Chapter Text
Fuck.
Harrison waited a long moment on the corner, waiting for his father's face to come around it. People walked around him on either side, giving an occasional disapproving snort or ignoring him altogether as his heart rang pitter-patter behind his breastbone.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck—
Red caught his eye, taking his breath before he saw the rest of the woman and her bright coat. Dozens of people came into view, and dozens marched on unrecognized and uncaring. Harrison allowed himself to lean back on the brick behind him, momentarily forgetting the rain.
He's not following me.
It didn't matter, really, since the guy knew where he worked. Knew where he worked, knew his name, knew details of his life that Harrison himself couldn't remember, and worst of all knew his father, and that probably meant he knew about Ryan Foster and everything else, too, another old Miami friend of dear Dad's running into him “accidentally” to ask him about what his father had taught him.
Shit shit shit.
He had to calm down. He had to calm down. If this was Batista all over again, panicking would just make it worse—and who said it had to be an old vendetta again? What were the odds that two people knew Dexter Morgan was the Bay Harbour Butcher and wanted to come settle a score with his next of kin?
Then again, what were the odds of his dad being the Butcher to begin with? What were the odds of running into his fucking clone, from looks all the way down to how he walked?
He drew in a labored breath, starting again towards work.
Dad, Dad, he had to call Dad. Text him. Something. This was his mess, he always said he'd protect Harrison from things like this and he'd at least tried to keep his word thus far, he'd take care of it this time too.
At worst, Dad would take care of it. How wasn't of any concern to Harrison—unless he planned to kill him, that is, since the guy said he was a parent and had at least a sister that loved him, and also hadn't been shown to do anything wrong yet, but Dad seemed a little less inclined to solve every problem with murder than Harrison had initially expected. Mr. Fisher would probably get sent off back to the West Coast with his tail between his legs, or with some nice fairytale explanation for everything, and it would be fine.
At best…
Harrison paused briefly in the foyer before a sharp look from Stefan spurred his feet back into motion. Loading up bags to take up to someone's room usually helped get him out of his head. A quick trip to the breakroom to toss the sandwich and Redbull in the fridge—he had too many jitters for an energy drink, now—and he was back out in the rain.
At best, he'd end up having a free lunch tomorrow. David Fisher would turn out to be as genuine as the hug felt, as the tears looked, and he'd hear some stories about his dad when he was younger from someone that still liked him. He’d get to hear about Deb, maybe. He'd see his own baby pictures. Pictures of Mom.
His dad would have someone around that was normal—or at least kind of normal, normal other than looking like his twin brother. Normal like isn't a serial killer, or collecting serial killers, or working for someone that was collecting serial killers.
Harrison smiled his best and pressed the for the fourth floor, couple blissfully silent behind him.
Of course, there was Blessing and the rest of the Kamaras, but it would be nice to have a bit of an expanded pool. Besides, David said twelve years—that wasn't anything to scoff at. If he really was just a good friend of his dad’s, that meant his concern for Harrison was real, and he’d have another adult out there worrying over if he had enough to eat.
And funnily enough, both of said adults looked the same.
Well, David had a little more grey, now that he thought about it.
Maybe it was like the twins thing—where at first glance, all you see is the similarities, but when you get to know them both, you start to be able to tell them apart. Harrison never got to experience such a phenomenon firsthand, but it seemed reasonable.
He thought he knew his dad’s face pretty well, though, and it was that. Cleaner-shaven, but for God’s sake they had the same beauty marks, how does that happen? It didn’t make any sense.
He tucked the nice tip from the satisfied customers and headed to the stairwell—a call was better, in times like this. It was taking some getting some used to, but in a deep place Harrison didn’t like dwelling on, actually hearing his dad did a lot to smooth any internal turbulence. Just hello would go a long way to making him feel better. It was probably how most kids felt about their parents, but he’d usually avoided the topic altogether growing up, so who knows. Maybe it was just a him thing.
Harrison leaned on the wall and opened up the contact Dad, hovering his finger over the call button. He’d probably be out doing ride share stuff right now, but Harrison had long figured out that if it was him calling, his dad would pick up no matter what, and him not answering in some format was cause for major concern.
It only rang twice. “Hey buddy.”
“Hey Dad.” His arms didn’t feel so heavy anymore, and the air wasn’t so thin. What was the best way to open? He didn’t want to worry his dad—even when worry seemed pretty hard to come by for his dad—but he didn’t want to bury the lede, either. Something in between? “I uh—I met… well he says he’s an old friend of yours, so—I mean he knew a lot, so he probably—he at least knows you—”
“Are you okay?”
Why do I even bother trying, he can tell anyway. “Yeah, I’m—I’m fine, I’m at work right now, this was like… twenty minutes ago.”
The silence usually meant he was nodding. Nodding meant happy, or at least pleased. Relief was probably closest this time.
“It was really weird, he looked—he looked just like you. I ran into him at the store—”
“He looked just like me?” The twinge of confusion from the receiver put Harrison on edge. Well, so what if he doesn’t remember right away? The guy thinks he’s dead, so they haven’t spoken in like… ten years at least. And Dad’s a little weird with people sometimes.
“Yeah. I thought he was you, ‘til he asked me who I was.” With the fear-stirred adrenaline leaking back out of his bloodstream, the moment burned his ears with embarrassment. “It was… freaky. I thought I was… I dunno, hallucinating or something for a second. Said he met you in Miami, so it—it kinda put me on edge.”
“Did he know who you were?”
“Not at first, but I… I might’ve—I-I helped him a little. By accident.”
“That’s okay.” Dad didn’t like making him actually say the word ‘sorry’, at least not to him, but he always reassured when he heard it in Harrison’s voice.
“He—I just uh… he’s coming by work tomorrow to take me to lunch, I wanna make sure he’s okay to be around. I… I don’t want—” Harrison lowered his tone. Even in the service stairwell, he didn’t want to complicate their lives any further by having someone eavesdrop. “I don’t want another Batista situation.”
“What was his name, did you get his name?”
“David Fisher.”
Silence. Not nodding silence, though. Thinking silence.
“Ring any bells?”
“One, yeah. A loud one.” His voice was positive, maybe even a bit warm—or as close as his dad got to warm. It smoothed the ruffled feathers along Harrison’s spine. “Glad there’s only one person that looks like me out there—or uh… two.”
“Right, yeah.” At best was looking more and more likely. “So is he—he’s good, right?”
“Does he know I’m…”
The rest of the sentence was unneeded. “No, he—he thinks your dead. I didn’t know if him knowing was… good, yet. Wanted to wait.”
“I appreciate that.” The other end went half quiet, but Harrison still heard the slight sigh. “I’ll get back to you on it. For now just… operate under the assumption it’s all good to go.”
“You’re sure? Cause I don’t—I don’t need more drama right now, we can try and figure something out to—”
“I’m sure. David’s good people. We met…” Ah, the quiet of Dad carefully picking words around what he actually wanted to say. Usually, it pertained to his own criminal underbelly. When he spoke again, there was an old mirth in his voice—something new. It perked Harrison’s ears. “It’s kind of funny, I can—maybe you can come for dinner tonight? I can fill you in on everything.”
“Sure.”
“Good.”
“Cool cool.” Free lunch, baby pictures. The son of his dead friend. “What uh—but what do I tell him about you? Do I…?”
“Don’t worry about it right now—tomorrow’s issue. Or tonight’s issue. My issue, regardless. I’ll figure it out before he shows up again, don’t worry.”
“Right.” His heart felt securely back in his chest now, removed from it’s place near his Adam’s apple.
A much longer pause stretched out. His dad’s lack of knack for proper conversational timing usually mimicked a dead line. “How’s your day been?”
“Good, pretty—pretty good. David uh—I went out to grab a drink, but David practically forced me to let him buy me something to eat, so I have a sandwich waiting.”
“Oh.” Nodding. “That sounds like him, yeah.”
“Yeah. I gotta get back to it—”
“Course, yeah—”
“And you’re probably out doing stuff so uh… get back to me soon about all that, I gotta think about where we’re gonna eat lunch.”
“Right. He owns a funeral home, so… I mean, have manners but—”
“But he can afford to take me to someplace better than McDonald’s.” Failing all else, Dad could always be trusted to talk about food. It was the easiest conversation path of his to read. Harrison smiled a little.
“Definitely.”
“So wait, you guys look the same, and he works at a funeral home—”
“Owns it.”
“He owns a funeral home, and you were a blood spatter analyst. So you both worked around dead bodies.”
“Yeah.” A little exhale through his nose into the phone—it was nice to hear his dad happy at something, for once. “Everyone pointed that out. Funny, huh?”
“Little bit.” Harrison smiled, cheeks warm. “He seemed so… normal, though. Not what I’d expect.”
“That’s a new development, then, ‘cause Deb called him a ‘weirdo’. And her frame of reference was me.”
“Oh, no, he was definitely weird, just… not what I’d expect from someone in that line of work.”
“I guess not, no.”
“Anyway, uh… drive safe.”
“I will.”
“Talk soon.”
“Okay.”
“Bye.” Harrison ended the call. After the first two times of being hung up on waiting for a ‘goodbye’ back, he’d figured out that wasn’t something his dad really… did. He didn’t really do ‘I love you’s, or anything resembling normal parenting at all, but he was trying in his own… well, weird way. The love was felt, even if it wasn’t said. Might be nice to hear it every once in a while, though.
Dinner with Dad, and then lunch the next day with… not-Dad. At least they didn’t act the same; David seemed more… what was the most charitable way to put it? Socialized? He seemed more at home with his emotions, at the very least. Came off as a more physical-touch kind of person, too.
He emerged from the stairwell, starting back out to the neverending stacks of luggage.
The more he thought on it, the stranger it was that Dad had David as a friend at all. Sure, they looked the same and had similar jobs, but they didn’t seem to match up other than that.
Then again, Dad could get along with just about anyone, and fast.
But… close enough to keep talking for twelve years, or however long David said?
Harrison jammed his thumb between two suitcases, suppressing a yelp. It was better to leave it alone for now; the immediate problem was resolved and he wouldn’t get anywhere just musing on it while he worked. Dad would do whatever for dinner—grill steaks of he was cooking, probably Cubanos if it was take-out—and would explain how the hell he came to know his Doppelganger, and what to tell said Doppelganger when it came to his twice-undead father.
If I hide out in the kitchen and give ‘em a hand, they’ll let me eat in there. Snarf down the sandwich, get back to work.
His stomach growled at the thought, eager to be full and out of the rain.
...didn’t he buy me a KitKat, too?
~~~
Dexter stared ahead.
David Fisher in New York City. David Fisher, with the sister that had moved to New York half a year after their older brother died. David Fisher, his non-biological twin from across the country. David Fisher, the man that he traded parenting tips and trade secrets with for twelve years. David Fisher, the man he met in a pool of blood.
The table was shaking. Dexter’s brow knit together, pensive.
David had always shown a soft spot for Harrison. He had with all three of the kids, of course, but showed special tenderness for the youngest—maybe it was big brother instincts. The most likely explanation was that Harrison was the one he got to watch go from baby to toddler and almost-little-kid, and was the least equipped to handle when—
Dexter grabbed his knee, stopping his leg from bouncing. He rose from the chair, headed towards the kitchen. The oven chimed with each button input. Dexter waited to hear the igniter kick on, ears pricking at the soft woosh of the flame.
Harrison sounded excited. It made sense; last they spoke, David owned his own business, had two kids and two nieces, a husband, and was living the high life. Dexter faked his death on accident and worked at a fish and game store for near a decade and now worked as a rideshare driver. Besides that, David was personable, fatherly, and besides being prone to violence on a few occasions, was a normal man.
And Dexter was... Dexter.
It made sense.
Dexter grabbed up the bag of baby potatoes and felt around his slowly-growing spice rack for garlic, parsley, rosemary, thyme. A touch of olive oil in a bowl to make it stick, tossing the spuds like salad.
It would be a late dinner. His son would come and eat, probably end up sleeping on the couch, and he’d figure out how to tell one of his only remaining Miami friends that he was alive.
The oven’s door radiated warmth on his legs as he picked up the carefully wrapped butcher’s packets and peeled the tape open, turning the burner on with the cast iron atop the grate.
Best option was to do it someplace private. Unless something fundamental had changed for David in the last decade, he was prone to large displays of emotion after trying to internalize it—which, of course, always made it worse. If the emotion on display was anger or fear, some violent outburst was to follow. Fear would hopefully be a no-show—Dexter wasn’t sure what he’d do about that, since the last time ended with him elbowed in the nose—but anger…
Silvery sinew gleamed up at him and curled his lip. Dexter grasped the edge gingerly, taking a knife from the block and starting to slice—carefully, he didn’t want to lose any actual meat. If it was just him, it was a disappointment and not much else. For his son, it would be unacceptable. Any accidentally clipped protein would be his serving.
Finding out your long-time friend wasn’t actually dead all these years, and was instead hiding from you, was a great reason to get mad. Not to mention the abandoning of a child you cared about, or, by letter of the law, the corpse desecration of a woman you only met the one time but also felt warmly towards. To top it all off, this man that shares your face was—no, is—a serial killer with no plans to stop, and if he were to get arrested, you’d be stopped in every police checkpoint and checkout line while they verified you were, in fact not freshly escaped from death row. Of course he was going to be mad.
He tossed the silverskin onto the parchment paper, ready for tossing into the outside trash where it wouldn’t stink up his kitchen garbage can. The unappealing splat hit the wax-side of the paper and stayed put like meaty chewing gum on the bottom of someone’s shoe.
And he’d probably cry, too. Cry and get mad, and both of those things were better kept behind closed doors. The alternative would be to not tell him at all, but that wouldn’t be fair to Harrison. If Harrison wanted to keep being around this man, he’d already have to keep one massive secret from him—one massive secret with a hundred smaller secrets, to be more accurate—and to heap another on his plate would be needlessly burdensome. Any rage from the situation would be pointed at Dexter, not Harrison—letting David continue thinking Dexter had died in that hurricane would put more unneeded stress on his son just to avoid an uncomfortable conversation. It was selfish, and therefore it wasn’t a real option to consider.
Dexter paused briefly, glancing at the potatoes, imagining the slow-roasting starch.
It would shake out fine. He could come along to work, David would probably show up around noon when Harrison didn’t have lunch ‘til around one, and he’d have an hour to talk to his former friend and make sure lunch would go smoothly. Harrison would get that free lunch he seemed eager for, and then they would maintain whatever contact they wanted to maintain—it was Harrison’s job to take care of his own friendships, form his own bonds. Dexter would give whatever help his son asked for, but he wouldn’t overstep again.
I guess I should make something green.
Dexter ground salt over each slab of meat, then pepper, then a pad of butter in the pan. Each cut went in the pan, sizzling, filling the apartment with the scent and sound of good food.
Do potatoes count as a vegetable? They’re a starch, what does that count as?
The cupboard and fridge were slowly getting better—occasional guests at dinner was the best motivation to stock his kitchen he could ask for—but it was still a work in progress.
I don’t know if I even have anything green.
Steak and potatoes would be fine. It was a home-cooked meal, it would be good enough.