Dexter: That's Not How It Ends

Part I. Aftermath: 1. Diligently defibrillated Dexter

"Hello, mister Morgan."

"Hello back atcha, Lucy!" I said cheerfully, "A prick, a shot or a sting?"

"None of the above," she smiled back, "I'm here to change your pillow."

"Uh-uh, generous today. My hospital life's becoming bearable, eh?"

I put aside my half-eaten Stonyfield and let the nurse do her job.

Lucy's nice. Always smiling, talkative to the brink of being flirty, but never too much. A proud eight: not enough to call suspicions, just perfect to attract a normal man.

I am a normal man. I am attracted.

I know she's been instructed to make me like her, but I would like her anyway. Why not? It is easier to genuinely like people, any normal person knows that.

I am a normal person. Calm, simple-hearted, square. Not really neat though... judging by my yoghurt-spattered pillow.

"Sorry," I mouthed silently to Lucy.

"No prob," she mimicked my pantomime.

Always in tune. I'm pretty sure if my little jokes were more provocative, Lucy'd become less coy too.

But my jokes are innocent. As am I.

Not a monster. Very innocent. Very unlucky.

I run the unlucky line on my attorneys yesterday. They adored the notion.

Angel Batista found those guys for me.

[***]

"Captain Angel Batista, no welation. How is he?"

"This is the ICU, mister..."

"Captain."

"...Captain. An intensive care unit. You are not supposed to..."

"You must be new, doctow. I'm not asking youw pehwmission. I'm asking how is my fwiend Dextehw Mowgan today."

God it's good to hear Batista's voice again, I thought, feeling surprised by my own feelings. I genuinely liked him, not because it's easier.

When Angela Bishop, my ex-girlfriend and my arresting officer, said he's coming from Miami with some new evidence against me, the notorious Bay Harbor Butcher... well, that made me tense up quite a bit. But evidence, if any, is yet to be presented by Batista. Instead, he acted like my guardian angel from the very moment he arrived at Albany Memorial. The only hospital able to accept the rescue helicopter after the shooting that frosty day.

Multiple fractures, blood loss, collapsed lang, shoulder-blade displacement, heart failure... This is what friendly fire does to friendly Dexter. Frostbite and bilateral pneumonia, I don't count, those are collateral. Just like poor Logan.

Sorry. Didn't mean to sound cynical. All ailment and no play makes Dexter a dull not-a-monster.

"What do you expect me to say?" I heard from outside the door, "I'm a doctor, not an oracle. His condition is..."

"Awe we playing sabelotodo hehwe, doctow... Clyde?" Batista interrupted with his usual subtle but unmistakable menace, "Now listen. I will not let you ow anyone else kill Dextehw. You can kill youwself if that is youw desiwe. End youw cawwiew, end youwself, I don't cawe. But not him. He's family. Do I make myself cleaw?"

Unintelligible noise. I squinted my eyes, but of course the blinds were shut. More noise. Batista was methodically tamping the good doctor.

"Hola, Angel," I said when the noise was over and Batista, looking triumphantly, has entered the room, "Are you gonna visit every day?"

"My fwiend!" he exclaimed, "At last, you can talk pwopehwly!"

I held back a painful laugh.

"Properly is such a strong word. But yes, they've stopped treating my larynx with that numbing shit, and the new doctor you've just met..."

"Clyde's a mowon," Batista interrupted, "Complete mowon, if you ask me. But enough with him, Dextehwito! I see a huge, huge talk in ouw futuwe, youws and mine. Ah! not now, obviously. Do get out of the ICU fiwst."

[***]

And, after another week, so I did. A regular room, regular food, regular Lucy.

Regular me. Phoenix. Back from ashes.

Batista, true to his word, visited every day. We never had that huge talk he promised, only small ones.

Still no word came from or about Angela Bishop. Still nothing on Iron Lake situation. I'm not allowed TV, papers or Internet, out of concern for my health, sure.

I was confined to the hospital. But there were no cuffs, and no FBI agents were posted at my room's door, local policemen only. I gingerly considered this a good sign. If FBI is not that interested in me... Well, my chances should be better then, right?

Something wicked my way comes. Could it be any wickeder than me?