I do not own Bates Motel.
But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.
Yeah, Whatever
The Difference Between Bradley and Emma
"Dylan, I'm . . . I'm glad."
Dylan dared not breathe a sigh of relief.
Really?
Norman was holding a wooden croquet mallet after all.
Is it good practice to allow mental patients control of blunt instruments?
But he seemed sincere. And calm.
"Yeah. I get it. I really do."
Really?
What are those meds you're on anyway?
Norman sure hadn't been near this calm when Bradley Martin had started batting her lashes at him.
"I'm going to go finish my homework."
Wow. Seductive manly statement for sure.
Dumbass.
And then later, Norman had started screeching about socks . . .
". . . white socks to a dance!"
. . . and Norma had screamed right back . . .
". . . darn some black socks?!"
. . . and Dylan . . .
What the hell is wrong with you people?
. . . had tried to calm the Bates Footwear Typhoon of Terror.
"I've got black socks he can borrow."
If you both would just calm the shit down.
Knowing all along that it probably . . .
God, she's just a girl, Norman.
. . . had something to do with Bradley.
And those big, vulnerable eyes. That long, blond hair.
And of course, the fact that she was . . .
Nope. Nope. Nope.
. . . a completely bad idea.
So many reasons.
Bradley Martin was a big fat no.
For one, even though she was eighteen and had clearly been around the block . . .
Even Norman got to do her.
Damn.
. . . she was only a high schooler.
Two, she was broken. And wounded.
Unstable.
And volitile.
Part of that was a turn on.
She needs me.
Well, she needs somebody.
Part of it was . . .
Nooo.
. . . that it was wrong.
Which of course was also a turn on.
They could always just be messed up and wounded and lost together for a while.
Didn't have to be forever.
Just long enough to not feel so alone.
Until it didn't work.
But it was out of the question.
Norman still was hung up on her. Fixated, really.
I can see why.
And Dylan didn't see how he could juggle Bradley along with everything else.
And so for all those reasons . . .
". . . lines you don't cross."
. . . and a myriad of others, Dylan didn't touch her.
Well, he hugged her.
Because her broken little girl spirit called out for him to comfort her.
And he was a big softie in that area.
And he was lonely too.
She's alone, I'm alone.
No.
But that was it.
She had jumped off a bridge, got jammed in a mental institution, got out, and murdered the man who murdered her father.
Which was alot.
Or the norm if you were part of the Bates/Massett Circus Crazy Train of WTF Life.
I can handle that. I can handle all that.
And then eventually, she got on a Greyhound to save her own life.
While Dylan watched . . .
I can handle that too. Whatever.
. . . with only a little jealousy as she escaped.
From White Pine Bay.
And eventually eventually . . .
"Hey, Dylan."
"Hey, Emma."
. . . he was glad about it.
Emma was everything different in the world that he had never known was possible for him.
She was everything and it would have been very difficult for him to have hurt Norman over her.
But he would have.
He would have done anything humanly possible to make Emma happy and content and healthy.
Emma and her new lungs.
Emma and her new life
Emma and her new him.
Emma.
Bradley Martin, wow. She was way on back there, wasn't she? I almost considered writing a little AU for Bradley and Dylan. But I just can't betray Emma like that.
Anyway, thanks to Lana Brown for returning time and time again to this story. You are very kind, sweetie.
See you again soon. We're almost out of White Pine Bay which means much, much more fluff and happiness and sweetness.
:)