"It is five-fucking-am. What the hell do you want."

I demanded slowly, a dangerous snarl of hatred curling my lips as I stood in the doorway of my apartment, clutching a robe around me.

My partner, Debra Morgan, stood there with an annoyed look on her face. Her lips were pursed in slight aggravation, though she didn't seem annoyed by me. We both shared a hatred of being woken up early.

"What the fuck are you wearing?" Debra joked, looking at the red bathrobe as a small laugh bubbles from her lips.

"What do you mean? It's a bathrobe, asshole. You woke me up." I chewed out, looking down at her outfit in hopes of a way to bash her, but she was dressed up in her normal clothes. She always looked like she was going to a barbecue, and I didn't bother to point it out for the billionth time.

Debra had a blue flannel tucked into boot cut jeans, tight fitting sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Deb was attractive, she couldn't clean up for shit, but she was hot. Her long brown hair fell past her shoulders in chocolate sweeps, and she had a small, almost imperceptible splash of brown freckles across her nose.

Finally, I noticed her detective's shield clipped onto her brown leather belt and her gun on her hip, and I deadpanned.

"Shit, where's the body."

"Not far from here. Get your fucking clothes on, I'll drive." Deb said, linking her thumbs through her belt loops as she relaxed her shoulders. I sighed exasperatedly, wondering when I'll actually get a full nights sleep as I stepped aside and let her in to my apartment.

The door spits you out into the living room, a solitary grey sofa furnishing the center and wrapping around the entirety of the sitting area that Debra elected to drop onto, kicking her boots onto the arm of the sofa and staring at the blank tv that was mounted on the wall.

"Sometime today, Torres." Debra called as she threw her head back, tapping her foot impatiently. I rolled my eyes. "They'll still be dead by the time we get there." I spat, before turning toward my bedroom at the end of the hall. The living room in my apartment shared space with the kitchen, a bar with a sink built in being the only thing that separated them. Down the hall was the two bedrooms and bathroom that was promised to me when I rented this place.

Fucking score.

I changed quickly into boot-cut jeans and a flannel, throwing on some cowboy boots and snug leather gloves before equipping my necessities; my gun, my badge, my shield, and a stick of gum. That was the most important part of my morning.

I exited my room while tying my blonde hair up into a ponytail, entering the living area where Debra was waiting impatiently. "Why didn't dispatch call me?" I asked, snatching my phone from the countertop on the kitchen bar.

"They did, why the hell do you think I'm here." She said, friendly agitation coating her words and I flipped over my phone to see two missed calls from the station. I winced.

"Fuck me in both ears, Lieutenant's gonna have my head." I groaned, jerking the door open and walking into the stairwell with Debra close behind me as I fumbled with my keys. She laughed.

"Solve the case and maybe she'll spare you." Debra said as I turned the corridor and began jogging down the stairs that lead down to the parking lot, picking up her pace to keep up with me. When I got to the bottom of the two flights of stairs and the parking lot was within sight, I turned toward my partner with a wicked grin.

"You know I always do,"

-

Debra and I approached the crime site slowly, a white paneled house with and brown, ugly ass roof with police tape surrounding the lush, well-cared-for surrounding yard. There were police cars parked outside, the blues and reds of their flashing, spiraling lights giving us the most light considering it was five thirty and the sun was just beginning to rise. A policeman clad in the blues and blacks of his uniform stepped forward as we arrived.

"That's far enough." He said, I flashed him my badge that hung around a silver beaded necklace round my neck.

"Miami PD, homicide," I stated and he lifted the tape and let us through the tape, we scaled the porch and went through the already open door and into the crime scene, and stepping through the front door and onto the carpeted living room floor was like stepping into a different dimension.

The forensic analysis team was buzzing with activity, flurrying about like a school of fish, circling the main event.

I stepped forward and evaluated the body carefully, not bothering to address anyone else before seeing it for myself. There was a rug in the center of the room with brown patterns that had turned dark with crimson, a leather couch with blood splatter sprayed across the back positioned on the back of the rug. The little seating area was parallel from the stairwell that led to the second floor.

And in the dead center of it all, a face down white male with a sizable dent in the back of his head, dark curly hair sticking to his skull with sticky crimson blood.

I covered my mouth with the back of my head, cringing a little bit at the damage.

I'd taken a second to analyze the body, taking note of the position from the stairs, the angle of the wound inflicted.

"Masuka," I called, the forensic scientist crouched in front of the body perked his head, holding his camera close to his face. A small, sheepish smile spread on his lips, his fingers twitching around the camera. "Detective, thought you might not be awake for a few hours." Vince joked, I cracked a smile at him, and from behind me Debra piped, "She almost came here in a bathrobe." And Vince laughed an awkward, choppy chuckle.

"Not that I would complain." Masuka quipped, and I considered giving him the finger before deciding against it.
"Walk me through this before I kick your ass," I ordered, he nodded, shoving his glasses up his nose with his pinky finger.

Vince Masuka was a bald headed light skinned little guy, his face looked even nerdier and rounder with his glasses perched on his nose. He was wearing his latex gloves that with reddened at the ends from handling bloodied objects.

"His name is Quinn Bowater, according to eye witness account it was an armed robbery gone wrong- perp busts in with a baseball bat, drags him down the stairs from his room while he's sleeping, wakes up his wife who runs down to find a roughly 6'4 white, dark haired male-"

"Wait- wife? There's a second body?" I asked, hooking my thumbs through the belt loops in my jeans. Masuka looks up at me again from the male victim. "No- she's alive. Dexter is taking pictures of the splatter on her clothes in the bedrooms."

I nodded in understanding, stalking toward the body. Quinn Bowater's arms were splayed out on the carpet, he'd fallen straight down with no signs of consciousness upon falling.

"Wounds suggest the weapon was a bat, most likely wooden considering how many strikes it took. Killer took his first blow from the base of the stairs, knocking him unconscious. Wife runs down stairs, witnesses our killer beat the shit out of this guy, calls 911, guy runs-"

"And now we're working on a Saturday morning." I interrupted, suppressing a yawn by tightening my lips together. Debra from behind me sighed in aggravation, as if agreeing with me.

"Too bad criminals don't follow the nine-to-five five day work week." She said, walking past me to circle the body in obvious distaste.

"Let's nail the fucker who did this, I need a cup of coffee." Debra said, sighing deeply as her eyes lingered on the kill wound. The corner of my lip twitched at her, and I didn't miss the sheen of discomfort in her eyes. Deb was still relatively new to homicide, I could see how she hadn't completely adjusted to dead bodies. Debra turned to walk out, and I assumed she went to talk to Sargent Bautista, like she would usually do at this point, to discuss the basic profile of the perp.

"Yeah, well I need a booty call. " Vince muttered, and I arched a brow at him curiously.

"Good luck with that Masuka." I drawled sarcastically, approaching the body to give it a better look.

"You really think it's a robbery?" I added, carefully stalking my eyes on the victim. There was not much consistency in a home invasion, but then again, Masuka did say the unsub was interrupted, but still I could feel something off about it. Robbers didn't leave bodies, and he was in the middle of a kill when the wife saw him? That didn't sound right to me.

"Could be, I'll get Dexter's opinion when he finally decides to get his ass in here." Vince said, not looking at me as his camera whirred with the sound of it focusing on the body.

I walked toward the stairs, the wound was a downward strike to the top of his head; the killer would've had to be taller than him. Probably 6'4, like the wife said.

But, if someone shorter had stood on the bottom step-

I ripped my glove off my hand and crouched down, sliding my fingers along the wooden step. With the first brush of my fingers, a fuzzy, euphoric sense washed over me and images flooded into my head.

A woman with long, tangled hair raised a wooden baseball bat above her head, her face twisting into a furious snarl.

"You son of a bitch!" She yelled, the man screamed and raised his hands in front of his face.

"Katie- What the fuck! Stop!" Quinn Bowater yelled, the two were in the bedroom, both running to opposite sides of the king bed. The girl clutched the bat in her hands angrily, her face red with intense, concentrated fury.

"How long," she growled gutturally. Quinn's has fell open, fireworks of fear exploding in his irises. "I-I-"

"HOW LONG WERE YOU SLEEPING WITH HER!" exploded Katie, split flying from her lips.

"She meant nothing to me!"  Quinn pleaded, and I could see the freight of Katie's explosion, especially since she threatened him with a bat. That only darkened her eyes, tendrils of pure hatred kindling behind black pupils. "Yet she was worth destroying our marriage!"

Katie suddenly stormed toward Quinn, pulling the bat back in a swinging position, Quinn cried out and ducked as the bat swung over his head, the wind whipping his hair above his head.

He turned and sprinted down the stairs outside the door, stumbling over the steps as Katie screamed and chased him, cursing at him in colorful expletives.

Until finally, at the base of the stairs, she struck him with the bat, and he fell to the ground unconscious, but she didn't stop.

She continued in a frenzy, attacking his skull while blood splatters on her face. No remorse was held in the evil hands of Katie Bowater, the hatred was alive in her eyes and set her movements ablaze.

Even when crimson specs splashed across her face and neck, she never faltered.

When finally she was satisfied, she grunted back, smearing blood on her bottom lip when she went to wipe her face. "Bastard," She grunted, and immediately following, she went to work with crazy efficiency.

She carefully avoided stepping in the blood, tugging her blood splattered shirt off quickly, bounding up the stairs. She stripped herself naked and changed into clean pajamas in less than five minutes, shoving the bloodied clothes in a Walmart bag and throwing it under the bed. She picks the phone up off her nightstand and flies down the stairs, carefully dialing 911 and putting the phone to her ear.

Seconds later, she starts screaming and flings herself onto Quinn, sobbing hysterically as she covers herself with his blood, begging the 911 operator to send help.

"Oh God- oh my God! They killed my husband!"

"Fucking-A." I muttered, withdrawing my hand and sliding my glove back on. It was the wife, and she was a fucking lunatic.

"Torres." A female voice called, I whipped my head to the side, Lieutenant Maria Laguerta stood there with her lips pursed, aggravation rolling off her. Her hands were placed on each of her hips, and she wore a floral blouse that was tucked into a black pencil skirt, and she wore black heels. She'd apparently had enough time to plaster makeup on her lightish chocolate skin, and I wondered how the hell that was possible.

But of course, if there was anyone who can get to a crime scene to deal with the press quickly, and well put together at that- it was Laguerta.

Maria Laguerta was a vision of authority, She intimidated me with just a condescending look. Her eyes cut sharply through any sort of excuse I would cook up, and I had a slight theory that she was a demon, but I was still working on that.

I winced. "Cut me some slack, it's five in the fucking morning."

She sighed and she walked forward, pacing around the body. "First impressions?" She asked, glazing her eyes briefly over the dead body. With that, a devilish smile curled the corner of my lips.

"Give me ten minutes," I promised her, turning up the stairs to find the proof I knew was upstairs to nail that bitch of a wife to the wall.

"She's got a hunch," Masuka laughed after me as I bounded up the stairs, and I heard the clicking of Maria's heels as she followed me.

On the second floor I whipped open the first door in the hallway it the stairs open up to, walking into the bedroom where my vision took place.

No one knew of my abilities, nor the deadly, yet strangely helpful, power that lurked in my veins, well no one here. SHIELD, the alien-government thing from New York, they knew about me, but nobody else did. So it did not matter how surely I knew that the wife murdered her husband over an affair, I had to find proof that put her in the spotlight.

The lieutenant followed me into the bedroom as I made a show of ransacking the room, tugging open drawers and ripping clothes out, before finally getting on my knees beside the bed to retrieve the Walmart sack that would prove Katie Bowater's guilt.

"How do you have a 'hunch' without any suspects? You've been here five damn minutes." Laguerta said at the doorway, the confusion clearly etched into her words.

"But we do have a suspect, Quinn's wife, right?" I said with a grin, giving her a sidelong glance.

She frowned at me, pursing her lips into a fine line in aggravation. "Katie's a witness, Dexter already cleared her with the blood work. Jesus Torres, will you talk to someone before you-"

She went silent as I tugged the Walmart bag from under the bed and held it up, and you could the see blood from the clothes in the bag.

"You were saying?"

-

I dropped myself in my chair at my desk, blowing out a long sigh as I rolled my chair back.

Finally, a place to rest my ass and a nice cup of coffee.

I swirled the brown liquid around in the cup, staring at it lovingly at the miracle juice that was going to take all my problems away. Coffee was the greatest invention known to man, hands down, and I will forever believe that fact.

I took a sip of the scorching liquid, licking my lips as the bitter drink had betrayed me and burned me slightly.

"Surprise, motherfucker,"

I jumped and almost spilled my coffee, whipping my head up aggressively to whoever it was who was about to be brutally murdered.

Sargent James Doakes stood hovering over my desk, also known around the station as 'crazy psycho maniac'.

And by around the station I mean me.

Though clinically insane, he was hot. Sargent Doakes was dark-skinned and completely bald, with a dark mustache coloring above his upper lip. He had a brown shirt tucked into black plants, his own detective shield clipped onto his black belt. He was wearing his back gun holster that strapped around his shoulders and kept two guns under each of his arms, and I kind of wished I was allowed to carried two guns, it would look badass.

Though there wasn't really much of a point in carrying two.

"Sergeant Doakes, light of my life, apple to my eye, what the hell do you want." I said with a sigh, leaning back in my desk chair while propping my piping hot drink on my knee.

I saw the corner of his lip twitched, though there was no other show of amusement on his face. God forbid the stoic James Doakes ever show emotion on his face. He raised a manilla file in his hand a threw it down onto my desktop.

"I need your debriefing done on Quinn Bowater within the hour," he said, and I curled my lip into a snarl at the file. Could I not have five minutes to enjoy a cup of joe? Well, I had an hour, I could squeeze in-

"Also, there's someone here to see you."

Well, never mind.

I sighed deeply before sitting back up in my chair, kissing the few moments of promised rest goodbye. Relaxation had tempted me with its gentle breath moments ago, but I had to have known that it wouldn't last long. I took one last, long gulp of the singing liquid before setting it on my desk and looking up at Doakes.

"Who? A witness?" I thought aloud, I had no active unsolved cases, so I didn't know who would need to speak to me. He shook his head and looked back into the hallway, as if waiting to bring this supposed visitor in.

"No, just some fucking weirdo with a laminate." Drakes said, stuffing his hands into his pants pockets. A bubbly laugh spilled from my lips and James sent me a weird glance. I peaked up at him from my lashes, giving him a grin.

"Is it Dexter?" I joked, and this time amusement splashed across his iris at the mention of our blood splatter analyst, and he blew air from his nose as if slightly humored.

I sighed before turning back toward my file, glancing toward the door and trying to think of who would want to contact me.

"Send the bitch in." I said, and he nodded briefly, before walking off.

Then, as if my life wasn't busy enough, the last man on this godforsaken earth that I ever wanted to see walked in,

Nick fucking Fury.

Quick A/N lol

So most of this chapter has the murder stuff in it so hope you don't mind this was basically a Dexter episode

I accidentally made the main character into a second Debra Morgan and I kinda dig it

Every f-bomb was dedicated to throwawaym8 she's my actual queen go read her shitt

Btw this is a marvel Dexter crossover but you don't need to know anything about Dexter to read it

Anyhoo thanks for reading my lovelies

Byeee