Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
I wrote this during my exams to relieve stress/procrastinate. I've corrected some of the mistakes and rewrote around some of the parts but I guess it's still pretty messy. This one really got away from me. I'll see about writing a part II but I can't guarantee you that I will.
When Emma Decody's father is killed—one more mysterious murder in less than a year, they've lost count by now—it seems perfectly natural to everybody in town that she moves in with the Bates. Even if she's over eighteen, she's sick and still very young. No one expects her to make it on her own. And it makes sense for her to go with the Bates. She has worked there for over six-months now, and they're the only people she really ever socializes with. They are the only people in town who even come close to being called family friends. Plus with Dylan Massett there whoever killed her father wouldn't dare come near again.
Her mother doesn't show up to the funeral, but the Bates are here for her. Norma holds her arm and let Emma cry on her shoulder. Norman cries a lot too. And Dylan, even though he is a Massett and not technically a Bates, is never far. She catches his eyes a few times during the ceremony and each time they're full of kindness, sorrow and compassion. It makes her feel slightly better, or maybe less worse.
When the service is over, he takes her free arm.
"I'll drive her," he tells Norma. She looks surprised at first, but all it takes is for him to tilt his head pointedly toward Norman for her to let go of Emma.
"Alright."
Emma is not sure what is happening, but she has just buried her father and she has no energy left to care. He leads her gently through the crowd in mourning clothes that has gathered around her father's grave, carrying her oxygen tank carefully for her. If anyone had intended to stop her for a few common place words of sympathy, her tears-stained face and the man escorting her were enough to discourage them.
His car is parked a little further away from the cemetery than she had expected, but she finds some strange relief in the walk and the silence. He opens the door for her and helps her into the car. She feels like she's falling. He sets the oxygen tank by her feet and looks up at her, worried. He's saying something, but she has no idea what. It must have been regarding her seat belt because he sighs and just buckles her in himself, as if she were a child.
Before he can move away she catches his hand in a grip stronger than what he would have expected of a girl so frail-looking.
"You've killed people, right?"
He hesitates, but there is no point in denying it. The whole town knows. He's one who won the drug war. He's the new boss, even though he has no idea what he's doing.
"Yes."
"Why? Why does a person kill another person?"
"To protect themselves. Because they feel like they have no other options."
"But how could that apply to my dad?"
"I'm telling you the reasons I know Emma. Some things cannot be explained. What happened to your father—it was probably the work of an insane person. Maybe they felt like they had no other options, maybe they truly believed it. Maybe they were just insane. I don't know."
When he stops talking, he realizes that it's not her hand gripping his anymore but the opposite. He's holding her hand. He's still almost kneeling on the sidewalk, half of his body in and the other out of the car, and he's holding her hand, while they're having their first meaningful conversation. He's glad he parked as far away from the cemetery as he did and no one is seeing this.
"It's the first time someone I love dies," she says. "I mean, I lost people I love. Like my mother, and Gunnar. They both left me without a word. But it's not the same thing, is it? There's always this hope, always this maybe."
Somehow he doesn't think it is the right time to tell her that Gunnar died, so he lets her continue.
"There was this girl I was friend with when I first went into hospital. She was waiting for a heart transplant. Anyway, she died. She was my age, and for a few weeks I thought she was my best friend. There were other hospital friends and other funerals after that. I thought I knew everything about grief, but I didn't have a clue, did I?"
"When it comes to some things, it's better to be clueless."
"Did you ever loose someone you loved?"
He thinks about it. He lost guys he worked with, some he really cared about. Companions in arms. But they're just like her hospital friends, they don't count the way a father does. He thinks about Bradley and wonder where she is, if she's still alive.
"No," he says. "We should get going."
He rises, and presses her hand a little tighter before letting it go.
They drive, but they're not taking the direct road to the motel. Instead, Dylan pulls over in a secluded spot overlooking the sea.
"Listen," he says, "I don't like what I have to tell you now, but if I don't say it I will hate myself even more."
"What?" Whatever this is, she's too tired for it. She just wants to go home and lie down.
"You can't live with Norma."
She blinks. "She said I could stay as long as I wanted." Hadn't she meant it?
"And if you ask her, she'll say it again. But I can't allow that. It's not in your best interest Emma, believe me."
She was not expecting this.
"I cannot live in this big house all alone, while his killer is still out there," she says, and the fear in her voice makes Dylan wince. Of course, he cannot tell her that if she stays with the Bates, she'll be sharing her roof with the killer.
He cannot betray his family. There lies all the difficulty of his new self-appointed role as Emma's protector.
"I know you don't know me well, but I'm going to have to ask you to trust me on this. It would be dangerous for you to stay there. Norma…I know you think she's nice, but she's not. In your state right now, it wouldn't be good for you to stay with her."
"I thought that whatever was going on between you and your mom this summer was done. You moved back didn't you?"
"I moved back because they needed me to protect them. They're my family. I could never really get away. I have no one else."
"I don't have anyone else either. I don't have anywhere else to go."
"I could give you some money," he offers. "Enough to go anywhere you want and set up a new life for yourself. Away from here."
She looks at him like he has gone completely insane. "So I can be away from everyone I know and the doctor who has been following me since I was ten?"
He rubs his head in defeat. She sighs.
"Just drive me home Dylan. I don't really get what's your problem and frankly I don't care. All I want is to lie down and rest."
He complies, but he promises himself that he will keep a close eye on her.
/
And that's what he does, for the next week or so. He watches her every day. It starts as a duty, but she's not unpleasant to watch. In fact, he has always found her pretty. Too pretty for Norman, he thought. But she's more. She's beautiful. And watching her go through something as terrible as the death of her father is heart-breaking.
Norman finds himself taking on her shifts at work that first week, and Dylan is grateful for that, not only because it keeps his little brother away from Emma, but also because it gives him an excuse to stay by her side and protect her from them.
She never mentions the conversation they had in the car, and neither does he.
/
"I think I'm the one who did it, Mother. I'm the one who killed him."
"But Norman, no. That makes no sense. Why would you do that? You liked him so much!"
"He was trying to take me away from you, mother. He was coming between us. I had to. Nothing can keep us apart."
/
"Do you want anything?" he asks Emma. It's the end of the first week since the funeral, and this morning, for the first time, she is outside, sitting on their front porch.
"I need to go visit his grave," she answers.
"Sure," he says. "I'll take you."
He's relived when she doesn't protest.
It's weird, seeing the cemetery so empty when the last time they were here it was covered by a sea of people. The grave still looks new. She sits next to it. On her knees, holding her oxygen tank against her chest, she cries. When Dylan kneels beside her she takes his hand and doesn't let go.
"For all my life, he thought I would die before him. That he would have to bury me. And it hurt him so much. I hope—whoever did this—I hope they left him the time, that before he died he had a moment to realize that he wouldn't have to see me die. That he was free. I hope he found some relief, some peace from that. Fathers don't bury their daughters. The natural order is restored now."
He snakes his arms around her shoulders and hugs her tights against his chest, the oxygen tank between them.
It's comforting, she thinks. It feels good. Good to be alive.
"I didn't think about it until last night. For so long I wished I could have been there, that I had been the one who died. I don't have much time anyway, what would it have changed? But now I realize how stupid that was. If he found any comfort it was from knowing that I was not there, that I would survive him."
"I'm sure he did," he whispers against her hair.
The urge he felt to protect her is getting stronger now, with his hands around her waist and her heart against his, he wishes he could take away her pain. Absorb it and free her. Make her smile again.
He doesn't let go of her hand until they reach the car. Once there, he's not sure what to do. He's not ready for the moment to end, and he doesn't think she is either.
"Do you want to go home straight away?" he asks.
"Not really."
"We could go for a drive," he offers.
"That didn't go too well last time," she remarks. "But sure."
He makes sure to avoid the road on the day of the funeral, instead letting himself get lost near the woods. Somewhere on the way, her hand finds itself on the console, and he takes it. She smiles.
It's small but it's there. A burgeoning beginning, full of possibility.
/
"Mother, it cannot go on. Emma cannot stay."
"Why, dear?"
"I killed her father! What if she finds out? What if she suspects something? And I can't live like this, with her always around, reminding me of what I did."
She silences him and cups his cheeks.
"You did what you had to, honey, to protect us. And by letting Emma stay, I'm doing what I have to do to protect you. There is a police investigation going on. But as long as she stays here nobody will dare suspect us. We have to keep her close, Norman."
/
Emma's alone in the kitchen and smiles her greeting at him when he comes in. "Hey."
"Hey, you're up early," Dylan points out. He had to get up in the middle of the night to take care of some drug-related complication, and is only now coming home as the sun is rising.
"I've slept too much lately."
She's still smiling at him. It's strange, in a dazzling way.
"Where have you been?" she asked.
His lips curve into a sarcastic smile. "Crime never sleeps."
She nods but doesn't comment further, to his relief. "You want something? I was just making some coffee."
"Sure," he says, sitting opposite her. There's no way he could get back to bed after burying those two bodies anyway.
She hands him a cup and fills it up to the brink. His eyes are on her chocolate iris as he takes in the wonderful smell and tastes the warm liquid. She's wearing bright green striped pyjama shorts and a soft orange t-shirt. His clothes are covered in dust and dry blood.
"Delicious," he says.
She tilts her own cup toward his in salute, sits and goes back to her breakfast. They don't talk, but having her so close, sharing such a light and mundane—almost happy—moment with her feels good.
He's never had that. This domestic feeling.
It's nice. It feels like something they have done thousands of times before and could still do a thousands of times more.
/
"Why are you being so nice to me?" she asks him one afternoon as they are lounging under the warm autumn sun. He drove them to his favourite spot so they could enjoy the last nice days of the year, and now she's lying by his side on the grass. They've been going on a lot of drives lately.
"You were nice to me. You came and visited me in hospital after I got run over by that car, remember? Besides, have you ever considered that maybe I'm not just being nice to you but I might actually be a nice person?"
"I've considered it," she says quietly. "But then I remember how you were a jerk to me right after my father's funeral."
"I wasn't being a jerk, I was trying to look after you—'
"Well, it was some pretty shitty timing."
"Hey," he says, getting up on one elbow to try and catch her gaze. When their eyes meet her tense expression softens. It's all the encouragement he needs to be bold enough to reach for her hand. "I'm sorry," he says, pressing her hand in his. "I shouldn't have done that. Not that day, and not like that. It was shitty of me. But I assure you my intentions were pure. If you ever change your mind, if you ever want to leave, just say the word and I'll make the arrangements."
The truth is, even though he knows it's what's best for her, he doesn't want her to leave. Not anymore. Not when he's holding her hand like this, and she's so so close to him, close enough that he can feel her body warmth radiating through his clothes, close enough that he can feel how it would be like to hold her completely, his body on top of hers, becoming one. No, what he wants is the opposite of her leaving.
So for the time being, he'll just keep watching over her.
/
"What did you want to talk to me about, Norman?"
"Dylan. He's spending too much time with Emma. I don't like it."
"But, darling, he's keeping her busy. Distracted. He makes her leave the house. It's good for us."
"What if he told her, Mother?"
"He won't. Dylan wouldn't betray us."
"We cannot trust other people. It's just us two, or did you forget?"
"I will never forget. And I don't trust Dylan, I know he wouldn't dare do it. We're all he has."
"He is changing, Mother."
"Listen dear, you have to be patient. The investigation is almost over. Soon, they are going to close the case. You have to be patient until then. Afterwards, we'll see. We'll figure it out together."
/
She watches him leave at night with a pang in her stomach. She knows where he's going and what he does. She doesn't mind it, she's just worried. What if something goes wrong? What if he doesn't come back?
She thinks he can feel her gaze on him because, before disappearing from her sight, he turns around—he always does—and raises the hand holding his cigarette towards her in a mock salute while his curved lips exhale twirling smoke.
Her hand is on the window's glass; unconsciously trying to reach out to him. She smiles as he turns back and leave. The small exchange brings her more comfort than any long speech could. It's enough because it tells her that he knows. He knows that she's here, that she cares, that she is overwhelmed by this feeling she cannot name. And it tells her that he cares too. Because he always looks back, always greets her one last time in case the worst occurs. Because he knows how important this thing, this connection between them is.
And every time after he has left she waits up, reading and listening for the sounds of his return. When he first gets back, she doesn't go and meet him just yet, even though she desires nothing more than to see him, to make sure he's alright, because she knows he doesn't want her to see him like this. He got really upset once when she caught him with blood on his shirt. Ashamed and afraid. Since then she waits until his own ritual is done, until he feels clean again.
When she hears the shower turning on, she climbs down a flight of stairs and goes and waits for him in his room. It's sparse, and the bed is always made. It looks almost like one of the motel's rooms. She sits on the bed and waits, closing her eyes. When she's here like that, with the sound of the water running, she can't help but picture him. Is the water warm or cold? She wants to get all the details right in her mind. She can see the droplets running down his torso, she can see his eyes closed in relief as the water washes away the traces of the night. Does he think about her? He knows she's here, waiting for him. It happened too many times for him not to expect it. Does he touch himself in the comfort of the warm water? Or does he take advantage of the dripping water on his face to cry?
She did that for a long time, cry where no one could see her, and she has a feeling maybe Dylan is the same. But now her showers do not hold tears so much as steaming hot fantasies in which Dylan always stars.
When he finally comes out, his hair darkened by the water, her imagination is running wild and she has to bite back the images of his naked body dancing around in her head. Their eyes meet, both awkward and guilty. But then she smiles and he smiles and suddenly they're going on a drive in the middle of the night—just them, the road and the darkly looming sky—and she's holding his hand.
/
Emma smiles, lying in her room at the top of the stair, in the old attic. She likes this room. It looks like something out of the fantasy novels she used to read as a child. She's smiling more and more now, even though she cannot quite cover up the sadness that still looms in her eyes.
But right now she's smiling, really smiling, with her eyes lighting up, because she has recognized Dylan's step climbing up the stairs to the attic. These surprise visits are getting more and more frequent lately. She's not sure what it means but she likes it either way. She sits upright on her bed, fusses with her hair for a moment to try and make it look more decent.
He knocks. "Hey, you up?"
"Yes, come in," she calls.
He flashes her a grin and goes to sit on the desk chair he always occupies during those late night visits. She wishes he would sit next to her on the bed, but he makes a point of staying away.
"How was work?" she asks in a teasing voice. For some reason, she thinks making fun of his drug lord career is hilarious. He doesn't mind, really. She's cute when she tries to make fun of him.
"Nobody died, so I'd say it was a good day."
She freezes at his words. It's the way he usually replies though, so he's not sure what triggered that reaction.
"Dylan, I have to ask you. My father when he—was it drug related?"
"No." But the answer comes too quickly, it just prompts more questions.
"How do you know? How can you be so sure?"
There's tears at the corners of her eyes, tears that he hasn't seen in weeks.
"I asked around after his death."
"And?" Her voice is choked by emotion. He can't stay away when she's so upset. He leaves his chair and crosses the invisible line he always puts between the two of them in this room and comes to kneel by her bed. He takes the hand that's shaking in her lap and cover it with his, rubbing soothing circles with his calloused fingers.
"It wasn't drugs Emma," he says softly.
"How can you be so sure?" she repeats. "Unless you know who killed him and why?"
"You have to trust me."
She shouldn't. He's a criminal and a killer. And yet at this instant she cannot think of anyone she trusts more. How could she not trust him, when he's looking so vulnerable and beautiful, kneeling by her bed, his big blue eyes looking up at her with so much intensity?
"I trust you," she says.
"Then leave. Leave White Pine Bay and don't come back."
"This, again?" she sighs. She thought they had moved past this.
"I'm serious Emma. You'll never be happy here. Nobody can be happy here."
"Then why don't you leave?"
"Because it doesn't matter where I go. I'll never be free of my family or myself. It doesn't matter where I go because I'll never be happy anyway. And I have an obligation to my family, to stay here and protect them."
"Bullshit," she calls.
"What?"
"You heard me. I refuse to believe a word of that."
His lips curl in a sad imitation of a smile. If she knew—
"There's a lot you don't know about me Emma."
"And yet I trust you. So maybe you should trust me too."
Her eyes are brown and warm like morning coffee, full of hope and trust. He can't take it, so he hides his face in her lap, but it's not the best hiding place because her hands find the way to his hair and her caresses are so tender and soothing that the truth comes pouring out of his mouth.
Not the whole truth but parts of it. Enough to make her run away from him, away from here. Maybe then she can be saved from Norman's growing insanity.
But she doesn't run, she doesn't spurn him. When he's done, she lifts up his face, cups his cheek and kisses him.
He didn't expect that, but it feels good and he doesn't question it, just kisses her back. He has wanted to do so for so long and her lips taste like the chocolate candy she's always eating, sweet just like her.
But the kiss isn't so sweet. It has a frantic and desperate quality. They've held back for too long and now passion comes bursting as tension is finally resolved. She lets herself fall down the bed and onto his lap. He's never had her so close as she is now.
It's frightening, having her entirely in his arms, like she's finally his to protect, his to care for. And she's so small and tiny, frail under her colourful clothes, what if he hurts her? But she's still kissing him and her hand is slipping under his shirt and soon he's too hard to think. He just brings her closer, feels her whimper through their joined lips and kiss her harder before taking off his shirt. He can't get enough of the feeling of her soft hands on his back, skin against skin, and he wants more of it.
He scoops her up in his arms and carries her to the bed, he puts her down gently on top of the covers and helps her get rid of her lavender sleep shirt. She's beautiful, naked except for her blue polka dot panties, but he's too eager to stop and stare as much as he ought to. He kisses down her collar bone to her small and soft breasts but doesn't stop there on his exploration southward.
His mouth is hungry and warm against her cunt, almost aggressively so. But no words of complaint escape her lips, only a litany of yes and please followed by his name, repeated over and over.
He's never been prouder than when he makes her scream in ecstasy, her whole body quivering against his, and it's only the beginning of the night.
/
When the sun comes up, she awakes before he does. His arm is around her waist, it's heavy but it feels good. She plays with his soft blond hair, thinking until he wakes up. He smiles when he first sees her, but there is something about her quiet seriousness that chases the smile away.
"Dylan. I think it's time," she says softly. She had enough time to thinks about it, she's made her decision. "I want to leave."
"Oh," he says, as if he has always known this moment would come, as if he has been dreading it for weeks.
"And I think, you should come with me."
He laughs, in part out of relief and in part at the absurdity of what she proposes, and he laughs until he says yes, and then she's laughing too, and their bodies are intertwined, shaking from too much happiness. It feels like they are tasting the stars.
FIN
Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think. If you have any ideas or suggestion for a part two, those are always inspiring, I'm toying with a few ideas right now but I can't get it right it seems.