They never talk about the things they do in the dark. That would make it real. The next morning, it feels like part of her dreams. She wants to mean nightmares, but she can't. And anyway her life has been a nightmare for so long, it's hard to differentiate things anymore - pleasure or self destruction, desire or depravity. How does one even know what sane is when their world has been fucked up as long as they can remember? Surreal levels of fucked up. Maybe this is exactly what she should be doing. She kind of wants to laugh.

"Did you sleep well?" Hannah asks over breakfast, with a slight smirk. Too early for sparkly-eyed and smiles and even conversation really, as far as Deb's concerned. Of course Hannah is fresh-faced and glowy in grey yoga pants and a thin white tank top. She's already cooked up a four-course breakfast. It smells delicious, but Deb just drinks her coffee, hair in her face feet up on her chair. "Like a fucking baby." And she did. Hannah had completely and utterly exhausted her. As usual.
"Good." Now she smiles benignly, the patron fucking saint of serial killers and Martha Stewart Living.

The first time the slender blonde crawled in bed with her, she had pretended to be asleep. She had wanted to shout "Are you fucking kidding me?" but something stopped her. The feel of another warm body in her bed after so long. There was something comforting about it. And she was part of Dexter now, in his heart. And maybe this was as close as it got for them, so she accepted it. Hannah smelled like expensive lotions, exotic flowers, luxury and escape. "I want us to be friends, Debra" Hannah whispered in the dark, clasping her arm and squeezing it gently. "Good friends." She buried her face in Deb's neck and shortly after, Deb heard the soft, even breathing of sleep.

*

This is how she has him now, tracing trails with her fingertips over soft skin, all the places his hands have touched, rounding over curves of breasts and hips and thigh, lush hills and sloping valleys, imagining. It's not about Hannah, it can't be. She just wants to understand, to feel what he feels. For her part, Hannah doesn't say a word, patient with Deb's explorations, only sighing or a sharp intake of breath, a shiver here and there, as she lies bare and exposed beneath Deb's clumsy fingers.

Until now, it's only been Hannah in control, perfectly manicured fingers plunged deep inside her or deft little tongue bringing her to the edge and leaving her there, Hannah watching her whimper and tremble (but never begging- never that), until finally she pushes her over...and over and over, Deb thrashing and screaming and blinking back tears. This is what she needs- release, catharsis. The only thing that helps her sleep. Only then will Hannah stroke her hair softly, almost maternally, hold her and kiss her sweetly.

"You're thinking about Dexter touching me right now, aren't you?" Hannah says more like a sentence then a question.

Something about this strange switch of roles or the darkness makes Deb honest. "Yeah."

"Does that turn you on?" she asks seriously.

"Fuck-no! God…"

"I think it does," Hannah says softly, guiding Deb's hesitant hand into the slick wetness between her thighs. "You could come with us," she sighs.

"No!" Deb pulls her hand away. "That's not what this is!"

"So what is it then?"

"I just need to get off now and then. Fuck!! Just because you haven't tried to kill me over the past couple of weeks doesn't mean I'm your girlfriend now. Or your friend for that matter."

Hannah sighs. "You're right. It was a foolish thing to suggest. I'm sorry."

They lie in silence for a minute and it is everything Deb can do not to reach out and touch her, run her fingers through her silky hair, kiss her hard and deep and wet, erase this conversation, melt away into her until this...until nothing is real anymore.
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