Dexter in the House.
Summary: Dexter/House crossover. During his summer vacation, Dexter hunts a New Jersey killer. When he discovers who the next target is, saving him will be harder than he thinks.
Rated: M, NC-17, Mature, Adult! Language. Gore. Murder. Dexter/House Slash.
Disclaimer: I like Dexter, he's sexy, but I would never try to abduct him 'cause I hear he has a dark side. And House, well, he just melts my buttons!
"Forwards, Backwards and Somehow Else, Part III" is coming VERY soon!! Promise. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this. "Dexter" is a kick-ass damn-hot show! Wow! Very different than but every bit as good as House MD.
"It isn't right for a good person to die young. It's less right that a good person who helps others should die young. Or even kick off in middle age. The least right thing is for such a person to be brutalized and murdered. But the world bleeds with killers and their victims.
I should know. I am one. I'm Dexter. I'm a serial killer but with a twist -- I only kill murderers."
Dexter pulled his rental car up to the Hyatt and tossed the keys to a lot-jockey. After being led to his room by a bellboy who couldn't have been older than fifteen, he set up his laptop and began research on his newest victim.
Four men in sixteen months. Not all done the same way. By "done" meaning cut. Throat. Deeply. From ear to ear, like a big red smile. Or gutted with one fell swipe. Fast, furious. Savage. Anger was there in this butcher. Rage at someone or something the someone's represented. He killed with complete involvement. He wanted to be swallowed by the satisfaction of it. He swung the knife like a conductor swings his baton. Full bodied action. Crazed with the sound and the power. Music in the flesh.
Somewhere, too, waiting to be uncovered, was the meaning.
Dexter studied the some-hacked, some legit-borrowed crime photos with the eye of an expert. All the victims had been left to bleed out at the scene. Two of the victims had engaged in sex before death. One had been a very prominent but retired vascular surgeon at University Medical in Princeton. All had not been killed the same way, but all had been cut.
The police had not connected the killings because the victims, although all having been killed via wet-work, had died via different sorts of wet-work. Also in different towns and cities. They had not known each other or frequented the same clubs, and were of diverse ages.
Dexter knew how law enforcement reasoned: Location, method of death, age of victim, location of body wounds, how the bodies were left, none of the criteria held enough similarities to label them the work of a serial killer.
Dexter worked for law enforcement. But he reasoned differently. This killer, Dexter saw from the photos of the wounds, loved wet-work. This guy came when he saw blood spill. Lots of it -- the blood, not the cum. This guy enjoyed watching his victim die quickly. Die terrified. Die knowing that it was unstoppable.
It was the mind of the killer Dexter studied, not just his art.
"Wow." Dexter scrolled, studying the faces of the victims. Two things the police had disregarded as having significant connections. All four victims were men. And all four, in some fashion, worked in the medical field.
Dexter rose from the chair, his ass numb from sitting, and stripped off his T-shirt, revealing the fit body of a man in his early thirties. Sandy brown hair kept short and neat framed a well put together strong boned face with expressions that shifted from stone cold to self depreciating smirk. Either might be dangerous. Two very green, very watchful eyes looked out from beneath delicately up-swept eyebrows.
Dexter breathed deeply. This guy liked his blades. And, of course, the blood.
All that blood.
Dexter, a man of ironic humor, decided he would call him Red. "Pleased to meet you."
"Dad always told me: Pick your victims well. Choose wisely. Let a passion - a vocation if you will - get out of control and you may as well cross out having a normal life. My life isn't normal. Neither am I. But I do cross out lives. Those who are out-of-control. Those who's passions fall into the realm of murderous obsession. I kill these men (and woman occasionally), but I understand them too. There but for the grace of Dad and personal ethics, go me. Yeah, even murderers and freaks have ethics and boundaries. Just really, really awful ones."
Over dinner of broiled fish in the fancy Hyatt restaurant, Dexter read over the finer details of all four murders. Reading under his breath about death and corpses while eating had never bothered him. Not much had ever bothered him. Difficult to feel bothered when you don't feel.
Retired Surgeon victim. Second body found, but forensics had established it had been the most recent kill. Doc' had been deeply cut on his thighs. "Artificial heart-valve. Pace-maker." Dexter read the physicians medical history. "Vascular surgeon with a dicky heart. No free lunch for anyone." Body robbed and dumped.
He closed Doc's file and opened the male nurse's. He had been cut lengthwise along his abdomen. Nothing was remarkable about him other than he had been deaf. "That's...interesting." Dexter scooped a fork full of rice and shoveled. It had been a long day and he was hungry. He read the other files. In every case the victims had been robbed or raped, or both.
"Bodies estimated to have been killed sixteen months apart. First victim's body found March eighteenth, two thousand seven. Thought to have been dead two weeks upon discovery. Second victim found within days after death, July twenty-third. Third body discovered January seventeenth, two thousand eight. Decomposition suggests body had been dead for at least three months."
Dexter did a quick calculation in his head. "Mid-November, two thousand seven for the third victim. Four months. They're being killed four months apart."
He checked the first victim's file. Vascular surgeon Doc' was killed about the middle of March of two thousand eight. The times of death were consistent.
Dexter's eyes wandered to his watch. The tiny calendar told him it was the twentieth of June. "He's going to kill again. Inside a month."
That didn't leave much time. Unfortunately he had no idea who the fifth victim was going to be.
A trip to the local library and a in-depth study of Princeton, New Jersey's Who's Who would be in order. Dexter checked his watch again. Nine-thirty-five PM. Too late. First thing in the morning then.
"Good morning. I'm Doctor House."
The youth on the exam table, face grinning from ear to ear, lost his smile when he saw who his doctor was. "Where's Doctor Chan?"
House had his nose in the kid's chart. "Who?"
"The Chinese doctor. She was the one who helped me yesterday."
House finally looked at him. "Oh. Yeah, she is pretty, isn't she?" House pulled the wheeled stool over and sat down, easing his weight off his bum leg. "Doctor Chan isn't on duty today. I am." House smiled unhappily. "Lucky me. What's the problem?"
The kid gulped. "Um.. I think I have a cold or-"
"-How old are you?"
"Well, Doctor Chan, just so you don't ever have to come back here and waste the hospital's, or more importantly, my time again, is twenty-seven years old and married."
"I don't care. I love her."
"Right. You don't even know how to fake a cold."
"Please can't you at least send her in for a minute?"
"You think she's going to leave her new husband for you? Because you must be tall too, and rich. And drive a new BMW?"
The kid's pale face fell. "What do I do about it? I'm crazy about her."
House sighed. "You like Lucy Lu?"
"Get a poster, hang it on your wall. Do unspeakable things to it. Works every time."
House left his amorous patient behind and ran into Cuddy. "Any more boring sniffles I can diagnose? It keeps me sharp you know."
"You have a visitor. In my office."
"I hope she has boobs out to here." He indicated with his left hand held six inches from his biceps, "and an ass, " he glanced at her posterior, "half that size."
Cuddy ignored House's backhanded flirting. She had grown used to it. Even secretly enjoying his little digs. "He is from the police."
At House's wary face, "Not Tritter. He's with the Miami Forensics. Homicide."
"I'm not hiring."
"Neither am I, and that's not why he's here."
"Why is he here?"
Cuddy walked away. "Go find out. Not too long, I want my office back."
A younger, good looking man wearing jeans and a cream colored golf shirt stood as House entered Cuddy's office.
"I'm Dexter." He extended his hand and House looked at it.
Instead of shaking the offered hand, House sat in Cuddy's desk chair and tapped his cane on the floor. "Cuddy says you're from Miami. She seems to think you're here on some official business for the Miami P.D. Since they sent a forensic specialist to deliver whatever this message is, that's doubtful. They would have sent a flunky or, here's a better and cheaper idea, used the phone."
Dexter sat back down. "I'm here on vacation."
Dexter turned his head ever so slightly, a small smile played about his lips. Doctor House was sizing him up. He was analyzing him. This was going to be fun. "No." He waited...
"Then you're not here on vacation..."
Bingo. This Doctor was on the ball.
"No one who lives and works in Miami would come to New Jersey unless it was to visit relatives. You came here on your volition."
Dexter nodded, delighted with this one. He had already visited three of the medical community members he decided were the most likely candidates for Red's next wet-works. Two had dismissed him as a nut. One had taken his words to heart but in a way that invited the attention and adventure. After House, there were three more.
"I'm on vacation."
"You're nuts. But as long as you're here, we have doctors for that."
Dexter smiled openly, without teeth. He stared at House without blinking, in that way he knew he had, it un-nerved people. Made them shift their bodies and look away. For a respectable interval, House returned that stare, then looked down at his cane. "I am from the Miami police. I'm here about a murder."
"I haven't killed anyone, well, not lately. And even if I have, I'm a doctor. We're allowed."
"This isn't an accusation Doctor House. I'm here to warn you." House's eyes didn't widen. Even his blood pressure didn't rise. Dexter would notice it if it had. He was the blood expert after all. House was a pretty cool customer. "I'm hunting a serial killer who's working in New Jersey, Princeton actually. He's murdered four already and I think you might be on his list for next victim." Now let's see if that gets any reaction. If not, he'll bring out the big gun.
Everyone asked that. Reactions to the news you might become a murder victim were surprisingly varied. Usually ranging from dismissal to a mixture of curiosity, anticipation, excitement or trepidation.
House was curious, yes. But the fear that leaped into his eyes, carefully controlled fear, placed behind a need to know more, was a new one. House has been under the gun before.
Dexter leaned forward a bit and relaxing his elbows on the knees. "Because you work in the medical field in New Jersey and because you're handicapped."
House stared for a few seconds. "So your killer murders handicapped people? He's not a politically correct killer, is he?" House relaxed a bit too. "If that's all you've got to go-"
Dexter thought it best to stop the doubts before they took root. "-Doctor House, why are you good at your job?"
Without hesitation, "Because I don't treat anything as trivial. In my line of work, any detail, any lie, might affect the outcome. The outcome usually meaning the patient dies."
"So you're the last line of defense. And you do it well because you love solving the puzzle. And you like,you understand puzzles. Puzzles are like a really good drug for you."
House acceded to that with a nod.
"I'm good at my job, too. You might not think so because of my age, but I'm the best there is actually. I can see connections where others are blind. Some people hate me for it." Dexter saw from House's expression that being hated for his genius was a situation with which he was acquainted. "The police here don't think there's a serial killer who's targeting handicapped men working within the medical community. I know there is. Because I like serial killers. I understand them. They're my drug."
House sat forward also, mimicking Dexter's posture. House wanted to know more now. He was taking Dexter seriously. "So I might be a victim. What do I do about it?"
Dexter set his lips. "I'll suggest what I suggested to the others. Serial killers are good at their job. This guy is very good. He tracks, he follows, he studies, he learns, everything he can about his victim, and when he's sure you're what he wants, he'll kill you. I want you to stay with a friend. Or failing that, don't go home the same way every day. Don't come to work the same way. Don't walk alone anywhere, especially at night. Don't open your door for anyone you don't completely trust. Get a gun."
"There must be other handicapped peo-"
"-Not like you. Not a doctor. Not a handicapped doctor. Not a handicapped doctor who's handicap is a bad leg."
"Why is that significant?"
"Just a theory I'm leaning toward." Dexter looked away out Cuddy's office window. "This guy has murdered four others. He kills about every four months. It's been three months since his last victim. He's got a favorite disease. You fit the symptoms perfectly. Not everyone he's killed is as high profile as you, but all serial killers are arrogant. If they can murder someone richer or more powerful, it's an extra bonus. And they think the police are stupid. Which is the only way they are stupid."
House rolled his cane between his palms. "He could get to me here."
"You speak from experience."
"Two years ago, a guy walked into my office. I didn't know him, but he seemed to know me, and he shot me. I almost died."
House sat back and stood, easing his weight carefully, Dexter saw, off of his bad leg. Should his life depend on it, House would not be able to run.
"The best option," Dexter said before House left, an option he knew House would not take up, "Is to stay at my hotel with me until I catch him."
"Turn him over to the cops?"
House stared. "How do I know you're not the killer? And all this is just an elaborate ruse to gain my trust?"
"I think you have a sharp instinct. Besides," Dexter stood. "If I was the killer, I still would have spoken of myself in the third person, but I would have used much more flattering adjectives. I would have called myself brilliant and an artist. I would have suggested that I might never be caught. I would have alluded to god-like qualities; power. Maybe even righteousness."
House never took his eyes off Dexter as he made his point. Bluest eyes I've ever seen, Dexter thought. He handed House a slip of paper with the name and address of the hotel including his room and cell phone numbers.
House accepted the paper. "Did anybody on your list accept the offer to bunk with you?"
"No. But I didn't expect them to. I even booked a suite. Two bedrooms, four queen sized."
"Really. Even though you knew no one would-?"
"-there's always hope."
House nodded and left. Dexter watched the physician limp through the doors and down the hall. "He'll call."
"Doctor House didn't listen to my warning, at first. I thought he might not. So I followed him home that day. And then to work the next day. And home again. I guess a bum leg limits social activities. I have two good legs but I'm only one man. Out of the potential victims, House was the most interesting. And if I thought he was interesting, Red probably would too. Red and I are alike in many ways.
Besides, House had the bluest eyes I've ever seen on anyone. And he was intelligent and he knew it. And he was the best in his field, and he knew that. House was me, twenty years from now. Who can resist that?
Once in a while House's dark haired friend would drop in at his apartment (main floor apartment. Bad. Easy access. Easy egress. Easy kill), and leave again a couple of hours later. Two hours: Too much time to share a beer. Not enough time for a movie and pizza.
Just enough time for a good roll on the hay, though. I wonder which one has control in the bedroom? I followed them at lunch breaks. After watching House spar with Doctor Wilson, it would seem that House had the over-all upper hand. But after seeing the watchful, possessive way Doctor Wilson looked at House,...I'd put my money on Wilson.
I wonder if House told his dark haired friend (Plainsborough Oncologist James Wilson I quickly learned) about me? About our conversation? I doubt it. What would he tell him? -- "A guy on vacation from Miami said I might be murdered pretty soon. 'Nother slice of pizza?"
I'm keeping my eye on House. I think he's the next victim. He's the one I would have picked."