Title: Break Me

Fandom: Dexter

Rating: M for language

Disclaimer: Obviously, I do not own Dexter or any of its characters. I am merely playing with Showtime's toys. I swear to put them back in the toybox when I'm done.

Author's Notes: After nearly decade since discovering the world of fanfiction writing and about seven years since bowing out, I am making my unexpected return. With my favourite television show ending soon, and seemingly heading in a direction that I don't like, I have found myself feeling anxious and worried about how the show will end (the obsessive love of fictional characters lives on in the heart of a fanfiction writer). There are so many loose ends I don't feel are being tended to very well. To vent my worries and make myself feel better, I allowed myself a night of indulgence and this poured out. I wrote this before I saw the sneak peak that clarified this scene, but I still prefer my take. It has been fun to revisit the playground of fanfiction writing! In the hope that others can get some enjoyment out of this, too, I have decided to share. Please give feedback on your thoughts.

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I don't even realise that I have no plan until I let myself inside and see them both, ignoring each other in the main living area of the beach house. Hannah is washing up in the kitchen and shoots me a relieved look that tells me it's been a long day holed up here with her least favourite person; Deb is firmly planted on the lounge with her feet up on the coffee table and a magazine open on her lap. Both are so familiar to me and I can see my perfect future, where I can come home to this every single day – Hannah, the spirited but home-loving wife, cooking and cleaning and raising my son and our possible future children, and my moody and foul-mouthed sister just being there. In my imaginings, she's not doing much more than she is right now, but she's definitely there.

My rational mind reminds me that this future isn't possible, and now I'm not so confident. I pause, still holding the door handle. This isn't going to be pretty, I realise, for me or for her. Momentarily I want to run back out the door.

"Dexter, you're home early," Hannah comments, meaningfully, leaning aside to look for a wall clock. Deb's eyes don't leave the text of the article she's perusing as she responds.

"He isn't home," she says coldly. She turns the page. "He's at my house. So are you."

Hannah is a strong woman but she backs down from Debra's challenging tone. I have noticed this often, their dynamic. Hannah picks her battles, knowing she'd be hard pressed to beat Deb, regardless of whether she's armed with fists, weapons or words. I'm not sure whether they are the same when I'm not around but I think it's safe to assume so.

"Well, you know what I mean," Hannah mutters agreeably, returning to drying the dishes. She eyes me, wondering. She makes another attempt at cheery friendliness. "How was work? Were you busy? It can't have been too bad, I mean, you're not staying back late."

I'm hearing Hannah but I'm watching Deb. I'm watching her eyes focus more intensely on an article I know she isn't really reading. I'm watching her eyebrows draw closer together. I'm watching her lips press together as she struggles to keep a torrent of rude words locked inside. I'm watching her long fingers tighten on the edges of the magazine. She's an open book I learned to read a long time ago, a book about volatile emotions and inappropriate language and impulsive decisions. It's my very favourite book. I know her so well; I think I know her better than anyone else ever has, certainly better than our father did. That's why, as I'm watching her, I know to anticipate an impending explosion, and know I should intervene before it happens. I hesitate because my intervention is only going to postpone the inevitable, and redirect its fire onto me.

"Did you get much done?" Hannah presses, wanting to know where we stand on the Argentina situation. Have I put my notice in yet? Well, no. I can hardly tell work I'm leaving before I gather the guts to tell my sister. If she hears it from someone else I'll be in even deeper trouble. If she hears it from Hannah, I'll be dropping Hannah's dismembered body parts into the ocean, courtesy of Debra's rage. I don't doubt much anymore. "Did you-"

"Can we talk, Deb?" I interrupt, sure of what corner Hannah was about to back me into. I pull the door back open, gesturing for her to leave with me. Deb tosses the magazine aside and stands without answering. She has that pouty, tight look that I know precludes a problematic exchange. My stomach sinks. I can't win this. I can stalk people, kill them, cut their bodies into pieces, scatter them across the bay and then lie to the police and everyone I know about it, but I can't win an argument with my little sister without losing my cool.

Deb strides out and I glance once at Hannah as I close the door. She's very still, alert, suspicious. She doesn't really like me to be alone with Deb, I know. Maybe she'd prefer Deb not be told about our plan at all. But of course I can't leave Miami without telling my only sister. I wouldn't even think of it.

"She won't stop fucking cleaning," Deb complains darkly as we move around to the back of the house. The breeze catches our hair. It's a beautiful day. "Okay, I know I'm no domestic goddess, but seriously? My house isn't that dirty." She casts me a nasty look as though I've disagreed with her, though I haven't opened my mouth. "Don't say a fucking word. It isn't. And don't defend her."

"I wasn't going to," I insist, knowing any attempt to do so would only be shot down. Like Hannah, I know to pick my battles against Debra Morgan.

"Good, because that much cleaning is bad for the soul." Deb leans against the railing of her back patio. "Explains a few things, maybe. Like how she came to be a lying succubus who poisons people."

She smiles thinly, waiting for me to bite and knowing I won't because I don't have a defence that is valid to her. I won't win that one, just like I won't win this next one. I steel myself.

"Deb, there's something I need to tell you," I begin, heavily. "Something important."

Her smile dissolves, replaced by a look of horror.

"Fuck, don't tell me she's pregnant," she says, eyes wide with disgust. I blink, taken aback and surprised by the unexpected suggestion. Her horror only just hides deep hurt. "No wonder she's been so fucking happy all day."

"No, she isn't," I assure her hurriedly. Deb exhales hard, staring out across the beach and the blue water.

"Thank fuck," she comments. "You scared me, you ass. That would have been the worst. You've got enough kids, anyway. To a normal woman."

I swallow, bolstered. If Hannah having my baby is the worst possible news I could offer Debra, then Argentina has to be an improvement on that.

"Harrison and I are leaving soon," I blurt out. She stares at me and I hurry on before I can lose my nerve. "With Hannah. We're moving to Argentina. Start someplace new."

Deb stares until she's certain I'm not joking, though I don't know why she does this, because I've never told jokes. Then she laughs, incredulous and humourless.

"Are you kidding?" she asks, smiling, still laughing. She thinks I'm ridiculous. I think briefly of how much I love to see her smile, but reflect on how rare that is these days. Because of me. "Move to another country with a wanted fugitive?" When I don't reply immediately, she adds, "What, didn't occur to you that people are looking for your girlfriend? And that they might spot her on those pesky cameras they like to put in airports? Or that her passport might raise a few red flags? Sounds like a fucking well-considered plan, Dexter."

I sigh, trying not to let her frustrate me. She's right of course. It isn't going to be easy.

"I haven't worked out all the details yet," I admit, ignoring her derisive snort.

"No? Mr Perfect, without a fully-formed, flawless plan? Dexter, you're slipping." The sarcasm begins to rise to keep the more vulnerable emotions from showing. I see in her eyes that the news, and its implications, has started to sink in. "I can't believe you. You're just going to run away, off into the stupid fucking South American sunset, with a fucking poisoner and your son, all because she didn't cover her tracks as well as you did? Why do you have to leave your life behind because she's a fuck-up? Why does Harrison? Why-" She interrupts herself abruptly, a rare occurrence for Deb, before she can voice something especially passionate and angry. "Why are we having this conversation?"

"I just needed to let you know."

"Why?"

The question catches me off-guard, because I wasn't expecting her to need to ask it.

"Why?" I repeat, uncertain. What does she mean, why?

"Yeah, why?" she demands. The smile is gone, the laughter gone from her eyes. "Why are you telling me?"

"Because," I say, unsure how else to answer. I see it isn't enough, so I go on. "Because you're my sister."

"Right, I'm your sister," she agrees, without affection. "Your stupid, stupid sister who has clearly just passed her use-by date. I'm sorry, I didn't notice any expiry stamped on my fucking ass." She runs her hand through her hair, a sure sign that she's losing her grip. She gathers herself, and rounds on me again. "You're a jerk, you know that? A selfish, heartless jerk. You're not telling me because I'm your sister. It has nothing to do with me. You're telling me because it makes you feel better to have told me. Even if you know it'll upset me. This is some creepy control thing. It's all about you and what you want me to do. Well, fuck you, fucker." She laughs once with no humour. "I've been such an idiot."

The look on her face is the one page I can't bear to read, that one about disbelief and wonder as she discovers something new about me that she doesn't like. I hate that look. It hurts me.

"Deb, what are you talking about?" I ask, irritation colouring my tone. I'm not really annoyed, but sometimes I'm more like her than I care to admit. I get defensive, too. Right now, if I reflect on how I feel, I know I'm acting irritated because I'm scared of what will happen next, and I know if I grate on Deb by getting her to react to my abrasiveness, her reaction will be explosive but predictable. If I leave her too long with that look on her face, I don't know what will happen. I don't want to know. Every time she learns something she doesn't like about me, I imagine that it erodes her love for me, and that look has been more and more common this past year. How much love is left? What happens when it runs out? Sometimes in my life, I've considered my existence, or existences if one counts my various personas, and wondered – do we exist because existence is a fact of being alive, or do we exist because people around us perceive us to exist? When people die, do their spirits really continue to exist, or only until the people who remember them forget?

For me, what it boils down to is whether Dexter Morgan, the friendly, smart, slightly boring son of Harry and brother of Debra, will still exist if Deb stops believing in me. Obviously, my heart will still beat. I'll still be alive. But I've worked so hard on building this existence as a blood spatter analyst in Miami. For the longest time, its most faithful believer was my devoted sister, and if my own faith in my humanity was shaken, I only had to look to her for inspiration. Now things are different. If she turns away, does this version of Dexter melt away? I'm scared to find out.

She does as I expect, and gets angry.

"I'm talking about you, treating me like last week's newspaper," she snarls. She straightens to her full height, not far off mine, as she prepares for the fight we're about to have. "I've served my purpose and now you're done with me. I can't fucking believe you. I fall for this shit every time." She inhales sharply, gearing up for the next tirade, but I hear the breath catch and know I've not avoided anything just by making her angry. "I've lied for you; I falsified evidence for you; I've destroyed crime scenes with you; I killed an innocent woman, my boss, for you." Her voice shakes with this admission, and she glances around for eavesdroppers. When she looks back at me, I see that her eyes are wide with disbelief. There's a massive point being made here, and I'm missing it, and she knows it. "I'm hiding your skank murderess of a girlfriend in my house, even though I fucking hate her and even though she poisoned me twice, once in an attempt to kill me in a car crash. I've been to my own personal hell and back and given up everything I believe in to do right by you. You tell me nothing, you lie to me, you flaunt your relationship in front of me even though you know how I feel about it, you break me over and over, and still I give... And for all of that – I get this."

"Deb..." I murmur, because I don't know what she wants me to say. Of course, it's all true. She's done so much for me. But where this is coming from, I don't understand. I'm not like her. I'm not normal. "Look, I understand-"

"Do you?" She doesn't believe me.

"Yeah, I mean," I begin, faltering, "I'm going to miss you while I'm away, but whenever I'm back in Miami you'll have me all to yourself, and I'll come back heaps and I'll call all the time. It'll be okay."

Slowly, Deb shakes her head. Her pained expression tells me I'm not only on the wrong page, I'm reading from the wrong story entirely.

"No, Dexter. You're leaving me."

I pause, hearing her words and hearing what she is saying, and begin to understand both what she's trying to tell me and something else. Something I haven't really understood until right now.

I am leaving her.

"You're leaving me," she repeats, more shakily this time. "After everything I've given. You're leaving me behind, with nothing." I can't think of anything to say, because I'm only just realising this for myself. I knew I was leaving Miami, my job, my friends, my bowling team and my son's nanny but it hasn't occurred to me that leaving Miami to go on the run with a wanted murder will make contact with Deb difficult, if not impossible. With Hannah being sought by authorities, my sudden departure from Miami will not go unnoticed and Deb, my only remaining relative, would be closely monitored for contact with me. "You and Harrison are all I have in the world, and you're leaving me. Well, goodbye, Dexter, and thanks for all the fucking fish."

She shoves past me, more bodily than necessary, but I've seen the welling of tears that she's trying to hide from me. I turn with her and catch her hand, not ready to finish this interaction. She whips her hand free from mine and lashes out, slapping me hard across the face. She's never slapped me before, and it hurts. I don't get a chance to complain, however.

"Don't you fucking touch me," she hisses, pointing her finger in my face dangerously. "You've had enough of me already. Just take your whore and your kid and get the fuck out of my life. And don't call. And don't write. Not that I expected you to, anyway, but just to make it clean. I know you know all about cleaning up, and this here," she gestures to the space between us, "is a massive fucking mess. So go. And stay gone."

She starts away again across the beach and for a second I let her retreat, but I can't handle what she's just said. So go. She doesn't mean that. Get out of my life and stay gone. Now, I know that's an overreaction. She'll miss me. She'll want me back. Don't call, don't write, make it clean. She's got to know I'll find a way, I'll find a way to stay in contact. We're a massive fucking mess. That's not true; we're not perfect but we can be fixed, I know it.

"Debra, stop," I plead, following her over the sand. She ignores me until I'm close enough that her long hair flicks into my face. "Deb, please wait."

"No." I have quick reflexes but I don't think to use them on my sister as she turns on me and slams both hands into my chest. I stumble back and she's already there, fist slamming into the side of my head. I back right up, raising my hands to protect my head from her next attack. She advances. "No, Dexter! I'm not doing anything else you ask. I've done enough, or don't you think so? Don't you think everything is quite enough? Especially when the reward is nothing?" She shakes her head, furious and hurt and unable to quite believe what's happening. "You still look shocked. I'm not sure how you pictured this conversation going down when you decided to up and abandon me. Fuck you."

"I didn't think of it like that," I confess, hoping she'll soften, but it only makes her madder.

"Now that'd be something new – Dexter Morgan, not thinking through how his stupid actions might affect others!" she says with rich sarcasm. "So it didn't cross your mind that I might be upset about saying goodbye to my only nephew forever? The only child I'm ever likely to have? You didn't think I'd miss Harrison?"

I stare at Deb and feel disappointed in myself. No, I haven't considered that. Nor have I considered how Harrison will feel about losing his only aunt. It's not like he sees her every day but he definitely notices when he goes a while without aunty time. Deb continues.

"What about all the serial killers of Miami?" she demands. "What about Saxon? Whose house will he come to when you're not around? Thought you'd just catch my progress on the late night news, when they find me with my skull sliced open?"

"I'll have Saxon taken care of before I go," I promise quickly. This much I have actually considered. "You'll be safe."

"Oh, good, another murder they can link us both to," Deb says sarcastically. "I don't suppose it occurred to you, either, that there might be a few questions once you disappear with a wanted killer? Hmm? Questions that you will be leaving just one person behind to answer for you. What should I tell Astor and Cody next time they call? 'Sorry guys, your only remaining parent fucked off and left us'. What am I supposed to tell Angel? And that Marshal? Do you really think they'll believe that I had no idea about you and Hannah? And when they investigate you to find out why you'd run off with a psycho, and follow La Guerta's leads, and come to the end of the line at my name and yours, who is going to be here for them to arrest?" She takes a few breaths, looking at me with utter contempt. "You're not just leaving me; you're leaving me to take the fall that should be yours. You're the fuck-up. You're the mistake. Not me. I was a good person before I let you ruin me."

"You are a good person," I interject quickly. I don't know why I think it'll help; it's never helped before to remind her of this fact. I'm not hurt by her accusations. None of them are false.

"You ruined my life," she reminds me, "and to top it all off, you're going to leave me here to go to jail for you and your mistakes. Was that always part of the plan, or just a convenient ending you stumbled across?"

"I never wanted that for you," I promise, to no effect. How can she not know this?

"So you really just didn't consider it as a possibility?" she checks, disbelieving. I shake my head. "You were just thinking, 'I'm an idiot in love with another idiot; I know, I'll run off with her without thinking about the consequences for everyone else'?" I nod, feeling like she's understanding now. I never meant for any of these futures. I clearly need to think this through more. Deb folds her arms and levels a serious, poisonous gaze at me. I'm not out of the woods yet. "Are you the only one allowed to be in love, Dexter?"

My heart breaks, something it's only done a few times before, and usually for her. How could I forget? How much am I hurting her every day, keeping Hannah in her house, kissing Hannah in front of her, all the while knowing, without consciously thinking about it, that Deb is in love with me? Or thinks she is? Doesn't matter whether it's real or invented – she feels the betrayal real enough. How long have I been this selfish? Have I always been this awful to her? Surely not; she wouldn't love me in the first place if I'd always been this bad. But now I see how much of a betrayal my leaving with Hannah would be to her.

"I didn't think of any of that," I whisper, and she screams in frustration.

"You never do!" She covers her face with her hands for a long time, trying to collect herself. "You never think. You just act, you destroy, you come back around, you apologise like it means something, you say you love me," she emphasises the word like it's unclean, "and then you keep going through the cycle. And stupid me, I let you. I forgive, I let you in, I love you back. It's a cycle and I should see it when it starts and I should run, but I don't. So I guess I'm just as at fault as you are. Maybe I deserve this."

I don't like this road, where Deb spirals down into despair and self-loathing. It has almost gotten us both killed. It also pulls me apart from the inside, like a knitted scarf unpicked stitch by stitch.

"Deb, you don't deserve it," I say. "You don't deserve me. You deserve so much better than what I have done to you."

"I hate you."

"You don't," I insist, more to convince myself than her.

"What happened with 'we'll always be together'?" she asks. She seems not to have even heard me. "I tried to get out of your life, you dragged me back, and in the car before the lake, you said that. What was the point? Why did you work so hard to pull me back into your mess if you were just going to leave me in it?" The anger subsides briefly to let me see the deep hurt. "You said, 'we'll always be together, right?' You made me feel guilty for trying to kill us – but you do worse to me every day. I don't understand. Why? You didn't mean any of it."

"I did. I do. I never want to live without you."

"But you're leaving."

Of course I'm not, I want to say, because the idea seems ludicrous, but I catch sight of the beach house's back glass door and see Hannah watching us anxiously. She moves out of sight when she sees me looking straight at her. She's being hunted; she can't stay here. I love her, too, and I've made a promise to her. Instinct tells me she'll leave me if I don't work to keep our relationship, so I know I have to keep my promise and go with her to Argentina. Miserably, I reflect that this same instinct would have come in handy in my years of being Deb's big brother. I haven't worked hard on maintaining this bond. In fact I've utterly trashed it, tested it to its limits. I've nearly broken it several times. And despite all the abuse, it's still beautiful to me. I'm not willing to leave it.

Inspiration strikes me.

"Come with us."

"Come? With you?" she asks, slowly, unbelievingly. I nod enthusiastically. Yes, that would fix everything. I could have it all – Hannah, Harrison, freedom, and Deb. The facts melt away for a moment and I wait for it to sink in for her.

Her expression contorts into someone I don't know, and then I'm in pain, clutching my face. She's punched me, and she's gearing up for another. I block, head down, and her knee comes up into my cheek. I can't believe I didn't see that coming. I reel from the blow. I could fight back but it doesn't even occur to me. I shout her name and beg her to stop. She keeps going, hitting every part of me that she can reach and screaming at me, "No! That's enough. You don't get to tell me to stop. You don't get to tell me to drop my life at your whim and follow you into a life on the run with your happy fucking family. You don't get to tell me what to do. You've said enough."

I sink to my knees, hoping she'll see the move as an admission of defeat and lay off. She knows it's wrong to beat on someone at such a disadvantage and so pulls herself back. It's only for a second, before she kicks me solidly in the stomach and I collapse backwards, curling to cradle my bruised core. She leaps on top of me and continues to hit me. I'm sore and aching but from this vulnerable position it's harder to ignore the instinct to fight back. I grab at her hands and yell at her.

"Deb, Deb!" I catch one of her wrists and manage to keep it still but the other catches my brow and I feel my skull sink into the sand behind me. Above me, her image blurs. Blood seeps into my eye. "Deb..."

"Debra, stop!" Hannah screams from the back patio. "Dexter! Dex-"

She must be coming closer because Deb gives me a brief reprieve. She slowly comes back into focus, glaring back in the direction of her home. She points threateningly at Hannah.

"Stay the fuck out of this," she orders. She's so angry and forceful that if it were me she were speaking to, I wouldn't dare contradict her, so I'm surprised to hear Hannah try.

"Debra, please, just-"

"Hannah, get inside the fucking house," I demand, not willing to see her involved and hurt but also annoyed with her lack of understanding. This is family business. I deserve this. Deb is my family and if this attack is what she needs to do to feel she's even with me, to start to love me again, then it needs to happen. I can handle it.

I assume Hannah retreats because Deb relaxes slightly. I'm hopeful, and release her wrist to gently stroke the back of her hand. She stares unflinchingly at my affectionate gesture, then she pulls away and whips the back of the same hand across my face. My head snaps to the side and sand fills my ear. I see stars. The beating starts over.

"No more, Dexter," she sobs. When did teary eyes become heart-wrenching sobs? Her face is wet, her hair is sticking to her cheeks and the tears are coming fast and heavy enough to fall onto me. I feel them, one, two, three, on my shocked skin... One of her hands closes around my throat. "No more. You don't own me. You don't control me. You don't get to tell me to stop." She hits me again, and again, and even though I know I should throw her off, it's become too late for that. My consciousness is slipping. "You can't stop me. You can't... stop me." The next blow slides off my forehead but I feel it. "You... Stop me." She's crying so hard, she can barely speak. Every strike is less powerful than the last. I try again to grasp her hands but I'm weaker, too. I can't breathe. "Stop me... Stop me..."

There's blood in my eye and sand glued to my skin by blood and tears. I can barely see, I can't breathe, but I hear the change in her tone, from statement to request. Stop me. She's so angry with me, she can't make herself stop. I've driven her to this. I deserve the beating. But she's right, she's done so much for me and I've done so little in return. I can't justify not doing as she asks. I catch her fingers and, gathering my remaining energy, buck my torso upwards to unseat her. I push her over onto the sand beside me and tightly hold both of her wrists. She struggles as I pull her against me and wrap my arms over hers to keep them pinned. We both struggle to breathe enough air. She tries once to knock her head back into mine. I press my head against the side of hers to minimise her opportunity to try again. I hold her so tight. I never want to let her go.

It takes a minute, but soon enough all the fight is gone from my sister and she's dissolving into uncontrollable sobs in my arms. I haven't seen her like this since Lundy died in front of her, and on reflection, this is maybe even worse.

We stay like this for so long. The sun moves across the sky, heading west. Deb and I don't have anything else to say to each other for now. She stops crying eventually, all run out of tears. We watch the tides change. My body and face aches and the split eyebrow stings but I have no reason to complain. Not really. I have everything I need. I only know this when I almost lose it, and I know right now that I can't be without her. I can't leave yet. I need more time. I need a plan to keep her safe, and to keep the channel open so I can still see her. I don't know what I'll tell Hannah, but I try not to think about that.

Further down the beach, other people have arrived to enjoy the sea. They won't come onto Deb's section of beach but they could get close enough to notice I'm bleeding and holding a swollen-eyed, tearful woman in a restrictive embrace. We'll have to move soon.

Deb notices them, too, and sniffs pitifully. I loosen my grip on her and take to stroking her knotty hair away from her face. Some of my blood is on her temple. I feel I should wipe it away but selfishly I want to leave it there, marking her as mine. She said I don't own her but my primal self disagrees and knows that if anything is mine, it's Deb.

I can't very well say any of that, of course, but I realise I need to say something.

"I do take you for granted," I say finally. "I don't deserve you. But I need you. I'm not sure how I'll survive, but if I'm separated from you... I can't imagine my life without you in it. I'll make it work, I promise."

I don't know how, but I have to work it out. She sniffs again and doesn't answer for a long time.

"I can't imagine mine without you, either," she whispers. "There won't be anything left in it. Everyone else has already left me."

Again she's right. She's lost so much, in part because of me. Lundy might have lived had I just killed Trinity when I first had the chance; as might have Rita. Harry died because of me. Brian's love wasn't real, but if it were not for her relation to me, he would never have targeted her. It is rare that I feel something as strongly as I do right now – regret, guilt and overwhelming adoration for the sister whose life I've systematically destroyed for no decent reason. I release her completely and stiffly, achingly, shuffle over the sand to crouch facing her. She doesn't react or move away.

"I love you so much, Debra," I say, surprised by how loaded with those huge emotions my voice sounds. I press my hands against the sides of her head to keep her face steady as I stare directly into her eyes. Eyes which, I can't believe I've never noticed before, are nearly the same hazel colour as mine. We're not blood but we share eye colour. I rejoice in this tiny gift. "It's not just words. It's real. No matter what anyone says about what I can or can't feel, I do love you. Every day. No matter where I am. And I'm stupid, so I don't often say it, but I'm blessed to have you. You don't have to worry about anything. I'm not going to let you take the fall for me. I'm going to figure something out. I'm never going to let anything happen to you."

How had I forgotten this promise, this duty, when I made my new promise to Hannah? How can I protect my baby sister from the dangers I've let into her life from another continent? I see my own eyes reflected in Deb's and know I've made a mistake. If she doesn't want to come to Argentina, then I will need to re-evaluate my plan with Hannah. She might have to go alone and I might have to live between here and Argentina. I don't know yet. I will make it work. It always works out in the end. Even this massive, fucked-up mess of a love I share with my sister. It will work. I make this promise to the universe and seal it with a firm kiss to her forehead. She is mine, and mine to protect.

I stand and she struggles to her feet beside me. She stumbles and I catch her.

"Pins and needles," she admits grimly, testing her weight on her unwilling leg. We hear laughter from further down the beach and know the visitors are closer than before. They cannot be allowed to see us looking like we do. I'm sure she's made a mess of me. I've barely touched her, and look what a mess I've made of her.

I keep one arm around her shoulders and lean to scoop the other behind her knees. She doesn't fight it, but she does give me an unimpressed look. I carry her back to the beach house. The glass door is still open and Hannah is sitting on the lounge where I'd first found Deb pretending to read. Upon our entry, Hannah abruptly stands, a mix of concern, anger and nervousness crossing her pretty features.

"Dexter," she says, but can't seem to think of anything else to say. She eyes Deb with displeasure. Perhaps she'd hoped I would overpower her out there and accidentally kill her. For her part, Deb, cradled in my arms, staunchly ignores my girlfriend. I start towards Debra's room to set her down, but Hannah steps into my way. I can see she's worried about me. Her eyes skate over my injuries. "Is everything okay?"

"It will be," I tell her, needing her to lay off and wait for the full explanation so I can fix my other relationship first. I go around her, thinking I should at least offer her the summarised version. "We will be fine. But we need to talk about our plans."

Hannah stares after me with an unreadable expression as I carry Deb to her bedroom and sit her down on the edge of her bed. I go to her bathroom and fetch a facecloth to clean her up. I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I'm swollen, but not as bad as I suspected. I'll look much worse tomorrow and the day after. I grab a towel and wet one corner to use on myself.

When I return to Deb she's found a hairbrush and is tidying herself up. She's kicked her shoes off. I tenderly wipe away the mascara tracks down her cheeks, and my blood from her temple, with some regret. I tell myself she's mine regardless of blood inside or out. While I work she takes the towel from me and begins the same process on my face, minus the make-up. I let her, enjoying her dedicated attention. I could live off this, I think.

Her hands, close to my eye as she cleans up the split eyebrow, catch my attention. I reach for one, slowly, and sadly observe the purpling of her bony knuckles and the tear in one of her nails. Even when I try not to, I hurt her.

"I wish I could make a promise to you," I whisper, so Hannah doesn't hear from the next room, "to never hurt you again, ever. But I'm too scared of breaking it."

Deb acts like I didn't speak. She finishes clearing away my blood, wriggling her toes the whole time to encourage blood flow back there. She throws the towel and cloth into the empty bathtub and rifles through her medicine cabinet. She returns with butterfly stitches for my eyebrow and some epic painkillers. We both take the drugs and she patches up my wound.

I go to the door, ready now to leave her be, like she so often asks me to do but which I'm so often unable or unwilling to do.

Beyond the door, Hannah is waiting for me, standing in the centre of the living room and expecting an explanation. I start to go through, to shut Deb in here to await the onset of the medication and to fall deeply, peacefully asleep. But she says one word to me.

"Stay?"

Stay. I know she means more than what she's saying, and I can't promise it all, but I can give her right now.

I look into her eyes. My sister's eyes. Hazel, like mine – has this coincidence gone unnoticed by her as long as it has me? Hazel is not a common colour like blue or brown. Did people used to see us as kids, with these matching hazel eyes, and really believe we were siblings? Do people still think that now? The idea that hundreds of strangers over the course of our lives together might have mistaken Deb and I as blood brother and sister brings me such peace and happiness. How could I think I would find this in Argentina, with Hannah and Harrison and without Debra?

Hannah is watching me accusingly as I close the bedroom door with her on the other side. I know she's pissed. I don't blame her. I just can't bring myself to feel motivated to fix it right now. I'll fix that later.

Deb has crawled further up the bed to settle her head on her pillow. She has her back to me but has left a space in front of her stomach for me to sit on the bed beside her. I ignore this space and lie down on the other half of the bed. She feels the compression of the mattress under my weight and rolls over to let me see her surprised expression. I nestle my sore head into the soft pillow and offer my arm to her. Without words she accepts, shifting over to cuddle into my side. Words aren't necessary. I know. She knows. She was right.

The cycle she spoke of has started again.

Right now, everything is okay. She's accepted my useless apology and detrimental love because it's how she survives. How long before I lie to her, break her, leave her? How long before I come crawling back with an apology that doesn't fix anything?

I hold her close. Soon enough I'm going to destroy her again. I try to enjoy the meantime.