I do not own Bates Motel.
But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.
Yeah, Whatever
Thantophobia and Victorian Literature
Will and Emma were in their classes for the evening, respectively teaching and learning.
Dylan was alone in the apartment.
"Oh my, whatever shall you do?"
"Oh, you know me. I'll get up to something."
A roll of those beautiful, dark eyes.
Totally calling his bluff.
"Yeah, sure you will."
Them exchanging smiles, goodbye hugs and kisses.
Him watching her go.
It happened on occasion.
Being a free agent for a few hours.
Sometimes invited by the guys out to the local bar after work.
"Hey, man, come have a drink."
Um . . .
Him, remembering that he could hold his liquor.
And remembering that sometimes he couldn't.
"Naw, man, I gotta go. Thanks though."
And it was difficult for him at first.
He didn't like being without one or the other, preferably Emma, around the same air space.
It made him anxious.
Made everything he had worked so hard for feel like . . .
"She's not coming back."
"You're different. She's not going to leave you."
. . . it was all a dream.
A dream that would evaporate without warning . . .
". . . floating outside my body."
. . . leaving him alone in the world without Emma's light.
He would wander from room to room, looking at all the things belonged to one or the other or all of them.
Touching Will's books.
Smelling Emma's scarf.
Checking and rechecking her bottles of medications.
Her upcoming respiratory appointment dates.
His phone for messages, though the volume was already turned up so he would not miss a text.
Typing messages to her.
Hey, how you doing?
Hey, what's up?
Hey, I miss you.
Hey, when are you coming home?
Erasing them, never sending them.
Not wanting to be 'that' guy.
Wanting to trust, wanting to believe.
That he was not going to lose her.
That she wouldn't die in a car wreck.
Be kidnapped.
Turn out to be a figment of his needy, desperate imagination.
Trying to involve himself.
Movies.
Yeah, Leonidas, I'd check with Emma too before kicking that guy into a pit. She'd probably say no.
Games.
Candy Crush? This is stupid. Hang on, I got one. Another. Another. Hey triple score-
Cooking.
Oh jeez, I could burn water. Thank goodness we have a microwave.
Cleaning.
Bathrooms are disgusting.
Working.
Let's see, how can I sell more wee-, hops.
Anything.
To pretend he wasn't just waiting around for her to come home.
Sometimes he took long walks.
Sometimes he drove around in the truck, listening to music.
But he never passed the time by sleeping, no.
He would dream of searching for her . . .
"Emma? Emma? Emma, where are you?"
. . . being unable to find her . . .
". . . number you have dialed has been disconnected or no longer in service . . ."
. . . or finding her . . .
"How could you, Dylan?"
. . . standing with her dead, rotting mother . . .
"You knew Norman did something to her, didn't you?"
. . . them both judging him, damning him for his cowardice his weakness, his selfishness.
Audrey's face, rotting and grey.
Emma's face, so sad, so hurt.
"Why didn't you tell me, Dylan? Why did you lie?"
And then them vanishing. Him being left alone in a void, surrounding by silent, still emptiness forever.
"Emma, wait, I'm sorry! Emma, please don't leave me! Please come back!"
So no, Dylan Massett did not sleep when they were out and he was alone.
He learned to occupy himself or pretend to in other ways.
Until . . .
"Hey, how was your evening? What went on?"
"Oh, you know, nothing much."
And then sometimes it was just him and Will.
Which should have been weird.
Hope we didn't keep you up last night.
She, uh, asked me to do that.
Ahem.
And it might have been.
Except Will Decody wasn't trying to make Dylan feel like a cornered rabbit in a dog fight.
"So, Dylan, how's the job? Better than selling marajuana?"
Dylan chuckled, sipping the coffee before him.
"Ha, yeah. I don't have to spend all my time looking over my shoulder. It's nice to be normal."
Normal.
Now there was a word he hadn't formerly associated with himself.
Not truly.
Probably not still.
How's your estranged wife? The one Norman might have done something to?
Heard from her yet? No? Damn.
"How's Victorian literature?"
Will Decody tilted his head in an nonchalant manner.
"Oh, strangely similar to taxidermy actually. Trying to preserve beauty out of old things people once valued."
Dylan nodded although he wasn't exactly sure what the man has just said.
"I've been thinking about you alot lately. You and Emma. You both come from situations where you could easily complain about your lots in life and seek easy paths."
Easy paths like leaving White Pine Bay instead of doing something about Norman?
"I've never known my daughter to take the easy path." Will smiled fondly. "And you don't seem to either."
I've never known Emma to complain about anything without trying to fix it.
"'Some folk want their luck buttered'," the balding Brit concluded. "You two don't seem to do that. I respect you for it. It's a good quality to have."
His tone was casual but Will DeCody's gaze was direct and sincere.
And made Dylan's guilty heart duck its head away in shame.
Opportunely, Emma walked in with her purse, a full grocery bag, and her beautiful smile.
"Hey, I'm home!"
Then she paused.
"You two look serious," she observed curiously. "What are you talking about?"
Dylan wanted to rush to her as his safe place. But instead he answered her question.
"Uh, buttered luck."
Emma grinned easily.
"Ah, Victorian literature strikes again."
Will gestured with his tea cup.
"What's in the bag?"
Their light grinned secretively.
"Dinner! It's a surprise."
Thantophobia- the fear of losing someone you love.
And the 'buttered luck' line is a quote from Thomas Hardy. Victorian literature version, not Mad Max version. And I really like it.
And yes, I do agree Dylan is being a little co-dependent here. I think it's normal considering his Norma experiences. And just an adjustment period; he'll get better.
Thanks to Lana Brown and WordWeaver81 for your reviews! So kind!