I do not own Bates Motel.
But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.
Yeah, Whatever
The Green Eyed Monster
Caressing his unlined, unworried, sleeping forehead.
Carefully brushing and smoothing back the tangled, matted hair.
With what were probably soft, gentle fingers.
Gazing down with kind, caring eyes.
And Dylan watched them for a long, yearning moment.
Emma and Norman.
The tough, fragile girl.
And the mentally disturbed boy.
He thought he was her.
Norma.
Dylan still didn't know how he had managed to convince Norman go back to bed after the whole French toast thing.
"Hey, uh, I'll clean this up, why don't you go upstairs and relax?"
"Oh, that's sweet of you, Dylan. Thank you."
A quick peck on the . . .
Oh no, please don't.
Ew.
. . . cheek.
And that had been that.
He had found him later in her bed, snoring quietly.
Norma's robe neatly on the hook.
Dressed in his own clothes.
As if it had all been a hallucination in Dylan's head.
I'm not crazy, he's crazy.
I'm not crazy, he's crazy.
Instead of Norman's.
And Dylan had returned to the armchair.
And stared at the ceiling for the reminder of the night.
After dutifully cleaning up the kitchen.
He thought he was her.
And checking on Emma.
Who had never stirred in his room.
And now . . .
I bet that feels nice.
. . . he was awkwardly intruding . . .
How does he always inspire such care and kindness?
. . . on a sweet, private moment in which . . .
I'm not crazy.
. . . Emma Decody quietly cared for . . .
And nobody ever fusses over me.
. . . her sleeping boyfriend.
All tuckered out after a long night of china destruction and bird mutilation and French Toast making and identity shifting.
I guess that's nice for him though.
And before Dylan could become bitter and resentful in any regard to Emma at all . . .
"Is he still sleeping?"
. . . he broke the moment with the obvious.
"I hope he had a restful night."
Smh. Sure.
Poor Dylan, right? Eh, well, it gets better, sweetie.
Thanks to sweet DinahRay for reviewing!