Chapter Text
Harrison
He wakes up in Miami.
All around him is sunlight, bright and saturating, like the salt hanging in the air—a syrupy thickness to it, damp and mineralized and clinging to everything.
The scent of vanilla and blueberries caramelizing wafts through the air, and he's giddy with excitement when he realizes that Daddy's making pancakes for breakfast.
He can smell Daddy all around him, too—clean and fresh with a coppery bite over something warm and musky. It's the smell of home, of being hugged tight, and it's strong in his nose but he doesn't feel Daddy's arms around him, which is… weird. Doesn't quite match.
He wants to jump out of bed all the same, run straight to the kitchen where Daddy's big arms and pancakes must be waiting for him, but when he tries, his body won't budge. Like he's stuck, the weight of sleep still pressing him down. He wriggles against it, pushing and pressing, and when his mind and body finally connect, meeting in a deep stretch, his foot bumps against something firm.
There's something about it—the feeling of his foot reaching all the way to the end of the bed and meeting something—that isn't quite right. He blinks, and the second his eyes open, wakefulness slams the rest of the way into him like a wave crashing. It's all, all wrong. The light here is dim and dull—I'm in the apartment, Dexter's basement apartment—the air too cool and dry—New York, it's barely even spring—and his legs, when they register in his vision, are too long, stretching out beyond where they should under the blanket, the bottom of one foot pressed hard against the far arm of Dexter's couch.
He's seventeen, and this isn't Miami.
Grief rolls through him, and he squishes his eyes shut and tries to will his way back into the dream, where it is bright and warm and he is young and safe and Daddy's close by, just around the—
"Hey, you're awake!"
Dadd—Dexter's voice, calling from somewhere behind him. It's chipper, so much like the voice he yearns for, just out of reach in his subconscious, but so clear and jarringly real that he feels embarrassed at hearing it, like he's been caught. Like a little kid.
He's not a little kid, but he doesn't feel like himself either, lingering in some bizarre limbo in between. Then and now. He's on the couch. He's in Dexter's apartment in Queens, New York. He's seventeen. He must have fallen asleep here last night, after…
It registers again that he's underneath a blanket, and that startles him all over again, because he doesn't remember a blanket. He doesn't remember lying down to sleep at all. The memory of last night is clear in his mind and then goes suddenly dark. He was awake, practically crawling out of his skin with worry, because Dad—Dexter was getting rid of Prater's body, fuck—and then—
Miami.
He shifts again on the couch… Big soft blanket around him, and a pillow under his head. Both, he realizes, from Dexter's bed. Dad must have found him asleep here, and tucked him in.
The thought sends warmth blooming through his chest, settling the rolling turmoil in his belly, and the stubborn part of him that still feels like a little kid squirms with glee. He tucked me in. He pulls the blanket up to his face and sniffs, long and deep, inhaling the comforting scent of his dad. Some forever-angry part of his brain tells him he shouldn't enjoy it so much—he abandoned me, he's a fucking serial killer—but he turns away from it, indulging in the scent with a groan that feels and sounds unfamiliar, rumbling too deep in his chest; too sleep-rough in his ears.
He jolts, embarrassed again, when he hears a breathy laugh from the kitchen, and then Dexter calling, "You want triangles or squares?"
It's something Daddy would say, and that disorients him, tugs him sideways further into limbo. But when he pokes his nose out from under the blanket, the smell of blueberry pancakes is undeniable, almost cloying, so it must be real. And Dad tucked him in last night, while he was asleep on the couch. That's real.
He clears his throat, sitting up a little. He's seventeen. Basement apartment. Dexter's making pancakes, and he wants to know if Harrison wants triangles or squares.
None of it quite makes sense yet, but Harrison pulls himself up to sitting and touches his feet to the floor. It's cool, even through his socks, and grounds him a little bit. He's familiar with this place, even if it's not where he really wants to be. The air is chilly, goosebumps pebbling along his arms when the blanket slips down with his movement. He's in just his white undershirt, he realizes, and he scans the room until he finds his blazer on the coat hanger, where he left it, and his dress shirt neatly folded on the side table... That wasn't his doing, and he imagines his dad's fingers deftly unbuttoning it, maneuvering his sleeping body carefully to slide it off without waking him. Heat rises to his cheeks.
His belt digs into his tummy when he shifts to stand, suddenly aware of it and the stiff, starchy trousers encasing his legs, and for some reason the realization that Dexter opted to leave his pants on just makes him blush harder.
He twists toward the sound of the voice and his eyes land on Dexter in the kitchen, clad in a t-shirt and pajama pants, shimmying in front of the stove with an undeniable pep in his step. He feels bizarrely naked when he stands—trousers, belt, and all. Suddenly overly exposed, without the soft cocoon Dexter tucked around him. Before he can stop to question it, he tugs the blanket up, draping it over his shoulders like a cape and taking it with him to the kitchen.
A spatula scrapes softly against the pan, and with a practiced flick, Dexter flips the pancake he's working on just as Harrison shuffles up beside him at the stove to assess his work. This one is shaped like a normal pancake, round, and filled to bursting with blueberries.
"Triangles or squares?" Dexter repeats, taking his eyes off the pan to shoot Harrison a loose grin. His brows pinch together as he gives Harrison a quick up-and-down, and he adds, "Are you cold? I can grab you a sweater."
"I—" Harrison starts, and then stalls. He is cold, and he does want one of his dad's sweaters. In his mind's eye, he drowns in it, even though he's not that much smaller than Dexter. But Dexter will grab him a clean one from the closet, not the hamper, and it won't smell like him. Like pure Dad. Not like this blanket does. He shakes his head, and tries to return the smile, but it's wobbly, fighting with a tender little lump in his throat. "Normal," he answers the first question, looking pointedly at the pan and tugging the blanket tighter around himself. "Normal pancakes, Dad."
"C'mon," Dexter nudges his shoulder with his own, and Harrison tries not to lean into the touch. "You don't think I still got it?"
He feels his lips pull into a smile, a real one. "Okay," he rolls his eyes, relenting, and Dexter is grinning at him so devilishly that he can't stand it, has to escape. He settles into a chair at the little dining table to put space between them, and studies the swirls in the wood grain. "Make me a hexagon."
"You doubt me," Dexter twists to point the spatula at him, brows raised up into his hairline, "but I'm a master of the craft." He transfers the finished pancake smoothly onto a platter next to him, stacked high already, and ladles up some fresh batter. "One perfect hexagon, coming up."
Harrison watches Dexter as he fusses over it, trying not to linger on the way the t-shirt pulls across his dad's broad back and shoulders. He seems intensely focused, like he's genuinely trying to give Harrison exactly what he wants, and Harrison feels so overwhelmed by it that he hides his face in the blanket. It doesn't help, so soft against his cheek and smelling so strongly of Dexter that his heart swells painfully, his eyes welling up. He wonders if it's normal to love your dad so much it hurts.
The clink of ceramic against wood in front of him tugs him out of hiding, and he looks up from his soft blanketed world to find Dexter pouring coffee into a mug with a worried expression. The second Harrison meets his eyes, it's wiped mostly away, replaced with a blank, practiced smile. But there's tension in his brows betraying him, and that look in his eyes he gets when he's trying and failing to figure Harrison out. Harrison wants to soothe it, wants to say thank you for the coffee, but it feels like his mouth is full of sand, the words too hard to shape.
Something in his face must convey it though, because Dexter's expression softens, and he reaches out and tucks one of Harrison's short curls behind his ear before turning back to the stove. The touch is brief, and achingly soft, and sends a burst of tingles through his whole body like a quiet firework.
He should really help set the table, do something. Something petulant rises up inside him to protest as Dexter sets clean plates at each of their places. I'm seventeen, I don't need you to take care of me, it growls, but it's too small—can't reach his muscles to push them into action. He's too cocooned in his big blanket, too softened by his Dad's careful attention to breakfast—to feeding him—to do anything other than watch.
It feels good, he realizes, to just wait patiently in the quiet morning while his dad takes care of it all. Takes care of me, he thinks, feeling a little dizzy. Dexter transfers the truly absurd stack of pancakes, all of them round, to the center of the table. The scent throws him right back to when he was four, and he almost vibrates in his seat at how excited he is to eat them, even as the petulant thing in him twists with shame and guilt and anger. He almost died yesterday, but here he is, all soppy about fucking pancakes.
It grows a little, the angry-hurt in him, and he tamps it down. It's not a big deal, he's allowed to enjoy this. It's the least Dexter can do, he even thinks, but something about that thought snags on a thorn inside him, and suddenly his mind is racing.
It probably wouldn't feel so good if he didn't abandon me in the first place, if things were normal, if I'd always had this growing up, like I should have, would have, if—
Butter and syrup join the pancakes in the center of the table, Dexter humming something quiet to himself, and as Harrison looks at them, all of his giddy, warm joy inexplicably sours.
Is this an apology? As if fucking blueberry pancakes can make up for the fact that I risked my life—he flashes back to his knees aching against the cold, hard floor, the cold sweat running down his spine, the cool barrel of the gun against his temple—I almost fucking died yesterday and he's making me fucking pancakes—he barely hears the silverwear clink as Dexter sets it next to his plate—and he expects me to just fucking take it because he left me and I'll take anything he gives me, that's how fucked up I am, how much I fucking love him, he's a fucking serial killer and I almost died and he left me and—
"Coming in hot," Dexter's voice trips him out of the spiral, and before he can take even catch his breath, his dad slides one extra large pancake straight from the pan onto his empty plate.
It's a hexagon. All six sides accounted for, perfectly neat.
He feels so terribly angry, and so ashamed and ungrateful for being angry, that he almost bursts into tears, or throws the plate against the wall, one of the two. What could only be called a tantrum brews inside him, and all his muscles tense, clamping down like a vice against the urge.
"You okay?"
Dexter's watching him closely, still poised next to him with the pan and the spatula, is if ready to remove the pancake if Harrison doesn't approve.
Harrison clears his throat, blinking rapidly at his plate. "Yeah," he answers, and his voice cracks, so he tries again. "Yeah, you—you still got it," he tries, weakly.
Dexter grunts, pleased enough, and sets the cookware into the sink before joining Harrison at the table. "Told you," he says, filling his plate from the stack in the middle and smearing his knife with soft butter.
Harrison keeps his eyes downcast and forces a laugh. It comes out sounding pathetic, and he rips into his pancake without any of the dressings, rushing to shove an absurdly big bite into his mouth to keep from making any more noise.
It takes a moment for him to adjust to the volume of his mouthful before the flavor hits his tongue, and when it does, a couple of things happen all at once.
He moans with pure, surprised pleasure, because it tastes just like he remembers. He's always been convinced his dad makes the best blueberry pancakes in the world, any hope that he might taste them again withering and dying over the years. Hannah was a great cook, but also great at reading his tamped disappointment, each time she'd tried. The few times they visited Buenos Aires and, feeling nostalgic, or homesick, would visit an American-style diner, Harrison would naively insist on chancing it. He remembers how Hannah would gently nudge him toward another option—"Doesn't a cheeseburger sound good? Or what about chicken fingers?"—but she would cave, and then soothe his inevitable tantrum, and then order him chicken fingers after all. Once, during a very bad day on the road, before he made it to Iron Lake, he spent most of the night in a 24-hour diner, plucking moodily at a stack for hours until nothing but sad, bland crumbs and syrup were left.
He used to cry because they didn't taste like his dad's, but now the tears come immediately and violently because they do. It's all suddenly too much, too overwhelming, every conflicting feeling in him boiling over, and he drops his fork with a clatter and presses the heels of his hands hard to his eyes to try to stop it. Through the rush of his tears, he hears his name in Dexter's alarmed voice, and a chair scraping against the floor, and then feels fingers wrap gently around one of his wrists, pulling it away from his face.
Dexter is crouched beside his chair, and he can't read his dad's expression, vision distorted through his one revealed, watery eye, but he can hear him, his voice coaxing and gentle. A large, warm thumb brushes over his wrist.
"Hey," Dexter murmurs, like you would to a scared, trembling animal.
Harrison feels stupid like an animal, and he is trembling, trying to hold it together. He moves his free hand to cover both eyes, shutting them, but lets Dexter hold the other. His dad cradles it in his big, warm palms, while Harrison works to finally swallow his bite of pancake around the lump in his throat. His tongue feels too-thick, his jaw clenching, and it takes a lot of effort.
Dexter notices, gives him time to swallow, and then says it again, even softer, "Hey." The word curls around him like a hug he wants so badly but isn't sure he's ready for.
Harrison tries to breathe through his clenched teeth, and the shaky sound of it just sends a fresh sob rocking through him. He clears his throat to dislodge the lump, trying to speak, but hiccups halfway through. "S-hic-sorry."
Dad's thumb rubs over his hand, and he tries again.
"Sorry," he starts, throat tight. "Yesterday was—" and the feelings rush him again, so huge and overtaking that he has to pause before he can finish, "—a lot."
Dexter is silent for a moment before he gently squeezes Harrison's hand and answers, "I know."
He's keeping his eyes squeezed shut under his fingers, but he can feel Dexter looking at him, feel the yearning to fix, to solve, practically radiating off his dad, and it makes him feel like he has to say something, but he doesn't know what. Or maybe he just can't, because the things he wants to say are unspeakable. Like, yesterday was the closest I've ever felt to you, and I hate you for leaving me, and this is all I've ever wanted.
His mouth moves without his consent, "I—" and then he clamps it shut, because that's dangerous. The silence stretches between them, but instead of filling it, Dexter pushes Harrison's chair back like he weighs nothing in it. Harrison's eyes fly open at the sudden movement, but before they can focus, he's being dragged down into Dexter's arms on the floor and pulled tight against his dad's chest.
A strangled little cry escapes him, muffled against his dad's t-shirt, and Harrison stops fighting it, whatever stupid thing he was fighting, clinging hard and crying in the encompassing safety of his dad's smell and his strong, sure arms.
"I'm sorry I put you in danger," Dexter says after a while, pressing the words into his hair, mouth and hands briefly fierce where they touch him.
Harrison wants to blurt out his dissent, but he can only shake his head and whine and cling harder. He should want an apology, he was mad, stupidly mad, but all he can think about right now is the way his dad looked at him when the vault door opened, the lighter-than-air feeling of being lifted and spun, and his dad's words—
You did great.
He wants that, he wants that, and if his dad is sorry that means he's sorry for all of it, and if he's sorry for all of it, he'll push Harrison away, put walls up between them again, and Harrison would rather be dead than live through being abandoned. Again.
He shakes his head against Dexter's neck, and manages to eek the word out, desperate and high, "No."
His dad sighs a big, heavy sigh, and Harrison feels it all against his body. It's followed by a warm, slow pressure sliding along his back—Dexter's hand rubbing him, soothing his stuttering lungs. He tries to follow it, breathe deep and slow to match it, but his lungs still spasm helplessly, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks.
"You saved me," Dexter says, and Harrison is down too deep in his own feelings to untangle everything he hears in it, but he thinks there's pride, and that ignites a frantic kind of hope in his chest that has him nodding vigorously, rubbing his nose up and down along his Dad's neck and collarbone.
Yes, yes, I saved you. Keep me, keep me close.
He pulls back a little, just enough for Dexter to see his face, to meet his leaking eyes, all the shame leaving his body because of how badly he wants this. It takes a tremendous effort, his breath hitching with every inhale, but he manages to sniffle out, "Y-you save m-me, too."
We save each other, we need each other, please, please.
Dexter's eyes flit between his, looking at him with so much warmth and awe that every dark and ugly feeling in him dies, and all that's left is loving and feeling loved to bursting. Harrison doesn't know what to do with the depth of his feelings. Looking into his dad's eyes right now feels like looking at the sun from the bottom of a pool. He's suspended there, in Dexter's sharp gaze, floating and warm.
He doesn't realize how close he is, that he's closed several inches between them, until Dexter lifts a hand to cup his cheek, gently brushing away the wetness away with a thumb. He'd stopped breathing entirely for a while there, and the touch makes him gasp—different from the hiccupy spasms of a moment ago. Dexter sighs in turn, his breath fanning over Harrison's skin, coffee and blueberry.
"You saved yourself," Dexter tells him, eyes darting all over his face, lingering on his nose, his mouth, the spot between his eyes. His dad smiles then, and it curls into something almost naughty—a cat-that-got-the-canary quality to it that makes Harrison's heart flutter and a teary giggle burst from his mouth. Dexter's grin deepens, and he sweeps a finger behind Harrison's ear again and murmurs, "Smart boy."
Harrison feels the sudden, dangerous urge to kiss his father, and flings his arms around Dexter's neck in a fierce hug instead. They rock back, almost toppling over, but Dexter catches him, of course, carrying the momentum into a gentle rocking rhythm, and he moans so deep in what sounds like pure satisfaction that Harrison feels the rumbling deep in his own chest where they're pressed together.
Smart boy, he repeats in his head, I'm his smart boy, Daddy's smart boy, and he would squirm with pleasure in Dexter's lap if not for the exhaustion suddenly dragging him down, making him feel boneless and heavy. Dexter holds him through it, gently rocking him, his palm returning to it's path along Harrison's back. Harrison his mind goes quiet. He focuses that steady touch, and on his own breath, matching it to Dexter's, until his world narrows down to nothing but the rise and fall of his father's chest against him. It's the pure, simple feeling of being held. Safe.
He rests there, totally at peace and unaware of the time passing, until he feels lips against his neck. A tiny, warm kiss there that floods his whole body with tingling heat. A memory rises up from the depths—kissy neck?—and for a second, anxiety pokes at the edges of his fuzzy-soft brain—why did that feel so good, did I almost kiss him on the mouth earlier?—until Dexter interrupts his thoughts again with a mumbled, "Your pancakes are getting cold."
He'll have to save the spiral for later, because he's genuinely upset about the pancakes, scrambling out of Dexter's arms and toward his chair with a sharp, "Fuck!"
Dexter just laughs at him, rising more slowly and with a wince. His dad stops to notice the blanket heaped on the floor and bends to pick it up, draping it back around Harrison's shoulders. Harrison preens under the attention, and then focuses on shoving another massive bite into his mouth, this time just for the joy of eating.
It's cooled significantly, but it still tastes like home.
"Want me to warm them up?" Dexter asks, but Harrison's mouth is too full to respond, and he's already dragging the center stack toward him to pile his plate higher, reaching with his other hand for the butter and syrup. Dexter chuckles at him as he settles into the chair across from him, satisfied enough with this answer, and watches Harrison eat for a while before cutting himself a bite.
"Want me to give you a ride to the hotel?" Dexter asks at the door.
Harrison fumbles with a button on his shirt, and Dexter's hands lift toward him before stalling awkwardly in the air, like he's stopping himself from helping. The mental image of his Dad dressing him makes his ears burn.
He needs some space to clear his head, clearly.
"Nah, that's fine, I'll take the train," he says.
His Dad nods at him with a tight smile while Harrison finishes his buttons and slips into his blazer. His dad seems antsy. Harrison watches him shove his hands into his pajama pockets, rocking on his heels restlessly, and then pull them out again, hovering at his sides. He barely has time to wonder what his dad's doing before Dexter's reaching for him, tugging him into an awkward hug.
It surprises him, the touch startling a little noise out of him that gets swallowed up as his face is gently crushed against Dexter's shoulder. It takes a moment for him to have the wherewithal to hug back, but he does, and Dexter relaxes against him, and then he's just being held again.
They sway together gently, the moment stretching long after he thinks Dexter should've pulled away, but then it occurs to him maybe he won't. Maybe this is his dad's way of telling him he's not going anywhere.
It's what gives him the strength to pull away himself, but not before Dexter tilts his head to sneak a kiss right between his eyebrows. It leaves a warm, buzzing stamp there on his skin, and Harrison wonders wildly if maybe he shouldn't leave after all. If he should stay right here, in this cozy bubble where his dad can't seem to resist kissing him, forever.
He pulls back anyway, feeling shy, and then Dexter's grip tightens a little on his arms. He pins Harrison in place with a serious look.
"I love you, Harrison."
Oh.
The words whirl through his body, like an autumn breeze rustling through the dead leaves, gently shaking them away. Leaving him naked. Leaving room for something new to grow.
Don't cry again, don't cry again, don't cry again.
His eyes well up, but he doesn't cry.
"I-I love you too, Dad."
Dexter seems satisfied with that, ending the moment with a clap to his shoulder. He steps back, giving Harrison room to go.
He's out the door and halfway up the short steps leading into the courtyard when something makes him stop. A yearning in his belly, tugging at him. He takes a breath, braces himself, and turns.
"Hey, Dad?"
Dexter's lingering in the doorway, just watching him go with a soft look on his face. Harrison's words seem to startle him out of his thoughts, as he gives himself a subtle shake.
"Yeah?"
"Can we do this again?"
He wonders what Dexter thinks he means, because his Dad's brows shoot up, and he sputters for a moment. "Uh…"
"Breakfast, Dad," Harrison clarifies, shaking his head a little. "Breakfast together."
"Oh, right. Pancakes," Dexter nods with feigned seriousness, and then adds, eyes softening, "I'd like that."
"Doesn't have to be pancakes," Harrison mutters, rolling his eyes, even though he kind of hopes it's pancakes again. "I have Sundays off."
"It's a date," Dexter says, and then catches himself, "Wh—uh. You know what I m—"
Harrison's tummy flips over on itself, but he says, "Yeah, Dad. I know," and then they just smile, a shy awkwardness between them, until Harrison turns to go.
He has trouble shaking it all week. The dream. The way he felt at his dad's table, cocooned and cared for and small, waiting to be fed. The tender kiss to his neck, and the one between his brows—two kisses, god—and his dad's careful, clear admission of loving him.
And then there's the part he doesn't really want to think about, his own wild impulse to—to—
Whatever. Some families kiss on the mouth, he tells himself. It's not that weird.
But he's an antsy, nervous wreck by the time Saturday rolls around. There's something else, too—the promise of something soft and simple lingering in his brain. It's confusing, the way he feels both too big in his skin, like he could burst out of it, and also too small—three kids in a trenchcoat style, pretending to adult when all he wants is to go see his dad and—
…And, he doesn't really know. The meal was nice, being allowed to just exist there. Maybe just more of that, even if he still thinks it's a little selfish of him to want. He thinks about being held, too. Being rocked gently. But that feels way too scary to let himself want. He tucks it away, saves it for safekeeping.
He can't show up to Dexter's feeling this weird. He was weird enough last time, and he's embarrassed just thinking about it, the way he clung and cried like a little kid, even though it felt really, really nice to do that.
But, he can't. He's seventeen. If Dexter wanted to parent a little kid, he could have stayed. Maybe he would have.
The thought stings, and he knows it isn't true, but still.
He meets Gigi at her apartment in an effort to distract himself, and even she notices something's off, that he's in his head, because she slides her shirt off immediately, hits him with her bedroom eyes and says, "Let me help."
Her tits are gorgeous. It's not a terrible idea.
But halfway through going down on her, he loses focus, completely zoning out. Maybe not so much zoning out as zoning forward in time, floating to his Dad's doorstep and the moment he'll walk through. He thinks again about being held, being rocked, and suddenly can't hold back the force of his yearning for it. Wishes he could fall asleep like that, cradled in his dad's arms, and maybe… maybe dad would kiss him again. He can still feel it, the tender brush of Dexter's lips on his skin, against his neck, between his eyes. He wonders what it would feel like everywhere, and oh god, he wants that, wants his dad's kisses everywhere. The thought makes him so warm all over his body, even—
Fuck, fuck, that's—that's wrong, some part of his brain insists, but it feels so good, Daddy it feels so good to be kissed, so good he pushes it against the mattress and moans softly, sinking down into a hazy, helpless kind of pleasure that makes him feel slow-minded and small, until—
Gigi tugs hard at his hair, not enough to dislodge him from her clit—which he slowly realizes he's sort of suckling on—but enough that he remembers where he is. And enough that shame barrels through him at where he went.
"Enough of that," she tells him, and he wonders if she can read his mind until she finishes, "get up here and get inside me."
Harrison does as he's told.
He fucks her with so much force and intensity that the bed frame slams against the wall with each thrust, as if he could slam himself back into his body, or slam this weird shit out of his head.
It seems to work for her, because she orgasms twice—grabbing his face on the comedown of the second and calling him, "Good boy," like she often does.
But it's his dad's face that flashes through his mind.
Smart boy.
He comes so suddenly, and so viciously hard that his eyes prick with tears.
What the fuck.
Harrison pulls away from her, leaving the heat of her body abruptly and fishing for his clothes with trembling hands.
"Hey," she calls out, reaching a lazy arm toward him, "what's the rush?"
"Nothing, just," fuck. "Feel like getting dressed."
It doesn't make any sense, he knows it doesn't, but nothing about anything makes sense in his head right now. He steps into his pants and can barely feel his legs, and not because of the sex.
"Okay…" she says, and can hear the expression on her face, followed by the squeak of the bed as she steps out, her bare feet padding across the floor to meet him. He hadn't realized he'd put so much distance between them already, practically on the other side of the room. Her hand lands on his arm, softly at first, and then with a gentle squeeze. "You're shaking."
"Shit, am I? Just…" he nods vaguely in the direction of the bed, "just intense, I guess," and then adds, for good measure, "You're amazing."
"I know," she answers, a little bit of her usual playful cockiness coming through, but he didn't sell it and she doesn't buy it, clearly worried. "Let's go out tonight," she tries. "I feel like dancing."
He needs to get the fuck out of here.
"Uh, I can't, I have plans with my—" his throat locks up tight for a moment, and he clears it forcefully, "—my dad."
"Tonight?"
"Tomorrow," he corrects. "Tomorrow morning."
When he finally meets her eyes, she looks thoroughly unamused, any sympathy she has for him fading fast.
"I don't wanna be hungover," he tells her, and numbly kisses her cheek before excusing himself with a mumbled, "I'll text you." He has to force his legs to walk at a normal pace as he leaves.
Harrison's body finds its way to the train station on autopilot, and then onto the first train that pulls in, without checking. At some point, he comes to enough to realize, with dawning horror, that he's headed toward Queens, toward Dexter, and then he's stumbling off at the next stop, out of the bowls of the city and into the street, where the sunlight hits him like an accusation.
He walks straight into the nearest bar.