It's three in the afternoon on a Saturday and the Arizona sun is burning through the curtains, effectively turning the house into a furnace. The air conditioner never worked right. He's up in his room reading a book when the smell of his mother's cooking entices him. He bounds down stairs and finds that in the heat, she's decided to strip down to a tank top and itty bitty boy shorts.

Something gathers inside him, but he shrugs it off as he steps forward. His hand presses against her lower back and he leans down to kiss her cheek. Her skin is hot to the touch, the steam building up from the pot creating perspiration on her brow.

"What're you making?"

The baseball game drones on in the background, joined occasionally by his father cursing at the screen. It's a common sound on a day like this. When all is quiet and still, Norman can almost convince himself that they'll be okay.

His mother pushes four fingertips into his cheek and forces his head to the side.

"None of your business." She replies playfully.

He steps back, but his eyes trail over the line of her neck. He follows a single bead of sweat down to her collarbone.

Pleasure shoots through him, but he mistakes it for discomfort. He wasn't comfortable around her when she was like this. In the least amount of clothes as possible, sexualized and decidedly losing the appearance of a mother. His view toward her changed in moments like these now that he was older and could understand the deeper parts of human connection.

And, in this moment, watching the sweat cling to her porcelain skin, he knows he's doomed.

Two weeks later, his father dies and their world spins off its axis. At least, that's what Norman tells himself. He pretends that he and his mother are worse off without him, but that isn't the truth. The truth is, in the aftermath of Sam's accident, things get better. There's more peace than Norman's ever known and in it, he finds his mother shedding her skin and opening up. She's like a butterfly that's busted from a cocoon, her wings still wet, her colors vibrant.

He's blown away by the sight of her because she's never been so bright. There's a light inside her that's pushing its way into him. She smiles when she talks about the life she wants for them, away from Arizona. The smiles she reserves only for him, the ones that are big and toothy, full of devotion. She says they'll be happy and he believes her.

He keeps latching onto to those smiles, replaying them in his sleep. That's how it starts; with his imagination running rampant. He pictures a house on the ocean close enough to hear the waves lapping at the shore. He imagines her standing there, silhouetted by sunlight. Her warmth wraps itself around him.

They would be okay.

They move from Arizona to Southern California. It's still hot as hell and the rent is unreasonable, but Norma insists it's temporary.

"I just needed to get out of that house, Norman." She says and he believes her.

He has to admit that the nights are better than the days. At night, they watch old movies on the couch and she snuggles into his arms. She rests her head against his chest, listening to the steady heartbeat. Then, she lifts her head so she can kiss his throat.

"You make me feel so safe." She whispers into his skin. A pleasant shiver quakes across his spine.

He understands her well enough to know that that's all she wants. Safety, security, the promise of love and devotion. All the things Dylan and Sam stole from her; all the things Norman longed to give her.

His arms tighten around her. He's here and he's not going anywhere. She's all he cares about in the entire world; nothing would ever matter like she did.

"I love you, Norman."

That's when he takes his eyes from the movie and gives her his full attention. Her eyes sparkle in the dim light and the places where she's touching him tingle.

He drops his forehead to hers, flashing his teeth in a loving smile.

"I love you, too."

They don't stay in Southern California long. They end up in an even shittier apartment in Nevada, a place where the air is too dry for Norman's comfort. He can tell without having to be told that Norma hates it here more than he does. Soon enough, there are brochures strewn around the house, all in vivid blue depicting areas that are "friendly and secure." She's always on her laptop, so they stop watching movies together at night. Norman sits alone in his room, staring at the ceiling until blissful sleep comes to take him away.

She's there, of course. She's always there, all bright smiles and shining eyes.

She's beautiful when there isn't a care in the world. That doesn't happen enough, but it happens here, in the confine of Norman's dreams.

She's here and he's here with her and there isn't anyone else for miles. Just them and the lapping waves. Her arms around his waist, her skin warm, her voice impossibly soft.

He holds her close while her mouth dances along the skin at his neck. It sends a jolt through him in a way it never has before and he snaps awake in the darkness of his bedroom, aroused and drenched in sweat.

What the hell?

He takes a cold shower that does nothing to lessen his shame. It's a strange feeling that gnaws at his bones. Was he attracted to his own mother? It was ludicrous; it was insane; it was impossible. Feeling something like this for her was perverted at best and horrifically wrong at worst. Yet, somehow, the more he dwelled on it, the worse it got.

The idea of her spread open beneath him, begging him…

He breathes deep and feels the ice cold water latch onto his spine and spread through his body.

It cools his burning thoughts, but just barely.

He goes downstairs that morning with his mind in shambles. Confusion mars his every movement, but that all screeches to a halt when he finds his mother sifting through brochures at the kitchen table.

"Morning, honey." She greets him cheerfully as if she isn't plotting the next upheaval.

"What are you doing?" It's been a constant struggle to keeps his opinions about her impulsiveness to himself, but he manages in spite of the frustration welling up inside.

"I found this quaint little town in Oregon. White Pine Bay." She shoots him that world stopping smile and his frustration deflates. "The best part is, there's this house that's been foreclosed on. Norman, it's beautiful." There's a whimsical quality to her voice that he's never heard before. It fills him up and makes him ache.

"Plus, it's attached to a motel, so we can make our own money."

"That's great, mom." His tone stays neutral.

She rises from the chair and takes his hands in hers. The warmth radiating off her skin makes him dizzy.

No words are spoken for a short time. Norma stares at him, taking him in, observing him. Her youngest son, her consummate protector, her one constant. There's no one in the world she loves more; no one she'd rather have standing beside her.

She needed him to understand that.

"I want us to have something that's ours. Something that holds our identity. Something nobody else could take from us."

His heart swells full to bursting. Even so, he knows what she's really getting at. She's desperate to remove nearly every trace of Sam Bates from their lives. Sometimes, he can't blame her. Other times, he hates her for it.

"Okay, mother. I understand."

For a split second, her gaze flits to his lips. He thinks maybe he imagined it, but she pulls her hands from his like he's burned her and he knows he didn't.

She laughs to alleviate the strange tension. "It's you and me, right?"

She grabs him around the waist so he's forced to keep looking at her.

"Of course." He replies as he puts his arms around her shoulders. It's a long, comfortable embrace and Norman never wants to let go.

They run. They run like they always do and Norman resigns himself to keeping his mouth shut about it.

There's some old Tom Petty song playing on the radio and Norman listens while Norma hums along. He closes his eyes and the lyrics follow him into sleep.

He jolts back to the land of the living when the engine cuts off. A neon sign ('The Pink Motel') slices through his still sleep riddled mind.

"How long was I out?"

"A couple hours. We're stopping for the night. Come on."

A gust of cooler air hits Norman when he exits the car. It soothes him. The nights were always better than the days.

The room itself is dank, but Norma doesn't seem to mind. She just goes on about how their motel will be better and Norman can't help but laugh at her enthusiasm.

She trots into the bathroom, popping buttons on her shirt along the way. With no door between them, Norman watches. If she notices, she doesn't say anything, so he keeps watching until her bra and panties both drop to the bathroom floor. She doesn't afford him the front view, but the back view is enough to send him into a quiet frenzy.

Only when she disappears behind the shower curtain does he turn away, collapsing on the nearest bed and shutting his eyes.

He focuses on the sound of the shower and pictures her beneath the spray, splurging every detail all the way down to the water rivulets dotting her skin. There's a stir below his waist. The fantasy breaks immediately when he realizes what's happened.

Shit.

"Not now." He mutters beneath his breath.

The shower shuts off and Norman springs to attention, rolling on his side so he's facing away from her. A confrontation about his affliction could get very awkward very fast.

She emerges from the bathroom while whistling that song from the car.

He tries his damnedest not to turn around, but he's never been one for discretion. He glances over his shoulder and is inherently grateful that she's in a long sleeve shirt and pajama pants. It fans the flames and helps him find comfort again.

That is, until she hops on his bed.

"Let's watch a movie." She says. The channels flip by under her touch on the remote control and Norman's forced to sit up so he can avoid her questions.

He's still hard, but he hopes that the thick motel blanket obscures it from view. When his mother glances over at him, his heart picks up into overdrive. Her eyes look below his waist for the most infinitesimal second, but his paranoia tells him that she can see it.

He shifts a little further away from her to hide his embarrassment.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

She grabs him by the arm and pulls back over to her, cuddling against his side the way she always does.

Norman tries to control the blaze burning through him, but he fails.

If she picks up on his problem, she doesn't let him know.

He wakes up on his belly the next morning. She must have left him sometime in the night because he could remember having her in his arms as he'd fallen asleep. His eyes open wider, looking around for her. She isn't here. He moves to stand up and the door swings open to reveal her holding a bag of bagels and two cups of orange juice.

"Let's eat." She says, cheerful as always, though there's something different this time. She seems distracted, somehow.

"What's wrong, Mother?" His voice is still hoarse from sleep.

Norma grins at him. "Nothing. We have to get on the road. Eat up."

His father's been dead for six months. The time without him has been strange for Norman. Death was such an odd thing. One second the person you love is there and the next second they're gone, never to be seen again. It's chilling for Norman, who still hasn't expunged the image of his father's corpse in the garage, a puddle of blood under his head and white paint spilled all over.

His mother didn't seem quite so fazed, but he knows that's how she deals with things. She turns all her negative energy into impulsive action. It's hard to tell if she even misses Sam despite the fact that Norman wouldn't blame her if she didn't. He'd been an impossible, sometimes heartless man who'd feasted on her weaknesses and exploited them. He'd never been kind to her.

Norman looks over at his mother from the passenger seat. She still seems distracted, her jaw clenched, her fingers tapping on the wheel. That was her signature nervous gesture.

But, what did she have to be nervous about? This whole thing was her idea, after all.

He keeps his eyes on the scenery. Driving down a mountainside with an ocean view, listening to the waves lap at the shore. It calms him, makes him feel a little less tense and out of control.

This place is actually very beautiful, but he won't give her the satisfaction by telling her that.

One hand leaves the steering wheel and grabs at his thigh. "Close your eyes."

Her warm hands tug at his and pull him from the car. They cup his face and he feels her fire gather inside him and burn him up. She walks away from him, but her warmth stays with him, tingling along his skin.

He hears her let out a shaky breath. "Open your eyes."

She's situated on the car hood; her legs bent at the knee and off to the side. Her skirt's riding up slightly and it's all he can see. Just her, wearing his favorite smile, posing like a goddess.

"What do you think?"

It's then he notices the motel behind her. It's rundown, it's beat up, it's decades old. A big blue sign boasts "The Seafairer" and beyond it, there's the house. It's gigantic, sitting on a hill, nearly as old and rundown as the motel. Norman doesn't know what to make of it, aside from knowing that its most definitely his mother's style.

He lets out a laugh. "This is crazy, mom."

She doesn't hear his protests, most likely doesn't really care. This is her dream; he's just along for the ride. She shows him the entire house, holding tight on his hand and tugging him around like he's a dog on a leash. He doesn't do anything aside from watch her for most of it, though he does get in a sarcastic comment once or twice. When he does, she rolls her eyes and he's reminded how futile it is.

She orders him to get the luggage from the car and he does it because he's done with the stupid tour.

He strides with purpose to the car, yanking open the door so he can reach her largest suitcase, the one that's strapped to the roof. It comes down with little effort and he begins the trek back up the outdoor stairs that cover the hill the house sits upon. His eyes shoot up for the slightest second and he catches her in the window. The curtains are sheer, basically useless in a moment like this, where she's parading by in nothing but her bra and panties.

Norman swallows hard. It's difficult to breathe, let alone move from this spot. She has to know what she's doing. She sent him out here, after all.

He starts to move again, this time with far more purpose than before.

The door creaks open and she's there, sitting at her vanity table, with her sky blue robe billowing out like water all around her. He stands in the doorway, perplexed, wondering just what on Earth he had intended to do.

Norma answers his silent question when she rises from her bench, all elegance and no sin. It's strange to him that she can seem so calm with the knowledge that he'd been watching her. That he was always watching her.

Her cerulean eyes are dark and brooding and he's transfixed. She comes closer because he's finding it impossible to speak or think or force his limbs in any kind of direction. Her arms drape themselves over his shoulders, her fingers busying themselves with the hair at the back of his neck.

He should stop this, shouldn't he? It was weird and quite frankly, a bit awkward. What the hell was she trying to do? His hands find her waist, but instead of pushing her back, they pull her closer.

Shit.

"Mother, what are you doing?"

Her bed is close. It wouldn't take much to lead her to it. He shakes his head, feeling himself become more unhinged as the tension filled seconds passed.

"I don't know." She replies. She sounds broken, perhaps a little scared.

He doesn't know what to do. He knows what he should do, but that option wouldn't get him what he wanted. So, he takes the other option, the one that's trembling in his arms and watching him with begging eyes. He leans down toward her, feels her fingers tighten in his hair as he does, and kisses her. It's soft and it's sweet and it calms her to the point where her hands get bold and move to the buttons on his shirt.

He tugs himself back. "Mother…"

"It's okay. It's okay." Her hands go back to work and he watches in silence. It seems that she's come to some kind of conclusion about him. Apparently, she'd been watching him all those times he'd been watching her.

His shirt falls open under her touch and she shoves it from his shoulders. It gets snagged on his wristwatch, forcing him to awkwardly fiddle for a moment or two before it's off completely. She runs her hands along his waist and pulls him back down toward her mouth.

It's ridiculous how fast he forgets what they are to each other.

The haze of bliss still hangs over him when he comes to in the middle of the night. She's nestled against him the way she often is, but everything's different now. He stands in a place completely separate from the place he'd stood in for most of his life. In the aftermath of this night, he'll be hers and she'll be his and there wouldn't ever be anyone who could jeopardize that.

He turns his head so he can look at her. She's peaceful in her sleep, untainted, visibly content. He was the only person who could ever make her feel like that, that's what she always told him. In this moment, he believes her in a way he never has.

She belonged to him and he wouldn't ever let her forget it.