Fic: Flywheel Loose (Dexter)
Jan. 24th, 2007 02:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
apocalypsosHeh. I think I got my mojo back, but we'll see. :)
Title: Flywheel Loose
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Dexter
Rating: R
Warnings: Sex, violence, incest.
Pairing: Dexter/Rudy
Summary: AU, in which Dexter accepted Rudy's proposition to run off together (no, not in THAT way, you pervs) in the season finale.
** Flywheel Loose **
*
He likes prostitutes. He argues that nobody misses them, that nobody really wants them around anyway. When whores go missing, people like to pretend to feel bad while they fill that empty spot on the corner with a hot dog stand or a mailbox.
Dexter is never sure if he wants to argue the inherent flaw in that belief or not.
Sometimes prostitutes are just trying to pay the bills. Sometimes they lead men to back alleys and lower their zippers to buy themselves a burger afterwards. Sometimes they sell heroin on the side, and wear their long pretty hair in pigtails, and get murdered in front of their children.
Sometimes people really hate the fucking mailbox just for being there.
Not him, of course. Not Dexter, either.
But still.
*
Dexter remembers exactly how many slides were in the box. He knows them in order, the names on them, can recite them from memory like he's practicing for a public speaking engagement.
He could tell you how many people were left dead by the wake of their actions.
He wonders if the others will take that into consideration when they search his apartment and the empty spot behind the air conditioner’s cover.
*
Here's what Dexter learns about his brother in the first four weeks.
He doesn't mind if Dexter calls him Rudy, at least for a little while, because Dexter's used to it and he doesn't know any better. He pops cough drops when he's about to kill, like he's about to meet Death firsthand and doesn't want his breath to stink when he does. He learns to hand over the wrappers to Dexter with a wink and a smile and a Never making that mistake again that Dexter hears in his dreams.
He likes comedies, cheesy awful movies with stoners and idiotic main characters and the kind of jokes more apt to make you groan than laugh. He drums his fingers on the nearest flat surface while he reads the newspaper. He hums classic rock songs when things get too quiet.
He likes trout better than salmon and the color red and the kind of porn that ends unhappily after the money shot.
He sleeps in the same bed as Dexter if he can, and tries to make sure he'll wake with his eyes on his little brother if he can't.
He touches Dexter whenever he can, thinks of blood almost as much as Dexter does but not the same way.
Not nearly the same way at all.
*
Dexter finds the book in a Wal-Mart in Oklahoma, a hastily compiled paperback tucked into the New Releases section between a romance novel about vampires and a sudoku strategy guide. He's picking up the essentials -- bottled water, apples, plastic wrap, nail polish -- but the book catches his eye as he walks to the register.
It's the drawing on the cover that does it, a bloodstained ice truck that looks so familiar Dexter couldn't have walked past it without comment if he tried.
Trailing for hookers instead of picking up supplies was the best idea Rudy had all week, Dexter thinks, and hopes no one bothers to flip through the photos in the middle of the book before he can leave.
When he gets back to the motel he finds Brian pounding a prostitute into the far wall, his hips against hers, her head against the wallpaper.
He laughs at the contents of the book as he reads it later on, blood still dripping towards the carpet.
He’s gotten sloppy since Miami. Dexter’s going to have to talk to him about that.
*
Do you think she suffered?, Dexter asks him one night.
It’s not this tearful question dragged out of him over beers or said quietly in the middle of the night as they drive to their next destination in a car they stole from their last victim. He just sort of asks it while they’re driving around looking for a good motel with wireless internet access close to large bodies of water with boat rentals.
Brian smiles, long elegant fingers waving along in the air as he conducts some imaginary orchestra playing the classical music pouring from the stereo speakers. Do you think I care?
Which is the answer Dexter expects and isn’t, all at once.
*
They’re passing through Iowa when Dexter realizes it’s Cody’s birthday.
He pictures the kid sitting at the table in the backyard with a huge cake in front of him, Astor and Rita singing “Happy Birthday” behind him. He pictures Cody looking around like he’s wondering who’s going to pick him up and swing him around in the air until he giggles.
He leaves the motel room one night, says something about needing fresh air, a little alone time, and heads for the nearest mall.
They’re leaving the state by the time the stuffed cow he ships gets anywhere near a delivery truck.
He doesn’t tell Brian. He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t appreciate it.
*
The motel room walls are lined with cheap wallpaper with swirling designs in worn red velvet. They’re going to leave an impression in Dexter’s face, he’s sure of it, although those should fade. It’s the teeth marks in his neck he’s more worried about. The rasp of Brian’s tongue over the abused flesh can’t be enough.
You okay? Brian asks.
The tip of his tongue trails along the edge of Dexter’s ear, and he shivers.
This isn’t like Rita. This means something.
Yeah, Dexter says, tugging Brian’s hand around his waist. Keep going.
*
Brian talks him out of sending Doakes a T-shirt that says, “I knew my co-worker was a murdering sociopath and all I got was this lousy T-shirt.”
But only just.
*
Dexter’s book is thicker, a shinier cover, more photos in the gallery in the center of it. The writing’s better, the story reads less like a steamy tabloid, and his more numerous victims aren’t quite so innocent.
He expects jealousy, maybe for Brian to storm off and come back to the motel with blood under his fingernails and scratches on his wrists. But instead he reads aloud from the case studies for a laugh, rumples Dexter’s hair and gives him a blowjob, makes him catch his breath and throw on some clothes and drags him to the nearest bar.
My baby brother got a promotion, he calls out, but it’s the free round he offers that makes everyone cheer.
Dexter forces a smile and waits for the punch line.
*
It's only a matter of time, really.
Their faces are on the news, photos of Dexter through the years, the too-old picture from Brian Moser's psychiatric file. Someone somewhere found a faded snapshot of them together as babies and they show it on one of the morning shows, baby Dexter wide-eyed and smiling with his big brother's thin arms wrapped in a tight hug around his middle from behind. The eyes and mouth visible behind Dexter's mop of dark blond hair are round and full, sad before their time.
Brian curses in the living room of the house they're staying in, but forces a smile.
Should have cleaned out the old house better, huh? he says.
The reporter on the news mentions the slides, the family photos, the files Harry had destroyed. The expert he's interviewing says it's not a surprise they turned out the way they did, with what they went through.
There are four bodies buried in a shallow grave in the backyard garden and half-dozen clean newborn onesies in the laundry basket, and it's only a matter of time.
Title: Flywheel Loose
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Dexter
Rating: R
Warnings: Sex, violence, incest.
Pairing: Dexter/Rudy
Summary: AU, in which Dexter accepted Rudy's proposition to run off together (no, not in THAT way, you pervs) in the season finale.
*
He likes prostitutes. He argues that nobody misses them, that nobody really wants them around anyway. When whores go missing, people like to pretend to feel bad while they fill that empty spot on the corner with a hot dog stand or a mailbox.
Dexter is never sure if he wants to argue the inherent flaw in that belief or not.
Sometimes prostitutes are just trying to pay the bills. Sometimes they lead men to back alleys and lower their zippers to buy themselves a burger afterwards. Sometimes they sell heroin on the side, and wear their long pretty hair in pigtails, and get murdered in front of their children.
Sometimes people really hate the fucking mailbox just for being there.
Not him, of course. Not Dexter, either.
But still.
Dexter remembers exactly how many slides were in the box. He knows them in order, the names on them, can recite them from memory like he's practicing for a public speaking engagement.
He could tell you how many people were left dead by the wake of their actions.
He wonders if the others will take that into consideration when they search his apartment and the empty spot behind the air conditioner’s cover.
Here's what Dexter learns about his brother in the first four weeks.
He doesn't mind if Dexter calls him Rudy, at least for a little while, because Dexter's used to it and he doesn't know any better. He pops cough drops when he's about to kill, like he's about to meet Death firsthand and doesn't want his breath to stink when he does. He learns to hand over the wrappers to Dexter with a wink and a smile and a Never making that mistake again that Dexter hears in his dreams.
He likes comedies, cheesy awful movies with stoners and idiotic main characters and the kind of jokes more apt to make you groan than laugh. He drums his fingers on the nearest flat surface while he reads the newspaper. He hums classic rock songs when things get too quiet.
He likes trout better than salmon and the color red and the kind of porn that ends unhappily after the money shot.
He sleeps in the same bed as Dexter if he can, and tries to make sure he'll wake with his eyes on his little brother if he can't.
He touches Dexter whenever he can, thinks of blood almost as much as Dexter does but not the same way.
Not nearly the same way at all.
Dexter finds the book in a Wal-Mart in Oklahoma, a hastily compiled paperback tucked into the New Releases section between a romance novel about vampires and a sudoku strategy guide. He's picking up the essentials -- bottled water, apples, plastic wrap, nail polish -- but the book catches his eye as he walks to the register.
It's the drawing on the cover that does it, a bloodstained ice truck that looks so familiar Dexter couldn't have walked past it without comment if he tried.
Trailing for hookers instead of picking up supplies was the best idea Rudy had all week, Dexter thinks, and hopes no one bothers to flip through the photos in the middle of the book before he can leave.
When he gets back to the motel he finds Brian pounding a prostitute into the far wall, his hips against hers, her head against the wallpaper.
He laughs at the contents of the book as he reads it later on, blood still dripping towards the carpet.
He’s gotten sloppy since Miami. Dexter’s going to have to talk to him about that.
Do you think she suffered?, Dexter asks him one night.
It’s not this tearful question dragged out of him over beers or said quietly in the middle of the night as they drive to their next destination in a car they stole from their last victim. He just sort of asks it while they’re driving around looking for a good motel with wireless internet access close to large bodies of water with boat rentals.
Brian smiles, long elegant fingers waving along in the air as he conducts some imaginary orchestra playing the classical music pouring from the stereo speakers. Do you think I care?
Which is the answer Dexter expects and isn’t, all at once.
They’re passing through Iowa when Dexter realizes it’s Cody’s birthday.
He pictures the kid sitting at the table in the backyard with a huge cake in front of him, Astor and Rita singing “Happy Birthday” behind him. He pictures Cody looking around like he’s wondering who’s going to pick him up and swing him around in the air until he giggles.
He leaves the motel room one night, says something about needing fresh air, a little alone time, and heads for the nearest mall.
They’re leaving the state by the time the stuffed cow he ships gets anywhere near a delivery truck.
He doesn’t tell Brian. He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t appreciate it.
The motel room walls are lined with cheap wallpaper with swirling designs in worn red velvet. They’re going to leave an impression in Dexter’s face, he’s sure of it, although those should fade. It’s the teeth marks in his neck he’s more worried about. The rasp of Brian’s tongue over the abused flesh can’t be enough.
You okay? Brian asks.
The tip of his tongue trails along the edge of Dexter’s ear, and he shivers.
This isn’t like Rita. This means something.
Yeah, Dexter says, tugging Brian’s hand around his waist. Keep going.
Brian talks him out of sending Doakes a T-shirt that says, “I knew my co-worker was a murdering sociopath and all I got was this lousy T-shirt.”
But only just.
Dexter’s book is thicker, a shinier cover, more photos in the gallery in the center of it. The writing’s better, the story reads less like a steamy tabloid, and his more numerous victims aren’t quite so innocent.
He expects jealousy, maybe for Brian to storm off and come back to the motel with blood under his fingernails and scratches on his wrists. But instead he reads aloud from the case studies for a laugh, rumples Dexter’s hair and gives him a blowjob, makes him catch his breath and throw on some clothes and drags him to the nearest bar.
My baby brother got a promotion, he calls out, but it’s the free round he offers that makes everyone cheer.
Dexter forces a smile and waits for the punch line.
It's only a matter of time, really.
Their faces are on the news, photos of Dexter through the years, the too-old picture from Brian Moser's psychiatric file. Someone somewhere found a faded snapshot of them together as babies and they show it on one of the morning shows, baby Dexter wide-eyed and smiling with his big brother's thin arms wrapped in a tight hug around his middle from behind. The eyes and mouth visible behind Dexter's mop of dark blond hair are round and full, sad before their time.
Brian curses in the living room of the house they're staying in, but forces a smile.
Should have cleaned out the old house better, huh? he says.
The reporter on the news mentions the slides, the family photos, the files Harry had destroyed. The expert he's interviewing says it's not a surprise they turned out the way they did, with what they went through.
There are four bodies buried in a shallow grave in the backyard garden and half-dozen clean newborn onesies in the laundry basket, and it's only a matter of time.
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Date: 2007-01-24 11:44 pm (UTC)And the t-shirt touch is AMAZING. hee.