Welcome, dear readers, to a very twisted, naughty idea that came into my head while writing "Home." Since the ending mirrored a bit of "Dexter in the Dark" my muse got evil and started comparing my two favorite fictional murderers. And it occurred to me that they stand on oposite sides of the law. I did a quick search, but found no cross-over slash.

This is my first slash, and only my second fanfic, so... don't expect much. I'm a detail hound though, so we won't get to the good bits for a while. Chapter 3 at least. Enjoy!

He should have never taken that first contract. He hadn't worked for Wiskel in years, didn't even know how the contractor had tracked him down. Said something that he had. Lured him in with good money and an even better fake id. Had to be good if you were gonna base yourself out of the inner systems, much less fucking Terra. And as the old dog had said, not many mercs would think to look for him in the front fucking yard of the interstellar justice conglomeration. And there was always plenty of dirty work to be done in politics. Celebrities may ghost to the settlement worlds for privacy, but there was something to be said for the relative anonymity of the overcrowded, half-dead, sin-soaked pit of the Universe that had spawned humanity. So now he'd spent the last few months shacked up in the glittery, tramp-stamp heat hovering over the ass-crack of the world. Miami. Wiskel sent him another job in Cuba, he could fuck himself, preferably with one of those Media Noche sandwiches he was always chewing on.

For now though the credits were coming up clean, and Riddick didn't really care who he was Xing. It was all politics, which meant that everyone was guilty of something. Dirty work, but he was only taking one job a week. The rest of the time was spent on the beach, sipping cold drinks and playing touristo. He'd have enough banked soon to afford a ship that wasn't a piece-of-shit black-market Frankenstein job of stolen parts. Might even have enough to find a doctor to get the shine job reversed. Meantime, he was taking advantage of the pretty boys and girls who offered him some serious relief after being stuck out in the black alone so long. Tourist town, so most everyone was either a professional or a tourist like himself. Made his policy of get off - get out fairly easy to enforce. He didn't want complications.

Dexter

"It's complicated," Vince Masuka looked up at Sgt Batista. "I'm not saying it's professional, but whoever did it knew what they were doing. But get Morgan in here to check the spatter, not that there's much of it."

"Is he back on yet? Thought he was still off mourning or some shit." Angel Batista squinted against the hot Miami sun, taking in the parking lot.

"Yeah, came in with donuts this morning and everything. Wouldn't know his wife just bit it a few weeks ago. But he's a strange guy."

"Watch it Masuka! " Deb Morgan smacked him upside his bald head. "That's my brother you're talking about."

"Shut up both of you!" Lt. Laguerta hissed as she stomped over to the murder scene Vince was crouched over. "There are reporters everywhere, soon as the call went out on public channel coms that Vice Attorney General Takay was killed. This is highly political, and we can't screw this up!" She glanced back at the mob of people, several newstation vid coms hovering at the police line. First a controversial state assemblyman, then a special interest lobbyist who was widely known to sleep with married politicians and then use the affair to gain their political cooperation. Now this. It was like a serial killer had started slashing at the dark, dirty underbelly of the political machines in Miami. That none of these people had any political party affiliations in common only made it weirder. But... one was a random murder, two a coincidence, three... spelled serial.

"Morgan!" she hollered. Deborah winced, since she was only standing a few feet behind the Lieutenant.

"Yeah, Chief?"

"I want you and Batista to pull together a team. This is the third public figure killing in as many weeks. There has to be a pattern. Even if we can't see it, I'm sure the v-loggers and newspips will draw that conclusion."

"Actually, Chief, this is five... "

"What?"

"Ran a search this morning... there was a Cuban Communist Party leader stabbed up in St. Petersburg at a speaking engagement a month ago. Same M.O. - found him in his hotel room. But local PD chalked it up to political rivalry. And down in the Keys, had a vacationing Interstellar Corrections Administrator with known mob ties whacked just as cleanly. Most mob hits don't get that stab-happy."

"There was another nice one down in Cuba a few weeks back," Masuka put in thoughtfully - gesturing at the corpse in front of him. "Same kinda short deep cuts as this. Purposeful artery work, violent and efficient, and these knife marks - can't tell until I get them examined back at HQ, but they aren't store-bought. Think this perp makes his own. Better than your average slam-quality shivs, but..."

"Since when have you been studying knifework, Masuka?" Deb eyed him banefully. Couldn't trust him to be helpful like that. Volunteer information without a lewd comment thrown in. Vince pushed his glasses up his nose, looking insulted.

"Since I'm writing a paper on the intimate nature of stabbings and personality traits of multiple-offending killers. Stabbing are usually crimes of passion. Very intimate, violations of..."

"Stop right there, Masuka, or you're getting hit again, cameras or no cameras," Deb warned.

"Morgan and I will run with that, the knife-work political-office angle," Batista put in as Laguarda bristled to yell at her squabbling homicide team. "I'll bet we find more if we cross-reference the local international and state databases. We'll get Dex in on the blood spatter angle, see if we can work up if this is a single suspect or not."

"Did someone say my name? My ears are burning..." Dexter Morgan strolled up to the scene, snapping on a pair of gloves and clicking on his headcam. "Hello sister dear, long time no see." Deb stared at him, incredulous.

"Yeah, like, since your wife's funeral? You're goddamn cheerful today."

"Nothing like work to take your mind off mourning." Dexter shrugged and tried to look slightly less pleased. He was tired of pretending to be devastated. Playing a grieving spouse was not a role he'd had time to study for, and unfortunately, the more practiced mask of cheerful coworker was a default act for him. Probably explained the strange looks he got this morning while making the rounds on donut duty. No one had said anything untoward, but he could always count on Deb for a straightforward, unrestrained reaction. He avoided her stare and crouched down next to Vince. "What we got?"

"Double stab wounds, looks like the vic was on his way out to his car. Perp hit the abdominal aorta, left of the spine. Messy but quick." Vince said. Dexter nodded.

"Sweet spot. Looks like a single entry mark, direction of the spray on his clothes." He started snapping pictures. "Hard to hit unless you know precisely what you're aiming for. Professional, and vicious."

"So you think it's a professional too?" Laguerta put her hands on her hips and frowned. "Great. This is screaming 'serial.'" Dexter's head snapped up.

"What?"

"Third killing like this in the Miami area in the last few weeks," Batista volunteered. Dexter knew this, but he knew he was supposed to be 'out of the loop.' One thing the grief sites all agreed on was that people in mourning did not pay attention to things outside themselves. He couldn't look like he still scanned the front pages daily for crimes that indicated the calling card of potential... playmates. Front page bloodcrimes were his own personal ads. This one already screamed "SWM - professional with artistic streak, built for speed; fond of silver, intimate late night one-on-ones, and hide and seek; longing for moonlit dancing with that special someone. "

"Fifth, if you count the state area," Deb added.

"Sixth, at least." Vince corrected. Deb kicked him in the thigh.

"Whatever," Laguerta shook her head. "Morgan, I want you up to speed on this. I know you're coming off leave, but we need your expertise on this. You have a sixth sense for this serial stuff, even I know that."

"Okay..." Dexter tried to look confused, as if he had no idea about the other stabbing victims. The Dark Passenger rustled and chuckled in the back of his mind. He'd already seen the pattern, was searching for a partner for the next dance. Dexter cuffed the shadow silently. He'd just been out to play a few weeks ago. Rita's death had given him plenty of alone time with no responsibilities and expectations to tip-toe around. He was truly sorry Rita was gone, he was fond of her, in his way. And the disguise she provided him. But married life had been... constricting for his nighttime hobby.

The Passenger had nearly jumped for joy when he'd been allowed an extended sabbatical these last few weeks. He'd actually booked an impromptu trip off-planet. Chasing down a top-10-most-wanted lister to Rigel IV. Just a quick jaunt, some time to look at the scenery, sample a few fine restaurants, mourn a bit... and dance that midnight waltz with a murdering slaver who ran a rather dark fetish club just north of Miami. The man had dumped one too many bodies in the swamps north of town, and when the police came looking... he'd ghosted off planet. Dexter really wasn't one for travel - much less intersteller, the moons were never the same gibbous flirt it was here in his backyard. But... it had been an unplanned opportunity he couldn't pass up.

And now he'd come home to find a new slice-n-dice man tap-dancing in his front yard. Nothing coy about this one. Practically screaming for attention. And, Dexter couldn't wait to get his hands on the files back at the office. If the unreleased details of his work were all this fine, this would be a deliciously challenging two-step. The artful simplicity and force of the kills had a brutal efficiency. Intelligence. Someone in complete control of his own dark urges, but utterly blaze about being caught, by his public action. This was not a fetishist, but an artist none the less. Savage. The Passenger actually purred and licked lips in anticipation. This hunt would be fun.