Disclaimer: I don’t own Dear Dex, wish I did.
A/N: This is anytime after Season One and clearly before Doakes dies.
She does beautiful work, the pop as the sternum splits and she wrenches the ribcage open. Dark spots fleck her white apron, her visor streaked with drying blood, her fingers holding deadly tools with a delicacy unknown to me. The tools of death I have known for most of my life are transformed by her gloved fingers, so too is the liquid I abhor.
Angel and Doakes were standing just in front of me, waiting for the autopsy to be done. They came for the results, I came for the show-and maybe a little something extra. I couldn’t help but let my normal frown fade into an almost smile as she gave a soft grunt as the heart was clipped from the body. Doakes and Angel winced, for detectives they could be squeamish, especially for one who had guns.
Almost as if she could hear my thoughts she looked up and smiled, “If you can’t handle it leave.”
I saw Doakes stiffen, the muscles in his back contracting, “I’m fine, tell me what we have.”
She peered down at the man occupying her table, “Well he liked long walks on the beach, horror films, a nice Chianti, and caviar.”
I grinned, this was her-she never gave a straight answer. LaGuerta reprimanded her for it once, demanding to know why she spoke like that. The pale, petite blonde just shrugged and mentioned no answer was ever straight. LaGuerta avoided her after that, and when I hung around the morgue, I got away from LaGuerta.
I was snapped back to reality as Angel pulled out a pen, “And that means?”
“He was at a five-star restaurant on the beach before he died,” her voice was musical even in the most morbid situation.
Doakes stiffened his shoulders again, “What about the horror movies?”
“He has an H and an L tattooed on his neck, besides you don’t find that many good clean citizens laid on my table,” her already coated glove slid back into the cavity she had created in the chest.
Actually I don’t think I’ve ever seen her balk, turn away, or even turn her nose up. She was like my dark passenger that way, always watching, fascinated by bloodshed.
Doakes was apparently tired of my shadow act, “Morgan what in the hell are you doing breathing down my back. Shouldn’t you be in your lab looking at porn or something?”
Before I could say anything she moved towards us stripping off her blood slicked gloves and apron, “Sorry Sergeant Doakes, I need an assistant for a little experiment of mine. Morgan had the misfortune walking past me on my lunch break. Of course if you would rather help me that would be more than peachy.”
“When pig’s fly Summers,” he scowled at her, she was more charming than me, but Doakes avoided her because he could never peg her. Wish she would tell me how she did it.
Smirking she sighed, “I hear they’re working on a small jet engine with large buttons, so next week?”
He shook his head and moved to the door, Angel following, “You two are sick fucks.”
Angel chuckled in a dry way, “Thanks for the info, Buffy.”
She shrugged, “No problem, amigo.”
Turning to me she held out a pair of arm guards, “If you’re going to hover you’ll hold him open so I can get at what I need.”
Sometimes the way she said things, or the things she let me do made me wonder if she knew what I was. My brother, I believed to be an artist, if that was true, she must be a goddess working among us mortals. She taught me things I had never dreamed of, in all my years of practice I was still surprised when I learned I could kill more cleanly. The way her small cold hands felt on mine was good, the way she easily controlled my motions it was-it was nice.
Being a serial killer gave me an advantage, but getting along with her was even better. She let me in on the scoop, let me bounce ideas off of her, and gave me some of her own theories. Theories that have always been, eerily, right.
Every visit to her death filled corner of the world helped me. The stories she spun of the dead made me angry and cold, filling my dark passenger with a bloodlust stronger, more urgent than I had ever felt before I met her. The blood she allowed to stain surgical gowns danced before my eyes, teaching me to breathe in my fear and cast it out. As if knowing my aversion to the red stuff she forced me to bury my hand in a corpse until I could stand the slight squelch and the glossy red hand I received from my work.
Today was no different, when she was done with my help she let me wash up and dismiss me.
“Bye,” I would try to charm her, but it never worked, if she ever got an inkling of what I was, what I do, there would be no way to dissuade her.
Already focused on the heart settled on her scale she waved halfheartedly, “See you, Dexter.”
I would leave her a little calmer, a little stronger. She was an artist in all manner of ways.
Buffy Summers, Miami Coroner, was something completely different from myself and my brother, from anyone. She was an artist of the good, her art giving back to the medium on which it was made. She, a goddess of a whole new art that was reeling me in mercilessly, and I liked it.
One more ficlet in my new Buffy Dexter obsession. Please review and keep encouraging me to write more if you like this type of fandom. I am working on a longer Buffy Dexter story, and if you want it to see the light of day it will, but i'd like to see if people are interested.