I do not own Bates Motel.
But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.
Yeah, Whatever
Home
She was freaking out.
Emma Decody, the strongest, toughest, most amazing person Dylan Massett had ever met in his entire life was freaking right the hell out.
Because she didn't want to die.
Or live like a lab rat.
She was freaking right the hell out on the pebbly banks of a rain-misty lake in the scut-rut hamlet of White Pine Bay, Oregon.
Instead of hauling ass north to Portland to get those lungs that were waiting for her.
The ones Dylan had nearly died for.
The ones Caleb had beaten the crap out of Chick for.
The ones that could help her breathe.
Help her live.
Help her conquer the world.
And . . .
". . . ridiculous when I cry."
. . . here she was wasting her time being embarrassed about breaking down and looking unattractive in front of him.
The unloved, incest, bastard son of Norma Bates and Caleb Calhoun.
The one who made a living selling illegal weed.
The one who'd killed people.
Out of necessity, sometimes.
But sometimes rage.
He wasn't good enough for her.
Nobody was good enough for her.
Certainly not Norman.
Brittle little Norman would flake away and die like old paint on a doorframe trying to be Emma DeCody for a day.
Most, including him, would.
And she didn't even know it.
She didn't even see.
How incredible she was.
And he loved her.
All of her.
Everything about her.
Not the least of which, she was . . .
". . . the least ridiculous person I've ever known."
The time on those lungs, old and new, was ticking away.
And he had to make her realize.
"You're wiser than most people twice your age . . ."
See that she could do this.
Could do anything.
"And you're the bravest person that I know."
And so well.
With so much strength.
Positivity. Kindness. Grace.
You gotta go.
You gotta get these lungs.
You gotta be okay.
In the whole world, you've got to be okay.
"You're a frickin' warrior."
She had stopped crying, stopped freaking out.
She was still. Quiet.
Transfixed.
Staring at him.
Those big, brown eyes gazing right through the middle of him.
And he, he could not stop staring back.
He had refrained from revealing his feelings for her before.
Or thought he had.
Up in her room when she had set him free.
And now . . .
Emma.
. . . he felt dangerously close to the edge again.
Dylan Massett wasn't familiar with delayed gratification.
For anything.
He was an action man.
And he was drawn to action people.
People who knew what they wanted and went for it.
People who didn't whine around or make a bunch of excuses for not living life.
And Dylan wasn't whining. Wasn't making excuses.
He just knew she wasn't for him.
She was too good.
And he was . . . him.
He probably would have continued thinking that for a long time.
Too long to have healed and been the truly happy he eventually could be.
And Emma would have missed out on all the love and joy and absolute devotion he gladly showered upon her.
But thankfully for both of them, there on the banks of the misty mountain lake where Dylan currently grew pot in a broken down old log cabin, Emma Decody took action.
She reached for him and he reached for her.
Their lips met, their bodies met.
Their souls met.
His hands reached out for her delicate shoulders, the yarn pattern rough beneath his fingers.
Her hair somehow still soft and inviting, webbed with rain.
He didn't feel the plastic oxygen nasal canula forever resting against her upper lip.
He didn't register the quiet hiss of the oxygen or think about her lungs mucusing away in her chest.
He only thought about her.
Emma.
How soft her lips were.
How great she smelled and how perfect she fit in his arms.
The softness and strength and welcomeness of her fingers against his skin.
Grazing the scruff at his jawline.
Emma.
How long he had waited and how much longer he would gladly wait for this rain damp, earthbound angel.
And he loved her.
He loved her. He loved her. He loved her.
It was only a few seconds while the busy universe spun out around them.
Will waiting, life waiting.
Lungs waiting.
Only for a few more seconds.
But it felt like everything to Dylan Massett.
It felt like coming home.
A feeling he had never associated positively with before.
But now understood wholeheartedly.
Emma.
They finally broke apart, mutually.
Though Dylan thought he could go on kissing her forever.
And when his vision cleared and he saw she really was there, he realized . . .
Oh wow, that was, um, intense.
. . . he had embarrassed himself completely and utterly beyond any regrouping at all.
Okay, no taking that back now.
And his stoic facade broke.
Even more so than before.
He laughed, shifting. Trying not to be awkward now of all times.
And they did that together too.
Laughed. Smiled.
Her hands folding up so adorably under her chin.
Head tilting prettily.
"What were we saying?"
A lightly joking lilt signifying her previous hysteria had passed for the time being.
And she was her again.
Dylan was grateful for the reprieve.
"I have no idea."
Shrugging, trying to find something else to say . . .
". . . hit on you right before a lung transplant."
. . . before he dropped dead of sheer embarassment and nerves.
Maybe not his most intelligent response ever.
"Are you hitting on me?"
But one that brought to the surface that easy banter . . .
Play with me, Emma.
. . . that he so loved.
With those eyes now bright and teasing and . . .
Cute, clever, I see what you're doing-
. . . fishing to make him say the truth.
". . . don't know, I'm doing a pretty shitty job of it."
Yes, I'm hitting on you. Yes, I like you.
I love you.
The moment held, the levity she so needed to arm herself up to . . .
". . . this dumb lung transplant, huh?"
. . . do what had to be done.
"You have to."
It was a sincere statement.
You have to live.
Of everyone ever, you have to live.
And Emma, strengthening with every passing moment, still clung to him.
Fingers mindlessly kneeding the shoulders of his leather jacket.
Because she, the frickin' lung warrior, still needed reassurance.
Strength.
Care.
You can do this.
Because she was afraid.
Terrified.
Of the end.
Or, the beginning.
Stepping forward into his arms
Seeking his faith and belief.
That it could all be enough.
That it could all be alright.
That she would live.
And be okay.
And not die.
He held her.
He held her.
And he just believed.
As much as he could.
As strongly as he could.
For them both.
I love you, Emma.
Boy, that's was a good scene. For a number of reasons.
Anyways,hope you're still enjoying the story.
Thanks to Lana Brown and DinahRay for reviewing!