I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Practically the Cleavers

"That was nice," Emma commented casually on the short drive back to her dad's apartment behind Artful Artifacts. "Everyone together and getting along. Your mom's a good cook."

He smiled wistfully and nodded.

"Yeah, yeah, it was."

She smiled and blushed a little.

Dylan drove on.

It was the best night with his family he could ever remember.

I mean, it was still weird.

Little glitches here and there.

Norman's snipe at Caleb's added toast.

Let it go for a little while, Norman, huh? Everybody else seems to have. Even Nor- Mom.

The fact that Caleb was there at all, actually.

And Romero . . .

Oh hey. Pot . . . sheriff . . . I have . . . covered up . . . murders with.

. . . and Norma gazing longly at each other over the tasteful flower centerpiece.

And earlier he had watched Caleb, his uncle-father, sit next to Norma, his mother-mother, and sing together . . .

Her voice is so pretty. How have I never heard her sing so pretty before?

. . . as she played the piano.

It must have taken so much strength to let him come into her house.

To face him.

After everything.

And now. They look . . . almost . . . happy.

That was definitely weird.

And familial.

Norman, playing the role of spoiled, jealous, slightly homicidal younger brother shouldering in . . .

"You brought him into our house?"

Huh? Oh.

"I didn't. She did."

. . . while Dylan was pretending not to have . . .

Is this what it's like to have a real family? They can forgive and accept and move on?

. . . an emotional moment . . .

I am not going to bawl like a baby in front of my da- in front of Emma.

. . . with Emma standing right there.

Tears in her eyes too.

And the fact that she was there to witness it all.

Hello, Caleb. This is my da-, this is Emma.

Emma, this is my da-, uh, Caleb.

And Caleb even acting almost like a dad really.

Watching Emma head off into the kitchen to help Norma.

"So she's the one?"

In capital letters, The One? Uhh, I don't know. Maybe. I like her. Alot. She's different.

Oh, you mean the money for the lung transplant.

"Yeah."

"Yeah, I totally get it."

Yeah, uh, thanks. Well, just don't try to have sex with her.

Oh, urgh.

It was weird.

But it was nice.

Probably the one and only time he would ever be able to remember as decent when two or more of the Bates/Massett Clan of Crazy inhabitated the same zipcode.

And relatively easy and pleasant and warm.

Norma, so quietly appreciative, almost shy.

". . . a home where friends could come and go. Stay together and talk . . ."

He had realized she had never had that.

From what he had found out about her childhood, volitile and unpredictable, no one would dare step foot there that didn't have to.

And Dylan's own memories living with Sam, the surly, violent drunk.

Definitely no room for family dinners there.

Just survival of the fittest.

And realized that was why she had bought the motel and this big gothic overlarge house for just her and Norman.

When she could have just used the money to do about anything else.

So she could invite people in. Take care of them.

Be the gracious hostess.

Kind and warm and welcoming.

A misguided attempt maybe. But that's what she had done.

Whether she knew it or not.

And Dylan felt incredibly uncomfortable . . .

Norma, that's not how a business works.

. . . and sad . . .

But I wish it did. For you.

. . . in a deep way he could not fully express.

But then she smiled and felt like just letting the moment stand as it was.

A good evening. And nice.

Especially once the food got going.

"Oh, nothing fancy. Just threw it together."

Uh, no. Macaroni and cheese is what you throw together.

This is a family meal.

Complete with coffee and dessert.

And Dylan was happy for her.

Himself.

Them all.

Even Norman.

Sitting like a stump over there.

While Emma . . .

Whoa, hey . . .

. . . laughed and playfully ladled food onto his plate.

Caleb chatted with Romero.

And Norma . . .

Louise, right?

Mom.

. . . attended here and there, looking peaceful and happier than Dylan ever remembered her.

"Do you guys do that often? Have family dinners?"

Dylan ghosted a smile at the pretty girl gazing at him in the darkened cab.

He chuckled, a little more humorlessly than he had intended.

"Uh, no. Not exactly."

"Yeah, well, that's one more than I do. Just me and my dad, you know. He's great but I always wondered what it would be like to have people around the table, passing dishes and having different conversations and stuff."

Yeah. Me too.

He had been to parties . . .

"I mean, I've been to a couple of parties . . ."

. . . but this had been different.

". . . this was different."

He glanced over at her in pleased surprise.

"What?"

That's just what I was thinking.

And grinned.

"Nothing."

When they got to her house, he turned off the car and hopped out.

Opened the door for her.

Helped her down.

And walked her to her door.

"Thank you for coming with me tonight, Emma."

"Yeah, of course. Anytime. Thank you for inviting me."

The moon was bright overhead, pale and cold.

It was getting late.

And she needed to get inside.

But Dylan stood there just a minute longer.

Just looking at her.

Her with those big, deep, dark eyes.

He thought about kissing her.

Thought she would let him.

But for some reason he couldnt quite fathom, he wasn't quite ready.

Instead he just smiled.

Causing her to smile back.

So pretty and innocent and special.

"Goodnight, Emma."

"Goodnight, Dylan."

And then he let her go.

And left alone.

There was so much stuff going on at that dinner party I think they needed a flowchart, ha!

Thanks to Lana Brown for your continued support and encouragment. :)