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Lumen Obscura	By : PinkSiamese Category: -Misc TV Shows > Crossovers Views: 1077 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Hannibal or Dexter in any of their incarnations (TV shows, movies, books). I am making no money off this story.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
Lumen kills the engine. She sits for a moment, eyes closed, listening to the shrill of insects wound up tight by the humidity, muffled traffic sounds, the quiet murmur of the bay, rattling tall palm fronds. She opens the door, swings her legs out. She opens her eyes, leans back. She looks up. The sky overhead is dark, cloudy, sweet as overripe plums.
I’m so tired. Have I ever been this tired?
She struggles, the memories wet with sweat and stinking like men and blood and hot wood and she gulps in air, wrestles them down.
Yes.
Lumen grabs a big backpack out of the passenger seat. She swings it down onto the wet pavement, shoves it out from the car; it scrapes the ground hard enough to echo off the surrounding high-rise walls. Breathing hard, she leans over to pick her purse up off the floor. For a sharp, vertiginous clutch of seconds she feels like she’s going to keep falling forward, ass over teakettle, into the black. She pulls the purse into her lap, wills her heart to slow. She presses the heels of her hands into her temples, slumps into the seat. She takes a deep breath of cut grass, ocean, a faint sweet salty whiff of nearby gardenia.
She closes her eyes, rubbing the sweat off her face. “I still feel like I’m moving,” she murmurs. “Fuck.”
You don’t think about those things anymore. Do you, Number Thirteen?
Lumen draws in a ragged breath.
I am not a number. I never was. I am Lumen Ann Pierce, I was always Lumen Ann Pierce. I always will be. No one will ever do those things to me again.
“They won’t happen to anyone else, either.” She exhales. “Not like that. Not by them.” She presses her lips into a tight line. “I took care of it. We took care of it.”
She turns her legs out, sets her feet on the ground. She leans over, lets her head hang between her knees.
Smell the breath of the ocean, then. Know that the living scents of those men reside in her throat, their bones ground to dust in her mighty belly.
Lumen takes a deep breath.
No more will they trouble you, or anyone else. The sharks have eaten both their hearts and their balls.
She picks up the bag and stands. She loops her purse over her shoulder. She looks toward the long, low shape of Dexter’s apartment building. In the dark, the blinds have filleted yellow light into thin slices. A warm breeze, laden with rain, blows in off the bay. It wraps itself around her. It plays with the ends of her hair.
She slams the door shut, presses the clicker on her keychain. The horn beeps. The headlights flash.
She strides toward the white gate, pushes through it. Up the spiral stairs to the second floor. White walkways float on the dark grass. She feels exposed by the broad swath of lawn, the white concrete glowing by the property lights. At the far end of the building, at the corner, the windows glow white. Set against the purple sky and the shifting glitter of the bay, his apartment feels like a boat moored on the calm. It blazes against the midnight dark; for her, it is a lighthouse, a beacon.
With his lantern, the keeper calls her home.
Lumen comes to the door. Bites her lip. She hears him through the windows, the movement of his body. She knocks just as his footfalls quit.
Dexter opens the door. He stands there, framed by a bright spill of light. He’s barefoot, dressed in khakis; they’re bleached and softened with wear into a shade of cream. His cheeks are smooth. His shirt is light green, thin cotton. The sleeves are rolled up. His top two buttons are undone.
A slight puff of wind hits her back. She smiles. “Hi.”
His hand curls around the doorjamb. He smiles back. “Hi.”
“Here I am.” She mocks a little curtsy. “I made it.”
“Yeah.” He steps aside. “Come in. You’re tired.”
“Yeah.” She walks past him, dropping the backpack next to the kitchen counter. “I am.” She laughs. “I’m so tired I’m dizzy.”
Dexter closes the door. “Have you eaten?”
“Yeah, but not since Georgia.”
He moves into the kitchen. “I’ll make you something.” He points a finger at her. “Don’t argue with me.”
Lumen looks around at the slate gray walls, the white ceiling, the blondewood floors all awash in spills of rich golden light. “Okay.” She plops down on the couch. She toes off her sandals. “I won’t.”
“Eggs and toast?”
“Sure, sounds good.”
“OJ?”
She folds her legs Indian style. “Yes, definitely.” The coffee table is cluttered with colored plastic blocks. “Where’s Harrison?”
“He’s asleep,” says Dexter. “Hopefully, he’ll stay that way until morning.”
“I’ll be quiet.”
“No, it’s not you.” Dexter takes a frying pan out of the cabinet and places it on the stove. “He’s getting over an ear infection.” He opens the fridge. “He’s been fussier than usual.”
“Aw.” Lumen frowns. “Poor little guy.”
“Oh, he’s recovering. Just not when he’s asleep.”
Lumen moves onto her side. She pulls a pillow beneath her cheek, looks at the floor. The tall windows cast thin, distorted, pale shapes across the wood. The quality of the outdoor light is dirty, indistinct. The crisp shadows of palm fronds bob and sweep through them. “I’ll be extra quiet. I promise.”
“Don’t you fall asleep on me. I’ve got eggs here.”
She smirks a little and sticks out her tongue. “I won’t!”
He walks in, sets a glass of orange juice on the coffee table. She reaches for it.
“I bought those oranges this morning.”
She looks up, grins. “From a man standing on the median?”
“Yeah, actually.”
She props herself up and takes a sip. “It’s good.”
“Fresh-squeezed,” he says. “As always.”
“Yeah. I almost forgot about that.” Lumen sits up, looks into the glass. “The fresh-squeezed juice.” She takes another sip. “It’s always so much better than the stuff in the carton.”
“Absolutely.”
Lumen cradles the glass in laced fingers. “Look, Dex…I don’t want to keep you up. I know you have to work in the morning, so when you’re done I can just…crash. Right here.” She pats the couch. “We can talk more about this tomorrow, when you get home.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. I think so. I mean…yeah, Owen’s pissed at me, he keeps calling, he says he wants to talk.” She moves hair out of her face. “But that’s to be expected. Now he’s roped my folks into it too. I’ve got, like, six messages, all from varying family members.”
“Are you going to talk to him?”
“No! There’s nothing to talk about.” She drinks down the rest of her orange juice. “Nothing. He knows how unhappy I’ve been.” She looks into the glass, shakes her head. “We fight all the time, about everything. If he’s truly shocked, he’s just dumb.” She sighs. “He probably feels like he’s supposed to be shocked. So he’ll keep trying. Then, he’ll show up here, and then it will be all big stupid romantic gestures. Maybe he’ll even dragoon my mom into it. My sister. My aunts. Everything with him, with them, is like this. It’s always like this. It’s all just a big stupid orchestrated dance.”
Dexter arches an eyebrow. “A tale full of sound and fury, signifying nothing?”
She sighs. “Yeah. Billy Shakespeare said it best. I am so tired of it.”
Dexter scoops the eggs out of the pan. “I don’t blame you.”
“So…no, I am not going to talk to him, to answer the question. I will text my mom and tell her that I’ll talk to her, but only if she’s not going to go on and on about Owen and Miami and how much I ruined my life the first time I came here.”
Dexter butters the toast and slices it into triangles. He plates the eggs, arranges the toast around them, grabs the Tabasco out of the fridge. “More juice?”
“Yeah, that would be great,” she says. “Thanks.”
He places the food and the sauce on the coffee table, plucks the empty glass out of her hands. “Not a problem.”
“I’m so hungry,” she says, shaking Tabasco onto her eggs. “Oh my God. This smells so delicious. Eggs have never smelled so delicious.”
Dexter chuckles.
“No, seriously. You don’t understand.” She gestures with her fork. “I am going to die of deliciousness.”
He loads the orange press. “I think you’ll probably make it.”
“It’s really yummy.”
He finishes with the juice and carries the glass into the living room. “Here.”
“Thank you.” She puts down her fork. “Seriously, thank you so much.” She looks at him. “For everything.”
He sits beside her and folds his hands between his knees. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too. I…I never should have left.” She looks away from him, at the rug, at the bottles standing on top of the bookshelf. Light from the windows passes through them, ripples into shades of blue. She starts to sniffle. She wipes at her eyes. “It was a huge mistake.”
“Shhhh.” He rubs her arm. “Eat.”
Lumen forks the eggs into her mouth. Her chin trembles. She puts the fork down and starts to weep.
“It’s okay.” Dexter puts his arm around her shoulders. “I’ve got you.”
She covers her face with her hands.
He turns, gathers her into his arms. She leans her face into his neck, wraps one arm around his waist. He rests his chin on top of her head. Her body trembles.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs into her hair, running one hand over its tousled length. “I’m here. It’s okay.” He rubs her back. “We’ll take care of it,” he whispers.
She nods, reaches up. The backs of her fingers graze his cheek. He runs a hand down the back of her wrist, caresses the length of her forearm. Her palm settles on his cheek. He presses her hand to his face.
She twists around in his arms. Her eyes are wide, wet. Her mouth feels raw. “Kiss me,” she whispers.
He brushes hair away from her forehead. He lowers his voice. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I know.” She shifts her weight, straddles his lap. She moves her hair away from his face. “I want to.”
He cups her face. “Wait.”
“What?” She searches his eyes. “Why?”
“There’s…” He sighs. His eyes close. “There’s something you should know first, before…before anything like this.”
“What is it?” Lumen sits back. She climbs off him. “Is something wrong?”
“I wasn’t going to tell you until…until after you’d eaten, and settled. He measures his words, tracking her face with his eyes. “I’m not gonna lie; I should’ve said something when you came in.”
She stands in front of him. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, folds her arms. “What the hell is going on?”
“There’s an open case in Coral Gables.” He pauses. “It hasn’t broken yet, which is why you haven’t heard anything. It’s not on the radio, or TV. Yesterday, a couple of girls were found on the beach with fishtails sewn to their waists.” He waves his hands. “You know, like…like mermaids, or selkies, or something. Anyway, it’s been linked to another case in Corpus Christi, so now it’s being investigated as a serial.” He looks in her eyes. “There’s some…ah…FBI involvement.”
She puts her hands on her hips. Her eyebrows go up. “What?”
“Yeah.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, points at the window. “So, um…what I’m saying is this: your man Graham? He’s in a hotel, about fifteen miles away from here.”
She backs away, her mouth dropping open. She tosses up her hands. “Great. Everyone knows but me. Typical.” She lets out a sharp little sigh. “When did you know?”
“This morning. All the Florida coastal jurisdictions got an email.”
“And why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”
Dexter glances toward the bedroom. “Would you keep your voice down?”
“Yes,” she shakes a finger at him, “but only for Harrison, because right now I don’t give a shit about you…your feelings,” she sputters, “about how loud I am!”
“Okay. Okay.” He holds up his hands. “You’re right.” He makes calming gestures. “Yeah, I should’ve told you. I agree. But while we’re on the subject, Lumen, if you had told me you were coming here, I would have. I didn’t even know you were on your way until you called me from the Georgia-Florida state line. I could’ve told you when you called me, yeah, but I didn’t want you getting all freaked out and pissed off and then getting back on the road. Even if you had decided to go home, it’s a really long fucking drive back to Minneapolis!”
“Shit!” She looks to the ceiling. Her mouth trembles. “Shit, shit, shitshitshit.” She curls her hands into fists. “Motherfucking SHIT!”
“Shhhh, keep it down! Sleeping baby.” Dexter gestures toward the bedroom. His eyebrows lift. “Remember him?”
“Yes, yes,” she flaps her hands around her face, “I remember him. I’ll be quiet.” She covers her mouth with both hands, releases a deep breath through her nose. “I really wish you’d told me, though.”
“I wish I had too.”
Lumen fidgets. She strides to the window, hugs herself, looks out through the slats. Beyond the weak orange floodlights the surface of the bay shifts, black and flat, beneath a purple sky. Black palm fronds wave in the wind.
“I don’t want to go home.” She tightens her jaw, shakes her head. “It isn’t home; it hasn’t been. Not since…not since everything that happened to me here.” She looks back over her shoulder. “You don’t come out the other side of that and stay the same.”
Dexter watches her. “No.”
“So that’s out of the question.” She turns. “I’m not going back.” She clutches her upper arms, sticks out her chin. “Will Graham can go fuck himself.”
“Stay out of his way, he’ll probably stay out of yours.”
“Yeah.” Her body sags. She rubs her face. “Let’s hope so.”
“It will be fine. So will you, once you’ve had some sleep. You should go to bed.” He stands, moves toward her. He gestures at the bedroom. “I’ll let you have the bed for tonight. I’ll sleep out here.”
“No, no.” She walks to him, puts her hands on his arms. “I’m not going to put you out of your bed.” She grips his shoulders, shakes him a little. “That’s silly. And unnecessary.”
“It’ll work out better this way.” He takes her hands. “I’ll just bring Harrison out here, super quiet, on tiptoe.” He swings them, gently, to the rhythm of his words. “I’ll take the couch. He and I will get up in the morning, and we’ll get ready for the day. Without waking you. I’ll just close the bedroom door.” He grins. “You won’t hear a thing.”
She lets go of his hands. “If you’re sure.”
“You need at least ten hours of sleep. Come here.” He opens his arms. “Come on. Look at you. You’re exhausted.”
Lumen sighs. She steps into them, closes her eyes. He hugs her tight. She rests her cheek on his shoulder and smells fabric softener, trapped body heat, a trace of shaving cream.
She puts her arms around his neck. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs.
“For what?”
She shakes her head. “Losing it, I guess. I don’t know. I’m so tired.” She chuckles, smoothing her hair back. “I feel like I was born in the car.”
He steps back, looks at her. He pauses. “Okay.” He goes to the kitchen, picks up her backpack. He flashes a brief smile. “Then let’s get you to bed.”
She watches him. “Okay.”
Dexter carries the backpack into his bedroom door. He opens it, slips inside.
In these rooms, there is love of another kind. Or…there was. Once upon a time.
Lumen looks around. The apartment seems smaller; it’s so modern compared to Owen’s house built in the heart of the woods. Here, there is so much light. It is built to catch the sun, slice it, spread it across the floor like bloody meat on a platter. It is made to hold the light, compartmentalize it. Here everything is sharp, stark. There’s so much contrast. Such pointed corners. The walls, slate blue, slate gray, hold themselves cool against her heart.
Owen’s was a house built of hope and ignorance. This is a house built of blades.
Dexter carries Harrison out. The child is fast asleep, his limbs heavy with it, a pile of cornsilk hair twisted into dream-nests. Lumen watches Dexter carry Harrison to the couch, where he moves with a ponderous grace like clouds unfolding across the sky. Gentle as rain, he places his son on the cushions. He goes back, wrestles out Harrison’s pack n’ play, carries it held aloft into the living room. “Go ahead,” he whispers as he walks by, “I’m all set.”
Lumen watches him. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He rearranges the blanket, gathers Harrison up. “Go to sleep, Lumen.”
She retreats to the bedroom. The shape of it, the way it lies beneath its shadows, makes her mouth soft, her body tender and unmoored. It is neat as she remembers, the bed made, the walls spare, a single picture of father and son in a black frame on the nightstand. She closes the door. She inhales, smells the ghost left behind by his skin, his sweat; it is a fingerprint made up of lime and stone, grass, marigolds, sun, wood, a faint bitter trace like astringent herbs.
It rises up, draws closer to her with each step. It lies against her skin like a straight razor or a heated whisper.
Like an animal’s den. Or a nest.
She pulls off her shirt. She digs a nightgown out of her backpack, loops it over her head, lets the thin cotton fall down around her knees. When she takes off her shorts she blushes, it is a sudden bloom of dizzy heat that brings a light breathy sheen of sweat to her face, her neck, the tops of her breasts. She fans her face as she peels back the bedclothes.
You’re so tired. So tired. The food is hitting your system. That’s all it is.
She climbs into bed. Turns off the lamp. Weak light slips under the door, spreads in a fan across the floor. Slats of light lie diagonally across the bedspread. She turns her back to the window, pulls the pillow down under her chin. She closes her eyes.
In the black, her bones are effervescent. Her tendons quiver, sing like violin strings. The blood rises into her skin and gallops through it, driving gooseflesh ahead of it like a wind.
Settle, Lumen. You’re tired. Let it take over. Just…just hand over the reins.
Her lips move in the striped shadows, draw the outlines of the words: Like a nest.
The backdrop of her mind builds a picture of the Minnesota Shrike’s nest, a long room like a maw with a smear of blood at the back of its throat.
A little taste...just a touch…blood on the brink of being swallowed.
She squirms.
- 6
- 7
- 8
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Lumen Obscura