I do not own Bates Motel.

But I do love this this dad. He is so awesome.

Emma and the Boy

Will DeCody could practically hear the boy and his daughter being quiet in respect to him.

Didn't fall off the meat truck yesterday, ya sly kits.

But Dylan was a good lad and his daughter loved him.

And so Will was fine with it.

Alright, not entirely fine with it . . .

Keep ya mitts off me little girl, ya wanker.

. . . but mostly okay with it.

He had resigned himself years ago, shortly after she was born, to her inevitable decline, demise, and death.

All at the hands of that sick, cruel bastard, CF.

Cystic fibrosis.

What kind and loving and caring God would disallow a child, a creation of his own, if one were to believe the religions, the simple, basic human right to fucking breathe?

None, that's who.

And he had struggled. Oh how he had struggled.

He struggled and he had fought and he had mourned and he had denied.

And he had stayed.

Which was more so than he could say for his dear, motherly ex wife Audrey.

They both suffered and they both had mourned.

But she had gone mad, abandoning her wailing, frightened, gasping daughter that needed her.

At first for hours.

That was acceptable, who didn't need some time here and there?

Then for a day.

Fine. Take a breather, love, yeah?

Then for a weekend.

Well, if you like.

And then gradually it was string of days, a week.

Traipsing in and out, face turned away.

And he had held a mirror up, metaphorical as it were, look, darlin', your daughter needs you. Us. Both. Together.

And she had balked.

Balked.

At the baby girl in his arms, reaching out, crying, begging her mother.

Crying out for love and attentiom.

And her with her beautiful dark eyes and exotic beauty, had turned away.

As her heart darkened and grew to stone.

And turned ugly and cold.

To the pitiful pleas of her only child.

And he had finally let her go.

Because it was worse to try to make her stay.

Back and forth over the years, Will trying to make his family whole.

Only to realize it was tearing his little girl apart.

Even more so than himself.

And he thrown up his hands.

Thrown out his life.

And devoted himself entirely to his baby girl.

He had never looked back.

And that was fine.

Forgone the company of ladies (not too hard what with his present feelings toward his now ex wife, how could any of them be trusted?).

Forgone his chosen career.

Forgone his homeland.

To hell with it. I'm goin' to live with the Yanks.

He still didn't quite know how he had found White Pine Bay, Oregon.

Maybe it was the pull of the landscape, the climate.

Close enough to England, yet far enough away.

He settled down.

And went about the mission of giving his daughter the most stable, most loving, most supportive life he could.

While she had time to live.

He had smiled through his fears, his tears, and his constant anxieties.

Sleepless nights listening to her try and breathe.

Endless days searching for help, for hope, for possibilities.

And he had loved his daughter.

Encouraged her to be strong, do what she could, while she could.

Live, love, he had told her.

Live while you've got because that's all any of us can do.

And she had. Not wildly. Not meekly.

Just lived.

More meds than the average girl.

More sickness.

More ill health.

Also more gentleness and kindness and caring than the typical fare with which he dealt.

And he was proud of his daughter and who she had chosen to become thus far.

So they had counted their days and filled them up.

And he had tried to let her grow and live.

And she had done so well, so very well, all things considered.

He couldn't have anticipated the baffling lunacy of the Bates woman and her son.

Nor the mildly desperate normalcy Dylan Massett blindly sought for.

But he saw potential in the boy.

More than in his younger brother anyway.

Oh thank bloody hell. That scrawny lil creep was givin' me fits.

Whom he was relatively certain was going to land in serious trouble one day.

Or already had, if rumors were to be believed.

But then there was Dylan.

Dylan and his ill gotten cash that had purchased Emma's extended life.

Easily breathed air.

And earned her love.

Not through the money, neither of them had told her that.

But out of his love. And who he was trying to be.

Though Will had closely watched from the corner of his eye.

And observed that the lad, whose entire existence spun on the smile on her face, had asked her for nothing.

Held out no hope.

In fact, attempted, in vain, to push her away.

Let her move forward to something better than him.

Ha, nice try, boy. Determined, isn't she?

And now they seemed happy.

Because they chose to be.

Will had put a bug in the lad's ear, suggested there was more to him than just a pot selling straggler.

And definitely more to Emma's future.

Even offered a helpful little lie, as it were.

Just enough to scrabble out of your pit, eh?

Which then of course he had cast aside . . .

Damn, lad.

. . . by going straight ahead and telling the truth.

And getting the job because of it.

Huh. Well done. I'm impressed.

Because Emma was the sun around which both of them revolved.

She shone so bright and warmed them with her love and sometimes fire.

That sun which now, with steady care and careful attention, didn't have to burn out so soon anymore.

And he was happy.

So, knowing life was for the living and she doing so quite well, he let them have their time.

And closed his eyes . . .

Ta for the respectfulness to me father's ears, though, yeah-

. . . and drifted off to sleep.

As Dylan Massett pretended not to be stepping inside and closing the door to Emma DeCody's bedroom.

Such a good father and man, oh my gosh.

And a great show, wow!

So, everybody appreciates feedback.

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