A/N: I'm trying something different, branching out into a new fandom. I can only hope I do these beautiful/flawed/beautifully flawed characters justice.

A/N2: (Subsequent chapters will be much darker, just a warning.)

A/N3: Please spread the love to my beta-for-life and internet wife, MarinaBlack1. She is the glue that keeps me together when work+family+marriage+writing=meltdown, for which I am SO endlessly grateful. Check out her work, here on FFN and on Kindle Worlds!

Part 1

Dylan Massett fought against an odd mixture of boredom and anxiety by rocking forward on the balls of his feet. He bounced lightly, his hands deep in the front pockets of his dark jeans, staring through the plate-glass window separating him from an oversized and nearly-empty Intensive Care room. Hospitals made him uncomfortable; they were so institutional. But he'd stayed in this one, despite his unease.

It was worth it.

Worth it, because of that impossibly vibrant auburn hair cascading over a pillow in a sterile white room he couldn't enter. Because of the memory of a kiss that had wrecked him, because of huge doe-eyes that still, fuck, still refused to open for him.

Emma was too small for all this, those long fat tubes draining her chest and the wires linking her to monitors and a breathing mask hiding half her face. Part of him regretted pushing her into the decision, now that he understood what she had meant about the risks. But if it worked, if she could be Emma – just Emma, not "The Girl with Cystic Fibrosis" – then it was all worth it.

"How is she?" Will Decody's British accent bled through even on simple sentences. Dylan looked toward the man who had appeared so quietly at his side, faked a smile, and accepted a proffered cup of passably-good cafeteria coffee. This was their little ritual, never formally arranged but a source of comfort to them both: one would step away for a moment (a trip to the vending machines, a quick call up to Gunner at the farm or to Norma) and always, without fail, return bearing two cups of coffee and that little question. Three words. No need to answer, of course. Emma was always the same. Mostly she slept, but even when she was awake she was so still you could barely tell the difference.

Dylan tried to piece together what day it was. When had he gotten here? Too soon, that was for damn sure. He had assumed something like a transplant would be tricky, probably a few hours of surgery at least. And the Decody family would want to be together after, without people just showing up to disrupt everything… so, he'd figured, give them a day.

Of course, the frantic search for Norman (which ended only when he came wandering up the road toward the motel around mid-day, claiming no memory of how he'd gotten there) had certainly helped pass the time. That, and the typical Bates family guilt-trip bloodbath. But as soon as he was sure his mother and brother were fine Dylan had made the drive down to Portland.

He hadn't counted on all the pre-op bullshit delaying everything. By the time he arrived Emma was barely eight hours into what would end up being a fourteen-hour surgery. Dylan had briefly considered turning around and going home, but Will had spotted him. And noticed the sad bunch of day-old flowers he'd bought last minute from a gas station on the edge of town. When Emma's father looked from the bouquet to Dylan's face, and then slid over on the green pleather waiting room sofa without saying a word, Dylan understood. He knew a little something about inner torment. He sure as shit could recognize it in another person.

So he'd stayed.

Now he took a sip of the coffee and rubbed futilely at hot tired eyes, and tried to think. It must have been a few days already, given that a passing orderly had just offered to throw away the dead brown flowers lying forgotten on the coffee table.

Movement beyond the observation window drew both men's attention back to Emma, and to the team of white-robed doctors and nurses flowing purposefully into the space around her bed.

"So, uh… what happens now? I mean, you know… next?" Dylan's voice seemed unsteady even to his own ears. He wondered what Will must think of him. They had barely known each other before he had appeared in the taxidermist's workshop with a bag full of money and a plea not to tell Emma.

"Next they'll move her out of Intensive Care, god willing," Will explained. "It's been three days. If all went well, this is when we find out." Or not. The unspoken hypothetical hung in the air between them.

"Should I…You guys… I should go."

"Dylan, don't be a fool." Mr. Decody rested a hand on the younger man's shoulder without looking away from his daughter's bed. "You'll want to say hello."

Well, that was true. He wanted to say hello so badly his hands trembled. Dylan crossed his arms and swallowed hard.

"Thank you."

"You've still got it backwards, son." Mr. Decody smiled. "It's us who should thank you."

"No. Don't – " Dylan shook his head and looked down at his boots, and up again just in time to see the team moving Emma onto a gurney. He caught sight of her hand, slightly foreign thanks to the gray monitor clamped over her finger and the medical bracelet, but he saw it clutch at her blanket. He saw her eyes flutter toward the window, saw her connect with her father's face and then sweep toward her second visitor…

Dylan Massett remembered how to breathe again. He hadn't realized he'd forgotten how, until that moment.

He smiled for her, because she looked like smiling might kill her right now. He leaned into the window without realizing he had done it, pressing his forehead against the cool glass, and heaved a massive three-day sigh.

"Excuse me, Mr. Decody?" The orderly reappeared, this time with directions to a different wing of the hospital. "This way please…"

She was supposed to be happy to see her father. And she was, of course she was. But the haunted blue eyes and dark leather jacket of her other guest were awfully distracting, and Emma felt a twinge of guilt at wanting time alone with him, if only for a minute or two. She decided that the guilt meant she wasn't an entirely ungrateful daughter, which made her feel just a bit better.

"… I'm just tired," she confessed when Will Decody asked what he could do for her. She saw Dylan trying to back out of the room, and frowned. Where was he going? "Thank you – both – for being here." That stopped his exit.

"It's... Yeah, no problem," he murmured from the doorway. The three shared a moment of awkward silence.

Emma's father cleared his throat and shifted on his feet. "Well, I'll go check in with your nurses," he declared before stepping outside.

"I thought he'd never leave," Emma joked weakly. Dylan smiled and moved a little closer. He looked scared, and Emma worried suddenly for Norman and the motel. "Is everything okay?"

"When I said you had to – to do this – Emma, it was – I was... being selfish – "

She closed her eyes. She really was tired, and no amount of gorgeous blonde boy could keep her lids open at this point.

"You need to rest. I'll go."

"Actually," she reached out for him, and he grabbed her hand. That shiver-soft touch was the only thing better than seeing his relieved face through the ICU window. "Would you stay? Is that pathetic to ask?"

"No. No, it's definitely not pathetic. I'll stay. I'll stay as long as you want." Dylan settled into the chair by her bed, and even though her body was her own worst enemy right now, she could still feel the hard thud of her heart as he strung his fingers between hers. Emma sank back into the pillow and let the medications win, let them drag her into sleep with him still at her side.

A gentle shake of his shoulder roused Dylan. He blinked and sat up quickly, embarrassed to discover he had passed out against Emma's hospital bed.

Mr. Decody was staring at his daughter's hand, still clutching Dylan's.

"Shit, I'm sorry, Will. I should get out of here." He tried to stand but the older man kept that pressure on his shoulder.

"You'll do no such thing." Mr. Decody sighed and shook his head at the young couple. "Do you think I couldn't tell it's you she wanted when we first came in? I'm a poor substitute at best. Stay with her. Unless…" Dylan was surprised to see uncertainty creeping into Will's features.

"Unless what?"

"Do you want to leave? Is this too much for you? I just assumed you… but I know how overwhelming it is, believe me. I wouldn't wish all this on anyone. So if you have to go, I understand. And I'll help her see – "

" – No! No, that's not it." Dylan swept his fingers over Emma's bangs, brushing them off her face as he thought about how to explain his situation. "Taking care of people doesn't scare me. But she… she deserves someone good, and I'm not very good at good." He swallowed and looked up with a rueful smile and a shrug. "She's not like normal people. She's special."

"Yes. I think so too. As for who she deserves…Well. Maybe we should let her make that decision." Will stepped toward the door. "If you are willing to stay, it'd put my mind at ease. I have to get back to White Pine Bay to check on some things."

The younger man nodded. "Yeah. Sure thing."

With the room theirs, Dylan settled back into the chair by Emma's side and tried not to stare at her while she slept. It felt… wrong. Invasive. But she groaned and shifted, and squeezed his hand.

"Hey," he tried.

"Hey yourself." She licked her lips, pulling his attention to her mouth, focusing his memory on the taste of her. "I'm so thirsty."

"You're not allowed to drink anything yet."

"I thought they said something about ice."

"Oh, right." Dylan collected some into a plastic cup for her, smiling to himself as he helped her. "So. Are you okay?" he asked when she was finished. "How are you really feeling? I mean, your dad's gone and all, so you don't have to be brave about it," he half-joked, watching her. Waiting.

"Yeah, I'm actually pretty great right now, you know? All the drugs. I'm basically numb."

"Ah."

"Mm-hm."

"Numb, like you can't feel anything?" He drew a circle into the palm of her hand as he spoke, and bit back a grin when she sighed at the touch.

"Nope. Nothing. Couldn't feel that." Her own bright smile was framed by dimples. Dylan warred with himself over the ethics of taking advantage of a hospital patient.

"…So… what are you thinking?" Emma asked him. She was studying his face that way she always did, and she had that look he was sure meant she could read his soul anyway. Honesty seemed the only option when she looked at him like that.

"I'm, uh… I'm wondering if wanting to kiss you right now makes me an asshole."

"Oh, yeah, I don't know the answer to that." Dylan nodded and looked out the window at the dawn sky, sure she was right. Emma continued. "… But I'm very sure that not kissing me would make you a dumbass."

"Really? A dumbass? You don't pull any punches, do you?"

"… Why are you stalling?"

Damn she was good. Dylan shook his head at her. "What if I make you… sick, or I hurt you?"

"Dylan. They moved me out of Intensive Care for a reason. Yes, I need to be careful, but I know you aren't going to hurt me. And… are you even sick? Have you been around anyone who was sick in the past few days?"

"I – I've just been here." Somehow that seemed like a bigger confession than he expected. He cleared his throat. "I had flowers for you, but uh… well, they didn't make it. I probably should've put them in water or something. I wasn't really thinking."

"I'm not allowed to be around flowers right now, anyway. My immune system is too compromised."

Dylan frowned. He felt like a dick. "I should have known that."

"How? From your vast experience with lung transplants?"

"No, but if I'm… I need to… I want to be here for you, and so far I'm just doing everything wrong."

"Not everything," she pointed out. He caught the edge in her voice and knew he would give in to her. He leaned down, still a bit frightened by how mortal she seemed.

"Thank you for not dying, Emma Decody," he whispered, and pressed gentle lips against hers. She tasted different and he wondered if that was the medicine or the operation, if she would taste different forever now, if he was allowed to hope he could stick around to find out.

Thank you for reading! ...And now, my terribly selfish request: I'd love to hear from you. I really would. As with all FFN writers, my only compensation is feedback; so of course more feedback = more love = I want to write more. If you enjoyed this chapter, please take a second or two to let me know!