Dexter's imagination is more inclined to clean darkness and fun with knives, but it doesn't mean he can't provide his own unique point of view. Deborah understands how intimately Dexter know these things, and he isn't sure if she trusts him more or less because of it. Sometimes, it's both.
"You you think there's a chance Dex might be right?" Deborah sounds slightly incredulous, but not as though she's completely dismissing the idea. Her hard gaze cuts to her brother and she sticks her chin out slightly. "You done with your loser streak, Dex?"
Dexter holds up his hands in defense and adapts a look of hurt.
"Deborah, I always inform you to the best of my ability. Maybe I'm just not as talented as you think." This is a lovely conversation to have with the FBI's consultant on hand; see? all this fuss and fanfare streamed across the blogosphere about Dexter is overblown, silly conjecture.
Still, his younger sister gives him a little snarl and pins him with what is certainly a Tough Cop gaze.
"Don't bullshit me, Dex. I know you've got these sick fucks all figured out. Just hope you've finally decided to stop dicking around." Deborah swings her attention back to Hannibal, fiercely assessing him for a few moments. "Thanks," she finally says with a curt little nod. "Guess if you think there's half a chance he's not crazy, we can check it out. I'll call the morgue and get the lab geeks on this."
And she's gone, stalking off elsewhere into the station.
"My dearest sister," Dexter's care and irritation are portioned evenly into his voice. "Charming, isn't she?" he's also an expert with faintly applied sarcasm. He would rather not have had that conversation in front of someone else, but Deborah bulldozed right through that preference. "Our father was also a cop; he didn't exactly stress subtly."
Dexter sits back a little in his chair, covering a clinical scan with a look of friendly attentiveness. Whatever Hannibal's reaction was, he kept it under a wrap of subtly. Should he be cautious, he wonders?
"It was very nice to have a little back up," he adds, manually warming his smile a few degrees. "Now we just have to figure out what someone wanted with several discrete slices of muscle tissue. Assuming, of course, that I'm correct." That cheery desensitization has to be because he sees death every day, right? Oh, totally correct. Dexter is already certain he's right, but since he doesn't really want to get into the 'how' of it, he keeps the boasting toned down.
no subject
"You you think there's a chance Dex might be right?" Deborah sounds slightly incredulous, but not as though she's completely dismissing the idea. Her hard gaze cuts to her brother and she sticks her chin out slightly. "You done with your loser streak, Dex?"
Dexter holds up his hands in defense and adapts a look of hurt.
"Deborah, I always inform you to the best of my ability. Maybe I'm just not as talented as you think." This is a lovely conversation to have with the FBI's consultant on hand; see? all this fuss and fanfare streamed across the blogosphere about Dexter is overblown, silly conjecture.
Still, his younger sister gives him a little snarl and pins him with what is certainly a Tough Cop gaze.
"Don't bullshit me, Dex. I know you've got these sick fucks all figured out. Just hope you've finally decided to stop dicking around." Deborah swings her attention back to Hannibal, fiercely assessing him for a few moments. "Thanks," she finally says with a curt little nod. "Guess if you think there's half a chance he's not crazy, we can check it out. I'll call the morgue and get the lab geeks on this."
And she's gone, stalking off elsewhere into the station.
"My dearest sister," Dexter's care and irritation are portioned evenly into his voice. "Charming, isn't she?" he's also an expert with faintly applied sarcasm. He would rather not have had that conversation in front of someone else, but Deborah bulldozed right through that preference. "Our father was also a cop; he didn't exactly stress subtly."
Dexter sits back a little in his chair, covering a clinical scan with a look of friendly attentiveness. Whatever Hannibal's reaction was, he kept it under a wrap of subtly. Should he be cautious, he wonders?
"It was very nice to have a little back up," he adds, manually warming his smile a few degrees. "Now we just have to figure out what someone wanted with several discrete slices of muscle tissue. Assuming, of course, that I'm correct." That cheery desensitization has to be because he sees death every day, right? Oh, totally correct. Dexter is already certain he's right, but since he doesn't really want to get into the 'how' of it, he keeps the boasting toned down.