Disclaimer: Not mine, I just like to let them out to misbehave. I promise to bring everyone back more-or-less unharmed for season 8.

A/N: Welcome to the "Surprise Motherfucker"-post-episode-fan-fiction bandwagon. It appears to be an ever growing group so I figured I'd throw my hat in to the ring and see where it lands. Comments and criticisms most welcome. I will also accept merciless fangirl/boying and pronouncements of my greatness. Just kidding. Enjoy!

Your hand is locked in mine as we weave our way numbly through the party. I smile and shake hands, hugging where appropriate and wishing our friends a happy new year. You lag behind me, your normally cool hand hot and sweaty in mine; clinging to me as though I am your lifeline and I suppose, at this point, I am. I can be the fake, smiling person who blends so seamlessly into society that only a select few would ever suspect what I truly am, you cannot.

As Angel approaches and embraces me in a big bear hug my hand nearly slips from yours and I wince as you scrabble anxiously to regain your hold on me. I look over my shoulder at you as Angel releases me and moves to give you a similar hug. With discreet pressure on your hand I try to indicate that you are failing miserably as passing for normal. I know that you are not practiced at this, that you have no frame of reference and that you do not revel in a kill as I do but you need to try harder. I give you a slight nod as you plaster a fake, plastic smile onto your face that doesn't come close to reaching your eyes. It's good enough for now, around this rowdy, drunk bunch but we will have to work something out if you're ever going to be able to interact with people again without giving yourself away.

We do not touch in public. We never have, and I hope that your need to all but cling to me now does not set off any alarm bells among our friends. I again say a prayer of thanks that the liquor has clearly been flowing freely this evening as it is certain to dull the perceptions of even the most seasoned cops at the party.

"Dex," you whisper in my ear, your voice breaking with pain and sorrow. "I need to leave," you beg, tugging me towards the door. I glance at my watch to determine if we've been here long enough to set our cover as the last of the fireworks burst blood red over our heads. I watch as people begin to stagger towards the exits, the cabs lining the boardwalk in front of the restaurant beginning to dwindle.

"Okay," I tell you, clapping Angel on the back as we make our way to the door, thanking him for a great party. I try to make myself look a little tipsy, stumbling over a chair leg and slurring my words just a bit to make it seem as though I'd been at the party all night, drinking away the year with the rest of them.

"Grab one of the cabs Dex," Angel tells me, "Your car will be fine here 'til the morning."

"You got it buddy!" I exclaim a little too loudly, pulling you out the door and ushering you into the first cab in the line. As we pull away, you lose it, much more subtly than in the shipping container but I can still see it in your eyes. The tears are quiet as they slide down your face and I can feel your whole body trembling as I pull you closer to me.

"Oh God," you whisper and I shush you, because now is not the time.

The drive to my condo is interminably long and we drive the whole way with your head on my shoulder, scalding, silent tears pooling on my kill shirt. I'm distracted as I lead you to my door, but I notice that my porch light is burned out. You cling tightly to me as I open the door making it difficult to get the key in the lock, the dull thunk and crack of a flowerpot breaking going unnoticed in the commotion.

"Fuck!" you scream at the top of your lungs as the door closes behind us and I am thankful that Harrison isn't home. "What the fuck have I done? How do you do this? How do you take someone's life and then just fucking forget about it Dexter?" Your voice has dropped to a hoarse whisper as you question me and I take a moment to think before I answer you. I've been lying to you for so long that it feels strange to tell you the truth for once,

"I don't forget," I murmur. You look up at me startled, a glimmer of hope in your eyes before your brain catches up with you and then it is dashed.

"You like this," you spit in disgust, "How do you like this?!"

"I…" what can I possibly say to you. I do like killing. It has taken me years to come to that realization and to stop blaming my need to kill on that fictional 'dark passenger' I'd created. Then it hits me, I know what you are feeling. You killed an innocent. Granted, she was certainly a nuisance and I'd planned to do the same myself, but killing an innocent person felt wholly different than killing one who was as evil as me.

"Oscar Prado," I blurt out and you stop pacing to face me.

"Is that fucking supposed to mean something to me Dex?" You demand, hands on hips, moving from heavy grief to rage, your favourite safety blanket.

"LaGuerta," you shudder at the mention of her name and the tears well up again and I regret saying her name, "Was innocent. I killed Oscar Prado when I thought he was a murderer, not just a scumbag creep." I know my senses are dulled, my conscience not quite so conscientious as most so I'm sure the agony you feel must be a thousand-fold worse for you.

"You killed Oscar Prado? Jesus fuck Dexter," you've never asked for details, for names or even the number of people I've killed and I can see the shock hearing one more name to add to the list brings.

"I know," I tell you. "What I'm trying to say is that I get this feeling of guilt, of remorse over killing someone who didn't necessarily deserve it. I am so sorry that finding out my secret has dragged you down this far Deb and to be honest with you, I wish we could go back to that moment in the church so you could just take me into custody."

"You know what's really fucked up?" You whisper, sitting heavily on the couch beside me, "I don't."

"Look," I tell you, "I don't want you so caught up in this. Harry would kill me if he knew I'd pulled you into this darkness. So tonight we go to bed, and in the morning, whatever happens, I will take the fall for you. I know I covered everything up well enough that it shouldn't be a problem, but I need you to know that if it ever comes down to it, and our backs are against the wall, I won't let this be pinned on you. I meant it when I said you are a good person Deb, don't let what happened tonight make you think any different."

"But it is on me Dexter! I am the one who chose to fucking shoot LaGuerta," your voice breaks over her name and you stop to catch your breath and regain your composure. I can see the fleeting glimpses of the night flashing through your eyes as you sit tensely beside me - your shaking hands as your gun wavered between me and LaGuerta; the deafening sound of the shot that ricocheted through the container as I waited for the bite of a bullet that never came; your screams as you rushed forward in immediate regret, taking the still warm but lifeless body into your arms.

It had taken me nearly ten minutes to convince you to let her go, that LaGuerta was well and truly gone, and to let me clean up our mess. It felt weird to think of it that way, as our mess. It had only ever been my mess to clean up before and I wished beyond everything else, it was only my mess tonight. As the body fell limply from your arms I could see the self-loathing and disgust in your eyes as you'd rushed from the container, falling to your knees a few yards away, retching and shaking as your innocent body tried to rid itself of the evil you'd allowed into it tonight. Strangely, I'd felt the need to comfort you, something I rarely felt, but I'd had work to do and everything had to be perfect so I'd turned back to the bloody tableau at hand and set to work.

Now, as I watch you on my couch, so broken and tormented, I hate myself for what I have done to you. Sighing, I stand from the couch and extend my hand down to you,

"Come on," I say, "Let's get to bed." I guide you into the bathroom and am not surprised when, even over the sound of the shower; I can hear you crying again. You are always so strong, I worry that I've wrecked you beyond repair. I move mindlessly around my room, gathering things for the night and getting the spare bedroom ready for you. When I climb into bed, I find you standing silently at my bedroom door; you damp hair hanging limply around your shoulders, your eyes red from all the crying.

"I don't think I can sleep," you tell me, walking to the edge of my bed and sitting gingerly on top of the blankets. Your fingers twist nervously in the sheets, your knuckles nearly going white with stress. "Can I just hang out in here with you for a bit?" You ask me nervously, biting your lip and looking down. I nod, of course, inviting you closer and I can see the relief in your eyes as you all but launch yourself into my arms, all cried out but still so shattered.

"It'll be okay Deb," I promise. And I believe it.

We fall asleep awkwardly sitting up in my bed but when I wake in the morning your legs are tangled in mine and your head is on my chest. It feels odd, but not altogether unpleasant but I know I have to push you away, I can't let you be in love with me, not when my life and liberty so often hang on a thread composed of lies and deceit. Carefully, I slide from the bed, and go to the kitchen to start coffee and breakfast, stopping to grab the paper from my front door. My heart lurches into my throat when I see the broken flower pot and scattered dirt. The orchid is so deeply purple it is almost black and I wonder if it is a promise or a warning. Whatever it is, it is certainly one more piece of hell on this earth for me and I wonder if all of this is karma slowly catching up for the horrors I've perpetrated. How can I keep you safe from the nightmare I've created?