I do not own Bates Motel.
But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.
Yeah, Whatever
Washed Clean
He could have just dropped the money off with Will and gone about his way.
It was actually have been easier and quicker.
She would have gotten more rest that way.
But Dylan Massett was selfish.
He wanted to see her.
Hear her voice.
Feel the warmth of her presence.
Reassure himself that he doing something good in his life.
Helping Emma.
Because he was feeling very low.
Very empty.
And very lonely.
And he felt that just seeing her would make it better.
So, with permission from Will, Dylan Massett crept up the stairs to her room.
And found her.
Curled peacefully on her side in a quiet, still room.
A room decorated with the random items of a teenage girl.
A room that was lived in. Occupied.
Unlike the Bates Museum of Stolen Time and Frozen Ambiance.
This room was a room you could breathe in.
So long as Emma's oxygen tank helped her.
And there she was.
Resting.
So peacefully.
He woke her up.
"Emma?"
Felt bad about it.
Until she called his name . . .
"Dylan?"
Smoosh.
. . . and sat up and smiled.
She was so fresh and clean and pure that he just started rambling . . .
". . . were sleeping . . ."
Duh.
. . . and apologizing . . .
". . . sorry . . ."
. . . because he suddenly felt fumbly and stupid and like a total . . .
Dope.
. . . dumbass for coming up to her room like Prince Charming or something.
She was gracious of course.
And beautiful.
In her soft, loose pants and cranberry . . .
Hello, perfect breasts.
No, I'm not looking.
They are pretty though.
. . . thermal blouse.
But Emma wasn't sexy like that.
Well, she is but . . .
But more than that, she was just beautiful and real and unaffected.
"I bet I look good."
Well . . .
Yeah, you do actually. You look like the best thing I've ever seen.
. . . mostly unaffected.
But then he turned away from her to stare at her assortment of collected stuff.
Because he couldn't look at her.
She was her. She inspired so much in him.
And he, he was nothing.
His own mother didn't care about him, hated him.
Because of what he was.
She wished he never existed, only tolerated him in her life.
Except for when he helped her protect Norman.
Help explain away and hide all the disturbing red threads connected to Norman.
Then she, for however long until something else happened, loved him.
For a while.
And then Norman himself, his brother who couldn't see past the end of his own dangerous, mentally disturbed nose.
And the one person he felt he could talk to at all . . .
"Caleb had to leave the farm for a little while."
. . . was his father. Who was also his uncle.
And was now leaving him too.
Which sucked because . . .
". . . got used to him being there."
God, that's some screwed up shit.
And he knew he wasn't good enough to be in Emma's room.
In Emma's presence.
In Emma's plastic tubed air.
It was why he insisted Will not tell her he was the source of the money.
Because he didn't want her feeling like she owed him anything.
Ever.
Because he was just him and she . . .
"Of course, you did. He's your father."
. . . knew everything.
Shit.
It was a shame, an awful thing.
Something he had indirectly tried to get himself killed because of.
A bastard son.
Worse.
An incest bastard son.
It had taken months to try to process and compartmentalize it all in his mind enough so that he could keep living and breathing.
Resolving to excel in a highly respected, frequently utilized talent in the Bates/Massett Family Arsenal of Psychological Tips, Tricks, And Lies Against Reality.
Secretcy.
He had resolved to never tell anyone his real father's identity.
Ever.
And now, Emma, of all people, knew.
Shit.
"I'm sorry you know that."
He was ashamed, embarrassed, humiliated.
She would hate him, pity him.
Be disgusted by him.
I'm trash. Garbage.
And I didn't even do anything.
I was just . . . made.
He felt sick and dirty and diseased.
And unworthy.
All over again.
And he hated it.
She had met Caleb, for god sakes.
Talked to him.
Hugged him.
Eaten across the table from him.
He had soiled her with his and Caleb's messed up, twisted presence.
"No."
Her voice was so gentle and caring and emphatic as she moved forward and reached out and touched . . .
Don't. You're too clean for me.
. . . his hand in comfort.
Gazing up at him with those warm brown eyes.
So full of light and life and sincerity.
Speaking words he'd never heard from anyone's lips.
"We come into the world the way we come into the world."
Her voice was low and even.
And warm and strong and beautiful.
And Dylan stopped.
And listened to her.
Hypnotized.
Embraced.
Lifted up.
"It's not our choice but . . . at least we're here."
Here.
Are you glad I'm here, Emma?
And the look on her pale, oval face gazing up at him so openly told him she was.
That she cared.
About him.
No matter what he was.
He tried to stay tough but . . .
Oh.
. . . the ache in his swelling heart hurt so much he could hardly breathe.
She didn't ignore what he was, insist it wasn't true.
She didn't try to sweep it away, pretend it didn't exist.
She just decided it didn't make him anything less than a living, breathing person in the world.
And there was suddenly a lump in his throat that he couldn't get past.
I can . . . I can . . . I can live with that.
And he knew what it was like to be, even just for a few minutes, washed clean.
So this is what it feels like to be saved.
With a few, simple words.
"Thanks, Emma."
And his own reply was just so very insufficient.
I love you.
Because it was the first time in a long time, maybe ever, that he had thought he had any true personal worth at all.
Just being a human being.
I love you.
And it was all because of her.
I love you so much.
What Emma did for Dylan was just so beautiful.
And he had already gotten the money before she even set him free.
*sniffles*