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A. Action for Rita.
[Dexter curls into the warmth of the other person in bed briefly before FLIPPING THE FUCK OUT. Like the quilt goes flying level of what just happened.]
Rita, I'm late. Sorry--I have to go.
B. Action for all of 830 Goldberg St.
[After his minor heart attack he's scoping out the house still in his pyjamas to see if there's anyone else in his house. Ignore his impromptu weapon of a fire-poker]
C. Phone.
So, this is new. I went to sleep in Miami and woke up in 1952. What a fun trick.
[yeah if he stays on the phone more than this he's going to flip out... but okay he needs to introduce himself first]
Dexter Morgan. Blood spatter pattern analyst. ...Or I was. DNA hasn't even been discovered yet, so I guess that makes me. [ pause ] Obsolete.
D. Open Action Goldberg St & beyond.
[Dexter isn't too happy with his wardrobe though it pales in comparison to the rest of this place. Where are his palm trees? His 100% humidity. His mother-of-pearl buttons. Everything is wrong, and he hates being out of control for even one second.
Virtually incapable of looking casual when it's usually as easy as breathing, Dexter meanders warily down the street, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched.]
[Dexter curls into the warmth of the other person in bed briefly before FLIPPING THE FUCK OUT. Like the quilt goes flying level of what just happened.]
Rita, I'm late. Sorry--I have to go.
B. Action for all of 830 Goldberg St.
[After his minor heart attack he's scoping out the house still in his pyjamas to see if there's anyone else in his house. Ignore his impromptu weapon of a fire-poker]
C. Phone.
So, this is new. I went to sleep in Miami and woke up in 1952. What a fun trick.
[yeah if he stays on the phone more than this he's going to flip out... but okay he needs to introduce himself first]
Dexter Morgan. Blood spatter pattern analyst. ...Or I was. DNA hasn't even been discovered yet, so I guess that makes me. [ pause ] Obsolete.
D. Open Action Goldberg St & beyond.
[Dexter isn't too happy with his wardrobe though it pales in comparison to the rest of this place. Where are his palm trees? His 100% humidity. His mother-of-pearl buttons. Everything is wrong, and he hates being out of control for even one second.
Virtually incapable of looking casual when it's usually as easy as breathing, Dexter meanders warily down the street, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched.]
