(no subject)
Title: Heroics
Rating: PG
Summary: There's only so many things a girl can do when her perfect boyfriend turns out to be a serial killer. Rita does one of them.
Spoilers: None, AU
The sign outside the door--cream colored with brown letters, studiously devoid of neon--reads “The Sand Piper Café.” It’s a lie. A few haphazard sandwiches looking wilted and forlorn on the back counter do not a café make; it’s a bar, and everyone knows it. But it isn’t the same kind of manic club that fills Miami, and is quickly becoming a haven for the less-desperate but certainly not less-damaged denizens of the bar scene.
Rita likes to sit on a stool at the end of the long bar and pretend she isn’t here. Pretend that her life still makes sense. It’s stupid, because she isn’t looking for a relationship, or a one night stand, or anyone to even touch her, and she looks so miserable that even the champion trawlers don’t want to get near her anyway, but there’s only so many things a girl can do when her perfect boyfriend turns out to be a serial killer.
She’s biting her lip and staring into her untouched glass of wine when there’s the soft scratching of wooden legs against the floor, and the stool next to her isn’t empty anymore. She glances at him from behind a protective curtain of bangs, then quickly back into her drink, but she’s not quick enough and he notices.
“Sorry, were you saving this seat?” Nice voice, calm, nice well-manicured hands resting on the bar, ready to push away if she says the word. It would be so easy to say the word. Because he seems like a perfectly normal man, but so did Dexter once upon a time. Make him go away, make him leave her alone because he’s going to want to strike up a conversation, and then buy her a drink, and then take her home and touch her and that won’t work at all.
“No.” The hand moves a little bit, she’s spoken too quietly for him to hear. A little louder, a little more confidence. “No, I wasn’t.” The hand relaxes, settles.
“Ah, thanks. I’m Jim, by the way.” The hand is offered to her, and she doesn’t want to touch it, because it would be so easy for him to pull on it, pull her close, make her think he’s a real live man. She takes it, delicately.
“Rita.”
“I gotta say, Rita,” the hand flags down the bartender. “Scotch. You look awfully sad.”
“Why would you say that?” She knows her voice is even higher than usual, breathier, the broken wheezy doll voice she gets when she’s nervous or frightened. He chuckles quietly, gently.
“You don’t have to talk about it. It’s just, they say it can be theraputic, you know, to tell your troubles to a perfect stranger. And I may not be perfect,” the owner of hand also owns a set of gloriously white teeth, “but I am a stranger.” Calm and friendly with lines that manage to end up on the right side of charming. How could a girl resist? Of course, Rita isn’t like other girls. She snorts, very unladylike, and takes a first sip from her wine.
“Which do you want to hear about? The ex-husband in jail, or the ex-boyfriend who should be?” He laughs again.
“Yikes. That doesn’t sound fun.” Thanks, Rita wants to say, thanks for that. I hadn’t noticed. But she ducks her head, bites her lip.
“It’s not.” He hesitates a moment, then reaches out a hand to rest on her shoulder. It’s light and sweet, and she wants to shrug away, tell him to back off. She bursts into tears. “Oh, god, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He hushes her, gently squeezing her shoulder. “It’s okay, Rita, I understand.” He doesn’t understand, how could be possibly understand, but she leans closer into his hand anyway. “Why don’t we go talk?” She stiffens, and he lets go of her shoulder. “Just talk. I promise.”
It would be really stupid to go with him, with what she’s learned about “nice guys” who don’t pressure her for anything. She knows about nice guys now.
She nods, and lets him grab her hand, pull her off the bar stool. He leads her out of the room, past flirting couples and lonely women, out into the night air, hot and sticky outside the air-conditioned bar. The lights are bright, but he’s pulling her away, back towards dark brick.
“Where are we going?” She pulls back a little, he squeezes her hand.
“Don’t worry, Rita, I parked right down that alley.” She follows, farther and farther from street lights and stumbling passers-by. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness at the mouth of the alley.
“I, I don’t see a car.”
“It’s at the end.” Far as she can see, there’s no car. But she follows. She follows, feeling his hand growing sweaty in hers. Halfway down, she stops. He jerks lightly on her hand, but she doesn’t move.
“I don’t think this is a good idea, Jim.” He ducks his head, and chuckles again--but it’s dark this time. There’s no joy in his laugh. His hand closes into a fist around hers, and her struggles are useless. Using his grip on her, he forces her hand above her head, and her back against the wall.
“And I don’t think I care what you think, you whiny little--” She can imagine what he wanted to say, but he doesn’t get the chance because he’s falling to land in the assorted debris at her feet.
She looks at him, down in a muddy puddle, then back up.
“You were--wow.” Rita tosses her hair, flashes Dexter a winning smile.
“I told you I could do it. I took two semesters of acting in college, you know.” She starts to reach for him, but he raises gloved hands.
“No fingerprints, remember?” She nods, and wrinkles her nose in a grin.
“Right. No fingerprints.” Folding her hands firmly around her back, she leans in and kisses him lightly. He smiles, bemused.
“I can’t believe you.”
She shrugs and smiles. “Do you need help with, uh, Jim?”
“No, I think I can handle him.” He snaps one of his gloves in way that she would call flirtatious if it was anyone but Dexter, and she laughs.
“Will you be home for breakfast?”
“Sure thing.”
“Okay. See you later, sweetie.” She waves, small fingers waggling, and he gives a half-salute of acknowledgement. Giggling to herself, Rita heads back to her car and sits back in the seat for a moment, relishing the adrenaline. There’s only so many things a girl can do when her perfect boyfriend turns out to be a serial killer. A therapist probably wouldn’t think becoming his partner in crime, the wriggling bait for his hook, was the healthiest decision, but what did therapists know? Dexter is more than a murderer--he’s a hero. He’s her hero. He protects the world, her family, from evil people. She happened upon the truly perfect man: he’s smart, talented, great with kids, good to her, trustworthy, never pushes, and, above all that, defends Miami from the real monsters. Why shouldn’t she be his sidekick?
She bites her lip, smiling too wide, and turns the key in the ignition. Rita the Wonder Girl. Sounds nice.
A/N: I'm fascinated by Rita becoming Dexter's "moll," and hopefully many more stories in that vein will follow (if anyone else thinks it's an interesting idea, at least!)
Rating: PG
Summary: There's only so many things a girl can do when her perfect boyfriend turns out to be a serial killer. Rita does one of them.
Spoilers: None, AU
The sign outside the door--cream colored with brown letters, studiously devoid of neon--reads “The Sand Piper Café.” It’s a lie. A few haphazard sandwiches looking wilted and forlorn on the back counter do not a café make; it’s a bar, and everyone knows it. But it isn’t the same kind of manic club that fills Miami, and is quickly becoming a haven for the less-desperate but certainly not less-damaged denizens of the bar scene.
Rita likes to sit on a stool at the end of the long bar and pretend she isn’t here. Pretend that her life still makes sense. It’s stupid, because she isn’t looking for a relationship, or a one night stand, or anyone to even touch her, and she looks so miserable that even the champion trawlers don’t want to get near her anyway, but there’s only so many things a girl can do when her perfect boyfriend turns out to be a serial killer.
She’s biting her lip and staring into her untouched glass of wine when there’s the soft scratching of wooden legs against the floor, and the stool next to her isn’t empty anymore. She glances at him from behind a protective curtain of bangs, then quickly back into her drink, but she’s not quick enough and he notices.
“Sorry, were you saving this seat?” Nice voice, calm, nice well-manicured hands resting on the bar, ready to push away if she says the word. It would be so easy to say the word. Because he seems like a perfectly normal man, but so did Dexter once upon a time. Make him go away, make him leave her alone because he’s going to want to strike up a conversation, and then buy her a drink, and then take her home and touch her and that won’t work at all.
“No.” The hand moves a little bit, she’s spoken too quietly for him to hear. A little louder, a little more confidence. “No, I wasn’t.” The hand relaxes, settles.
“Ah, thanks. I’m Jim, by the way.” The hand is offered to her, and she doesn’t want to touch it, because it would be so easy for him to pull on it, pull her close, make her think he’s a real live man. She takes it, delicately.
“Rita.”
“I gotta say, Rita,” the hand flags down the bartender. “Scotch. You look awfully sad.”
“Why would you say that?” She knows her voice is even higher than usual, breathier, the broken wheezy doll voice she gets when she’s nervous or frightened. He chuckles quietly, gently.
“You don’t have to talk about it. It’s just, they say it can be theraputic, you know, to tell your troubles to a perfect stranger. And I may not be perfect,” the owner of hand also owns a set of gloriously white teeth, “but I am a stranger.” Calm and friendly with lines that manage to end up on the right side of charming. How could a girl resist? Of course, Rita isn’t like other girls. She snorts, very unladylike, and takes a first sip from her wine.
“Which do you want to hear about? The ex-husband in jail, or the ex-boyfriend who should be?” He laughs again.
“Yikes. That doesn’t sound fun.” Thanks, Rita wants to say, thanks for that. I hadn’t noticed. But she ducks her head, bites her lip.
“It’s not.” He hesitates a moment, then reaches out a hand to rest on her shoulder. It’s light and sweet, and she wants to shrug away, tell him to back off. She bursts into tears. “Oh, god, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He hushes her, gently squeezing her shoulder. “It’s okay, Rita, I understand.” He doesn’t understand, how could be possibly understand, but she leans closer into his hand anyway. “Why don’t we go talk?” She stiffens, and he lets go of her shoulder. “Just talk. I promise.”
It would be really stupid to go with him, with what she’s learned about “nice guys” who don’t pressure her for anything. She knows about nice guys now.
She nods, and lets him grab her hand, pull her off the bar stool. He leads her out of the room, past flirting couples and lonely women, out into the night air, hot and sticky outside the air-conditioned bar. The lights are bright, but he’s pulling her away, back towards dark brick.
“Where are we going?” She pulls back a little, he squeezes her hand.
“Don’t worry, Rita, I parked right down that alley.” She follows, farther and farther from street lights and stumbling passers-by. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness at the mouth of the alley.
“I, I don’t see a car.”
“It’s at the end.” Far as she can see, there’s no car. But she follows. She follows, feeling his hand growing sweaty in hers. Halfway down, she stops. He jerks lightly on her hand, but she doesn’t move.
“I don’t think this is a good idea, Jim.” He ducks his head, and chuckles again--but it’s dark this time. There’s no joy in his laugh. His hand closes into a fist around hers, and her struggles are useless. Using his grip on her, he forces her hand above her head, and her back against the wall.
“And I don’t think I care what you think, you whiny little--” She can imagine what he wanted to say, but he doesn’t get the chance because he’s falling to land in the assorted debris at her feet.
She looks at him, down in a muddy puddle, then back up.
“You were--wow.” Rita tosses her hair, flashes Dexter a winning smile.
“I told you I could do it. I took two semesters of acting in college, you know.” She starts to reach for him, but he raises gloved hands.
“No fingerprints, remember?” She nods, and wrinkles her nose in a grin.
“Right. No fingerprints.” Folding her hands firmly around her back, she leans in and kisses him lightly. He smiles, bemused.
“I can’t believe you.”
She shrugs and smiles. “Do you need help with, uh, Jim?”
“No, I think I can handle him.” He snaps one of his gloves in way that she would call flirtatious if it was anyone but Dexter, and she laughs.
“Will you be home for breakfast?”
“Sure thing.”
“Okay. See you later, sweetie.” She waves, small fingers waggling, and he gives a half-salute of acknowledgement. Giggling to herself, Rita heads back to her car and sits back in the seat for a moment, relishing the adrenaline. There’s only so many things a girl can do when her perfect boyfriend turns out to be a serial killer. A therapist probably wouldn’t think becoming his partner in crime, the wriggling bait for his hook, was the healthiest decision, but what did therapists know? Dexter is more than a murderer--he’s a hero. He’s her hero. He protects the world, her family, from evil people. She happened upon the truly perfect man: he’s smart, talented, great with kids, good to her, trustworthy, never pushes, and, above all that, defends Miami from the real monsters. Why shouldn’t she be his sidekick?
She bites her lip, smiling too wide, and turns the key in the ignition. Rita the Wonder Girl. Sounds nice.
A/N: I'm fascinated by Rita becoming Dexter's "moll," and hopefully many more stories in that vein will follow (if anyone else thinks it's an interesting idea, at least!)