I do not own Bates Motel.
But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.
Yeah, Whatever
Battle Scars
That same room he stood in now.
That same bed he had been laying on just a moment before.
That same girl he still loved.
Now more than ever.
And she was still so strong, so brave.
"Gross, huh?"
Meh.
Showing him her the transplant scar, staples and all, on the line of her rib cage even though . . .
"It's hideous."
Oh Emma.
"No, it's not."
Nothing could ever be hideous on you.
. . . she hated it and believed it was . . .
"You haven't seen it."
. . . monstrous.
But even with all that, she was still being tough, being amazing.
Being Emma.
". . . to have power over me or how I feel when I'm with you."
You're planning on being with me.
Cool.
And so she sat up, raised up her shirt only to the scar, hands modestly covering the rest of her chest.
So he could see.
And so she could force herself to choose to begin accepting the horribleness and gruesomeness of her stitched and glued and stapled flesh.
She was so strong, so determined to be okay.
God, you're amazing.
And he loved her for it.
All of her insides. And all of her outsides.
But she couldn't. Not yet.
It's really not that bad. And it'll be better once you get your staples out in a couple of weeks.
More comfortable too, I bet.
He could have said it.
Would have meant it.
But verbal reassurances weren't going to cut it right now.
The realization was too recent, the worry too current and fresh.
She wouldn't be bought with sincere encouragements about her beauty.
About the fact that it didn't matter to him if she was frankensteined completely to hell.
Which she wasn't.
Emma Decody was mature and wise beyond her years.
But she was still a human being.
And human beings needed a little encouragement every now and then.
Her scar didn't matter to him.
All the ways that she was different made her special and awesome to him.
But she was tired of feeling different, like a freak.
He didn't care, he thought she was perfect.
But this was big to her.
And it mattered.
Anybody could lie with their words.
She needed more than words.
So Dylan did the next best thing.
First he openly looked at the scar she presented to him.
Battle scar. Badass.
Then he stood up, took off his shirt.
Only a little embarrassed.
You showed me yours. I'll show you mine.
And revealed his own marred flesh.
Because her soul was perfect and beautiful.
And accepted his own stained and sometimes shredded one.
So a few scars on her wasn't much of anything to him.
She could never be ugly, it was impossible.
He was, had been.
But even that seemed to be fading, all the weird, miserable shit of his previous existence.
When he saw her look at him and smile.
Heard her encourage him, felt her wrap him in her embrace.
Knew he could be stronger than he had been.
Because she was the strongest, bravest person he had ever known.
And if she could be that strong and brave, he could be a little too.
"And what about this one?"
Her warm delicate fingers touching his skin was making him tingle.
And he was having trouble . . .
That feels good.
. . . keeping things light.
But it was important to show her his scars.
So she would know it was okay.
Okay to have scars, imperfections.
It was why he had looked so openly when she had showed him hers.
So she could see that he didn't care.
That he was not grossed out.
That it was just skin.
Important skin.
Healing skin that had been cut up to save her life.
And it was also fascinating.
Wow, they just cut you open and reached up there and yanked 'em out and hung up some new fresh, healthy ones, huh?
Amazing.
But just because it was amazing and what he was doing was important, didn't mean . . .
". . . tiger shark . . ."
. . . he was going to act all serious about it either.
No, not with those fingers touching him so softly.
And those big, warm eyes gazing up at him so honestly.
It's actually an appendectomy scar.
I was eight.
Took Norma three days to take me to the doctor.
She said I was whining, being a baby.
I almost died.
But that's not a fun story.
He would tell her some other time if it came up again.
So . . .
" . . . you know, Chief . . ."
. . . he did his best Robert Shaw impression instead.
Made her laugh.
"Really? Come on, how're you gonna survive a shark attack if you can't listen?"
Teased her a little.
Put the past behind him.
And moved forward.
Right on to her bed.
By her enthusiastic insist, by the way.
And he was careful with her, so careful.
But still . . .
Oh yeah, this is much better.
. . . it definitely was the right move.
He didn't touch her much, he hoped there would be time for that later.
When her scar had healed more. Staples removed.
And her body stronger for more . . . strenuous activities.
And she was ready.
She had indicated though there might be time for that anyway.
Indicated, no, she had flat out told him.
". . . doctor said, 'four to six weeks'."
A secret grin on her face.
Bashful happiness and excitement rippling through him.
So there was time later.
So instead of get carried away and hurting her now, he just stayed cool.
On the outside anyway.
Ran his fingers gently through her auburn hair.
Stroked her face.
And kissed those warm, inviting lips.
Explored that delicious, willing mouth.
Mmm, yeah, I could do this all day.
And was happy.
Happy, happy, happy.
Yeah. :)
Thanks to Lana Brown and the Mystery Guest for so enthusiastically reviewing and encouraging me to keep writing. You're very appreciated, sweetie.