storypaint | On the Side (Dexter/The Dead Zone gen)

Fandom: Dexter (book series)/The Dead Zone
Words: 888
Title: On the Side
Author: rhap_chan
Rating: PG for Dexter's thoughts
Disclaimer: The Dexter book series is the property of Jeff Lindsay, and "The Dead Zone" is not mine either. This fanfic is a derivative of canon material that is not my property. I do not profit from these writings. The opinions and actions expressed in these stories are not necessarily the views and beliefs of the original author or me.
Spoilers: For "The Dead Zone" episode 6.1 "Heritage" and Dearly Devoted Dexter (a couple of spoilery notes about Dexter under the cut, for TV fans).

Spoilery notes for fans of the TV show: As I understand, the first season of Dexter followed the first book, Darkly Dreaming Dexter. Thus, the second season would logically (but not necessarily) follow the canon of the second book, Dearly Devoted Dexter. This fic is based on that book's canon, and thus contains a spoiler for that book and perhaps the second season. Notes under the cut.

In the second book, by an unfortunate accident, Dexter has found himself engaged to his long-time cover-up girlfriend, Rita. For those of you who are primarily Dead Zone fans, there isn't a lot of Dead Zone in here-- it's mostly Dexter, your friendly neighborhood serial killer, and background with his story is advised.

If, instead, you have little background with "The Dead Zone," simply note that it stars Johnny Smith as a man who awoke from a coma with the ability to see the future, and sometimes the past, when he touches a person or an object. In episode 6.1, Johnny's dear friend Sheriff Walt bit the dust. Who will listen to his visions now?

Excerpt: Johnny Smith claims to be a psychic, and he believes he is a psychic, two facts that are generally mutually exclusive, barring the charming residents of the state mental facilities. I do not believe in psychic powers, of course... Johnny Smith is, however, never wrong about what he tells me.

It is eight o'clock on Saturday night when the phone rings, and I am busy being disinterested in wedding decorations, wedding food, and wedding colors. This is the job of a future groom, I have been informed. The difficult part is pretending to be interested for her sake, on top of pretending to be interested. At the bottom, there is nothing, of course, like usual. I am almost pleased to hear the phone begin to play its cheery tune. I am very pleased to see the phone number.

"Just a minute," I say to Rita, attempting to appear disappointed that I will have to miss even a second of the heart-wrenching decision between beige and taupe.

"Who is it?" she asks.

"An old friend from high school," I lie.

"Did you invite him?" she asks, of course; we have been inviting everyone to this wedding. The entire population of this city, it seems, will be attending the wedding of Devastatingly Debonair Dexter to his unsuspecting fiancee.

I am still working out the details, a rearrangement of my own things. I do not wish to move in with Rita yet. The slides might arise suspicion. And considering the origin of this call, I might have to be adding one soon.

"I... I might have something for you," he says. He always sounds reluctant, that Johnny Smith. Why be reluctant to share information with a respectable blood-spatter analyst? Perhaps he suspects my true identity. He of all people should be able to figure out my secrest, if he is who he claims. Dull, Disbelieving Dexter does not hold much respect for things he cannot see. I of all people should be able to consider spirits and the realm beyond with logic. I have never seen the fabled "spark of God" in the eyes of those whom I help leave this world.

Johnny Smith claims to be a psychic, and he believes he is a psychic, two facts that are generally mutually exclusive, barring the charming residents of the state mental facilities. I do not believe in psychic powers, of course.

Johnny Smith is, however, never wrong about what he tells me. This is why I still note the facts nestled in his insane babble. The real source of his information does not concern me as much as it would concern a normal human being. I have always been more about results.

"Her name is Cara Smith," Johnny whispers secretively. He does not like me any more than I believe him, but his police contact has recently died and more often than not nowadays he has no choice but to bring the less believable cases to the attention of Dexter Spade, private eye. This is who I claimed to be when he called me for the first time, two years ago. Smith's contact had been looking at a case file Doakes had helpfully lent him in connection with a suspicious murder in the area. It was not one of my jobs, and the file had been marked all over with question marks (and, I hoped, "paranoid delusions?" but generally one cop will believe the paranoia of another). There was no information connecting me to any of my own crimes, but there was plenty of information on my sister Debra, and it had been her that Johnny had been trying to connect with. I caught up with him first.

In any case, I could not have really been a suspect in those crimes, Johnny was sure. Not the forensic specialist, Upright Citizen Dexter Morgan. And as a (former, or so I informed him) forensic specialist, it is expected that I find the evidence that the new sheriff might miss. At least this is what I told Mr. Smith. I always do, using my usual unorthodox methods. It is not entirely a lie, and the ironic lies amuse me the most.

Three times Johnny Smith has called me with one of these visions. I must admit, the first time I was rather skeptical. But he has been correct three times from three, and that is very good odds. Coincidentally, three monsters have suddenly moved away from their homes and businesses, leaving no trace. This is, admittedly, against much lower odds, and he may suspect something, but he has called me anyway, and the Dark Passenger is grinning. He gives me the details and hangs up, returning to his unfortunately delusional life. If he ever chose to testify against me, his words could not stand up against a good lawyer shock. The true origin of his paranoid fantasies does not concern me. These fantasies are convenient. The Dark Passenger always wants to come out and play, after all.

Sometimes when I am bored I wonder if, chancing we should meet, I would let him shake my hand. But that does not concern me now, because the moon is bright, oh so bright, and I have a nice young woman to become acquainted with. Of course, Rita would get the wrong idea from that statement, so I make my excuses and part from her into a world heavy with darkness and sharp as the moon, to see Miss Cara Smith.

I would hope, if I had such emotions, that Johnny would be four for four, but I do not hope. I will go find out.