Work Text:
Dexter shoved his key into the keyhole after about three missed attempts, and wobbled into the condo on legs more befitting a newborn deer than a grown-ass man. He threw his bag on the floor, removed his bloody black shirt, and tossed himself onto the couch. A groan of exhaustion left his body as though it were steam leaving a freshly uncovered pot.
Masuka sat on the countertop with his cereal, spoon halfway up, mouth agape, eyes locked onto his roommate's shockingly muscular and pretty torso. A cute layer of fat carpeted his obvious muscles. Freckles splattered all over his body like the blood splattered on his shoes and hair.
Without a word, he hopped off, left his late-night snack in the sink, and fetched a spare blanket from a linen closet. Once he tossed it onto Dexter, he went back to bed, obviously in more need of something to quiet the gay thoughts that something to feed them.
Doakes burst into the lab, ready to pick a fight with that fuckin’ freak Morgan, when he stopped cold.
He.
Was.
Asleep.
Not napping either. Not resting his eyes, not meditating, literally snoring like a saw ripping through sandalwood. They had what felt like 50 cases, everybody stretched thin, and this fuckin’ bastard was asleep, like everyone else was beneath him and his elegant posture.
Look at that shit. Poised like some kinda’ statue people say is important to art history or whateva, that people don’t look at for anything besides the exposed junk.
Speaking of, leaning across the chair, arms not linked, just tossed behind the cocked-back head, legs wide open, was really a good look on him-what?
Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, what?
Yeah, we can, um. Talk about that later.
The fuck?
Doakes made a speedy tactical retreat. When Debra asked where her brother was, he was not listening at all. If Dexter wanted to fall asleep and run the risk of getting yelled at by his coworker, boss, or blood, he wasn’t covering his ass for him.
Damn, now he was think’n ‘bout Morgan’s ass.
LaGuerta walked down to the bloodstain-pattern analysis lab, heels clicking annoyingly loud on the smooth floors. Flipping through the latest case reminded her it was definitely a bit of an odd one. A man was found in a room with very, very odd bloodstains surrounding him. Dexter hadn’t been able to make a satisfying diagnosis on what exactly had happened to him, even what had done it to him, so he was spending the better part of an hour toying away in the ‘physical work’ lab, trying to manually re-create the attack.
She leaned nicely against the wall to the left side of the door, checking her hair in her mirror. She also ensured she didn’t have lipstick or anything in her teeth. She once had a very nice conversation with Dexter, and only after his sister pointed it out, realized she had spinach in her teeth from her lunch wrap.
Wildly embarrassing. But very in-character for Dex to be too polite to say anything. Probably didn’t want to put her on the spot.
He was always thoughtful like that.
She clipped her mirror shut, fluffed her hair up slightly, and pushed the door open. Inside was a white expanse of a room, so the blood stood out as obviously as possible. There was a shelf of sorts, with items that could have potentially caused the injuries laid out. All big pieces, a long hunk of metal that probably came from some machinery, a pipe, wooden bat, and in Dexter’s muscular, thick hands, raised high above his head, a sledgehammer.
He looked like he’d been dunked in white paint. White gown with a white hood, and a face mask. The only color on him was his blue nitrile gloves.
That, and of course, those striking eyes, and perfectly tanned skin.
He looked so passionate, so focused. They were lasered in on a specific spot on the test dummy head, right where the most severe injury on the victim was as well. The full-body coverage did near nothing to hide his awe-inspiring physique. He was obviously strong, and not given a showy, body-builder figure. He was strong in a practical sense, strong like a working man. Strong like someone who could show you a good time and pick up anything around the house not bolted down. Maria was just mesmerised by the sight.
Then he brought his arms down and she was covered in corn-syrup.
Dexter strolled in Monday morning, with his signature donuts in hand. For anybody else, it’d be a kind gesture of goodwill to men on a dreary Monday morning, when everyone at the office needed a little pick-me-up. But for a monster in human skin, it was another layer on his thin, years-old papier-mache mask. A trick, designed to inspire guilt and doubt into anybody getting too close for comfort, to eke the normal people close, so that they could be his human shields in scrutiny.
Everyone picks their signature, no changes, like always.
Deb came up behind him, and, snatching the danish he stashed under his arm in its bag, asked, “Why does everyone here wanna fuck you?”, with sweet frosting dunked on her fingers and puff-pastry flakes flying.
Dexter nearly threw the empty box at her.