Dexter, half the time, didn’t even have new findings, but that didn’t stop Doakes from showing up anyway.

Then, even weirder, one morning when Dexter offered the usual box of donuts, Doakes took one.

He had never taken one before. Not once.

Dexter didn’t say anything, but when Doakes bit into the pastry, their eyes met for just a second too long. Doakes narrowed his eyes, like he knew Dexter was internally laughing at him, but instead of snapping, he just shook his head and walked off.

Dexter watched him go, chewing thoughtfully.

This was... interesting.

The sun had barely started its descent when the call came in—an ongoing hostage situation at an abandoned warehouse near the docks. Miami Metro had been tracking a suspect for weeks, a man responsible for a string of brutal killings, and now it seemed he had taken his next victim.

Doakes and Dexter arrived on scene at the same time, but for very different reasons. Doakes, as one of the department’s most aggressive officers, was called in to help handle negotiations or, more likely, force entry. Dexter, on the other hand, had taken it upon himself to visit the scene under the guise of blood spatter analysis—because if there was a killer inside, he wanted to see him firsthand.

“This isn’t your damn crime scene, Morgan,” Doakes snapped as they approached the perimeter. “Why the hell are you even here?”

Dexter offered his usual placid smile. “Just thought I’d lend a hand.”

“Bullshit.”

Before Doakes could push the issue further, the radio crackled. “Shots fired inside. Possible hostage down.”

That was all it took. Doakes grabbed his weapon and moved in, and Dexter, without hesitation, followed.

Inside, the air was thick with dust and the sharp scent of old metal. The place was a maze of rusting machinery and crates stacked high, making every corner a blind spot. The suspect was somewhere inside, armed and unpredictable.

And then—

A gunshot.

Doakes barely had time to react before Dexter shoved him down behind cover, the bullet narrowly missing them both.

“Shit!” Doakes barked, pressing himself against a metal column. He whipped around, gun ready, scanning the darkness. He turned to Dexter, breathing heavy. “You really shouldn’t be here, lab geek.”

Dexter, still oddly calm despite almost being shot, merely tilted his head. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Doakes huffed but said nothing, his attention shifting back to the threat ahead.

The suspect was moving. They could hear the shuffle of footsteps, the labored breathing of a man who knew he was cornered. Doakes signaled for Dexter to stay back—though he doubted the forensic tech would actually listen—and pressed forward.

The next few moments happened fast.

A figure lunged from the shadows, knocking Doakes' gun away. A struggle broke out—brutal and unrelenting. The suspect was stronger than he looked, but Doakes was trained for this. He landed a few solid blows, but the man was desperate, crazed.

And then Dexter moved.

With an eerie smoothness, he stepped in at the perfect moment, twisting the suspect’s arm back with a precision that was too practiced, too efficient. For a brief second, Doakes wasn’t sure who was more dangerous—the suspect, or the man who had just incapacitated him like it was second nature.

The fight ended with the suspect groaning on the ground, wrists locked in Doakes’ cuffs.

For a long moment, the two men just stood there, breathing heavy.

Doakes looked at Dexter. Not just looked, but studied him.

Dexter stared back, his expression unreadable.

“You’ve done that before,” Doakes muttered, voice low.

Dexter simply smiled, stepping back, letting the moment settle between them. “I watch a lot of action movies.”

Doakes didn’t buy that for a second.

And now, more than ever, he wanted to know what the hell Dexter Morgan was hiding.

Later that night, Dexter sat alone in his apartment, the only sound the soft hum of the ceiling fan overhead. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the wooden armrest of his chair, his mind replaying the events at the warehouse.

His Dark Passenger had been thrilled.

Not just by the violence, not just by the scent of blood in the air, but by something else. Something new.

Dexter clenched his jaw, staring down at his hands. The Passenger wasn’t whispering for a kill this time—it wasn’t urging him toward his usual hunt. Instead, it stirred with something unfamiliar. A different kind of hunger. A different kind of want.

And that was almost more unsettling than the urge to kill.

His mind drifted back to Doakes, the way the man had looked at him after he took down the suspect. That sharp, piercing suspicion. That disbelief. For a split second, he thought Doakes was going to call him out on it right then and there. But instead, the sergeant had just stood there, jaw tight, breathing heavy.

Dexter knew the look of a man at war with himself.

Doakes owed him. And he fucking hated that.

The idea of it made Dexter smile—a real one this time, not the practiced kind he wore like armor.

The next morning at the station, Dexter barely made it through the doors before Masuka called out, loud and obnoxious as ever.

“So, Romeo, how was your hot date?”

Dexter didn’t react outwardly, just tilted his head slightly. “It was unexpected.”

“Bet it was.” Masuka waggled his eyebrows. “So? You and Doakes gonna be a thing now, or what?”

Dexter didn’t get a chance to reply before Doakes stormed in, shoulders tense, eyes locking onto Masuka like a heat-seeking missile.

“The fuck did you just say?”

Masuka held up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, man, no judgment! Just saying, you guys did disappear at the same time, and neither of you have denied it yet…”

Doakes was on him in an instant, looming over the smaller man. “I don’t have time for your bullshit today, Vince.”

“Ohhh, someone’s defensive,” Masuka grinned, clearly enjoying himself.

Dexter watched the exchange, amused. Doakes didn’t deny it either.

But as much as Doakes bristled at the joke, Dexter could feel his presence more than ever. Throughout the morning, the sergeant kept hovering near him, checking in on the case, asking for updates he didn’t actually need. The man was watching him closer than usual, but this time, there was something else layered beneath the suspicion. Something that made Dexter’s Dark Passenger lean forward in interest.

Doakes didn’t trust him.

But now, he owed him.

And Dexter wondered just how much he could get away with before Doakes realized the real danger wasn’t in owing him.

It was in liking him.

A Dangerous Shift

Doakes told himself he was just being thorough. That’s why he found himself near Dexter’s lab more than usual. That’s why he kept checking in, asking about the case, keeping an eye on him.

But even he knew that was bullshit.

Ever since the hostage situation, something had changed. That was the problem. He should feel grateful that Dexter pulled that move, should feel relieved that the bastard saved his ass. Instead, it just made his skin crawl.

Because something about it was off.

Dexter wasn’t a fighter. Not in the way a cop was. But he moved too fast, too precise. He wasn’t just a lab geek who got lucky—Doakes had seen enough violence to recognize when a man knew what he was doing.

And Dexter Morgan knew exactly what he was doing.

But even with that thought bouncing around his head, Doakes found himself lingering at the damn forensics lab anyway. It started small. Asking for updates. Requesting prints he didn’t actually need yet. But now, he was standing here, arms crossed, watching as Dexter finished examining a blood sample.

Dexter, for his part, barely acknowledged him. He was too focused, too at ease, as if Doakes' presence didn’t bother him at all.

Which just pissed Doakes off even more.

“So what, you just gonna camp outside my office from now on?” Dexter finally asked, not looking up from his microscope.

Doakes scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself. You got anything useful, or am I wasting my damn time?”

Dexter finally looked up, his usual pleasant expression in place. “You’re always wasting your time, Sergeant.”

Doakes’ jaw twitched. That smug son of a bitch.

Before he could respond, Masuka’s voice cut in from the hallway. “Damn, Doakes, you’re hovering worse than a jealous girlfriend.”

Doakes turned so fast Masuka actually took a step back. “The fuck you just say?”

Masuka grinned, clearly unbothered by the murderous look he was getting. “Relax, I’m just saying—it’s kinda cute. Maybe you two should just get it over with already. You’ve been staring at each other all damn week.”

Dexter, instead of reacting, just smirked and turned back to his microscope. “He does seem very invested in my whereabouts.”

Doakes swore under his breath. “I’ll shoot both of you.”

“Damn, romantic and violent,” Masuka teased. “You’re really sending mixed signals here, buddy.”

Doakes stormed out of the lab before he actually did shoot somebody.

But when he got back to his desk, the first thing he saw was the donut Dexter had left on it.

And the worst part? He fucking ate it.

———

Meanwhile, across the department, Dexter leaned against Deb’s desk.

“Having fun?” she asked, barely looking up from her paperwork.

Dexter raised an eyebrow. “With?”

Deb gestured vaguely in the direction of Doakes’ desk. “Your new boyfriend.”

Dexter chuckled. “Jealous?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Please. I just think it’s funny how you two went from barely speaking to whatever this is. The guy hated your guts, and now he’s suddenly spending more time with you than his own damn partner.”

Dexter just shrugged. “Maybe he’s starting to like me.”

Deb snorted. “Oh, yeah. Because everyone likes you, Dexter.”

Dexter smiled. His usual, practiced smile. The one that hid everything.

But what unnerved him now—what truly unsettled him—was that ever since that night with Doakes, ever since everything, his Dark Passenger wasn’t pushing him toward his next kill.

It was pushing him toward something else.

And that was almost more dangerous.

Doakes was done pretending.

Whatever the fuck was going on with Dexter Morgan, he was going to figure it out.

The way the guy moved, the way he reacted in that hostage situation—Doakes had seen trained killers before. He had been a trained killer before. And yet, somehow, Dexter was slipping through the cracks, smiling his fake-ass smile, acting like just another lab geek.

It was pissing him off.

So, fine. If Dexter wanted to play this game, Doakes would play.

Which was exactly why, when he saw Morgan heading toward his car after work, Doakes fell into step beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Dexter glanced at him. “And to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Doakes scoffed. “Cut the shit. You and me—case duty tomorrow.”

Dexter raised an eyebrow. “You need my help?”

“No,” Doakes said flatly. “But I want to see how you work.”

There. He saw it. Something. A flicker in Dexter’s eyes—barely there, but enough for Doakes to know he had rattled him.

Dexter recovered fast, giving him that too perfect grin. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”

Doakes grunted. He already knew the bastard wouldn’t. And that’s what worried him.

———

The next morning, Dexter found himself wedged into Doakes’ car, heading toward a fresh crime scene.

It was odd. Usually, Dexter chose when to be around Doakes. When to push and when to pull back. Now, Doakes was keeping him close, as if he was trying to box him in, waiting for him to slip up.

Not that Dexter would. He never did.

“Alright, Morgan,” Doakes said as they pulled up to the scene. “Let’s see what you got.”

Dexter played along. He walked through the blood spatter, analyzed the impact, did what he always did. But he could feel Doakes’ eyes on him the entire time, watching like a predator.

Which was funny, considering Dexter was the real predator here.

Still, something about Doakes being this close, this relentless, was different. It wasn’t like the usual people who ignored him, who let him slide by unnoticed. Doakes saw things. He noticed things. And that should’ve made Dexter more cautious, should have made him more irritated.

Instead…

Instead, it made his Dark Passenger hum.

Not in the usual way. Not in the way that signaled a hunt, the thrill of a kill. It was something else. Something unfamiliar.

And Dexter wasn’t sure if he liked that.

———

By the time they got back to the station, Masuka wasted no time stirring the pot.

“You two really are attached at the hip now, huh?” he mused, grinning like an asshole. “First a date, now working cases together? This is getting serious.”

Doakes shot him a glare. “Shut the fuck up.”

Dexter just smiled. “He’s growing on me.”

Doakes clenched his jaw. He wanted to punch him. But the worst part?

He didn’t hate this as much as he should.