I do not own Bates Motel.

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

Yeah, Whatever

French Toast

And there were blackberries.

On the bottom shelf.

There were blackberries in the fridge and French toast in the skillet.

And his eighteen year old brother in the kitchen at three a.m.

Dressed in their mother's blue embroidered robe.

And he was talking like her and moving like her.

He thought he was her.

And Dylan was freaking right the hell out.

Maybe I'm in a dream.

"Norman's sleeping."

Uh, okay. Am I?

But he didn't seemed to be sleeping, though he wished he was and he definitely . . .

Emma? Emma, stay asleep, okay?

I don't, I don't want you to see this.

. . . hoped Emma would stay upstairs.

He had already tried to keep her away from this insanity . . .

"Emma! Go back in the office! Now!"

. . . afraid Norma or Norman would inadvertently hurt her . . .

"Go back!"

. . . during the beginnings of this bout of chaos.

But he she had returned on her own, trekking all the way up to the house.

And he had been too selfish to send her away . . .

Oh nothing, just a good old round of World's Shittiest Family again. We're world champions.

. . . again.

And if she came downstairs now, Norman . . .

"Oh you sweet girl. Are you feeling ill?"

Chair pulled out, seat patted comfortingly.

"Come over here and sit down. I've got just the thing to help you clear those poor lungs."

Vague gesture, light and relaxed because Norma/Norman could handle anything.

"Dylan dear, get the honey bourbon from the cabinet and the lemon out of the fridge."

"Now, Emma, sweetie, now don't take this as consent to drink alcohol. You're too young yet. This is strictly medicinal."

"Okay. Thank you, Mother Norman."

. . . might just try to help her.

Oh god. I'm going crazy too.

He had been so hopeful when he had woken to the clatterings in the kitchen.

Norma?

And then confused as he had beheld . . .

What the hell?

. . . the insane scene before him.

And now, because he couldn't think of a single other thing to do but run screaming into the night . . .

At least I'm still wearing my jacket. What do they call that, fight or flight instinct?

. . . and he didn't want to leave Emma or wake her up and freak her out . . .

Hey, I was thinking we could go to France. You wanna go to France?

. . . he pretended to go upstairs . . .

France, yeah, France seems good.

We could, uh, eat French toast there.

Shit.

. . . to wake up his brother . . .

Maybe Antarctica.

. . . who was actually in the kitchen.

That's further.

In his mother's robe.

"Dylan, do you want orange juice?"

Making French toast . . .

"Uh, yes, please."

. . . and fresh squeezed orange juice.

This is hands down my favorite hallucinating Norman scene in the whole show. It's so innocent and domestic it just gives you chills.

And then I had to go and drag poor Emma into to it too, right?

But hopeful you laughed a little too.

Thanks to WordWeaver81 for reviewing. *proffers French Toast*