Chapter Text
“They'll be here soon; I'd like for you both to be well on your way by then.” Doc's eyes went from his pocket watch to the window. “Perhaps I should go hurry him along.”
“Don’t do that, Emmett, he’ll think you’re trying to get rid of him.”
“Which is precisely what I’m doing.” He cleared his throat. “For just a couple of hours, of course.”
“Of course.” Clara smiled at him—a soft, sympathetic one that barely creased the corners of her eyes. “I'll keep him occupied.”
He could only nod, continuing to busy himself with an attempt to tidy up the otherwise unkempt living space. With so many other pressing matters to focus his attention on, housekeeping was among the least of his priorities, though it had never ranked very high even under normal life circumstances. Still, he wanted his guests to have some place to sit, which meant gathering the abundance of papers, books, and other clutter that had taken residence on most of the available surfaces.
Carrying a precarious stack to the table, Doc set it down and began to quickly rifle through it, plucking a few pages to set aside. “I can’t misplace these,” he said, smoothing out a wrinkled edge, “they’re the most recent diagrams and notes I’ve been working on. I made some progress last night.”
“Emmett—”
“It’s small progress in the grand scheme of the project, but it’s progress nonetheless. Now, assuming these calculations are correct, which they should be considering I’ve quadruple checked them, it could conceivably—”
“Emmett.” Clara set her hand over his own, bringing an abrupt halt to his words. She waited patiently for his eyes to meet hers. “How much sleep are you getting?”
“Oh, plenty, plenty,” Doc replied, slipping his hand out from under her grip. He sifted through the pile, searching for anything else of high importance. Some of this might actually prove useful in his upcoming conversation, while other documents could be neatly stored in either the filing cabinet or the trunk by his workstation.
Still feeling Clara’s gaze on him, he was none too surprised when she spoke again.
“I'm worried about you. And don’t you think for a second that I believe you’re getting plenty of sleep. I’d be surprised to hear you were managing five hours a night, what with how hard you’ve been working yourself.”
Well, there was no fooling her, was there?
He sank down on a nearby stool, fingers rubbing at the ache that was forming between his eyebrows. “What other choice do I have, Clara? There’s only one person who can make the plans for and build a new time machine, and that’s me. As it is, I’m still not putting all the work in that I’d like to, but I can’t exactly afford to give up my blacksmithing job. That leaves me with very limited hours to devote to the time machine project.”
“And are those hours productive when you’re so fatigued?”
“They’re productive enough,” he said, trying to keep any edge from his voice. “Without the late nights, I wouldn’t be half of where I am currently.” Doc picked up a sketch he’d done the previous night, looking it over to reassure himself that he was, in fact, moving things along. “I need to get that boy home, Clara.”
The paper was gently taken from his hands. “You’re doing everything you possibly can,” Clara said softly. “But it’ll all be for nothing if something happens to you, Emmett. You need to take care of yourself—for Marty and for me.”
For Marty. And for her.
Doc released a shaky breath, welcoming the reassurance as Clara placed a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t know how he would be faring if it weren’t for her steady presence. She’d been a rock through much of the uncertainty in the weeks since the failed journey back home, and for that, he was endlessly grateful.
Someday, he was going to marry her, but not now. Not when his responsibility was first and foremost to ensure his young friend had some stability amidst a life that had turned upside down.
“I will. I’ll take care of myself,” he assured her.
“Now, I mean it, Emmett.”
“I know you do.” At the serious expression she kept pinned on him, he ducked his head in a nod. “I won’t work tonight. You have my word.”
The creak of the door opening put a quick end to their conversation as Marty poked his head in from outside. His eyes flicked between them for a moment, as if wondering what he’d interrupted. “Ma’am—ah, Clara? I’m ready if you are.”
Clara gave him a cordial nod. “Yes, I’ll be right out, Marty,” she said, waiting until he retreated again before turning to Doc. “You’re sure you want to tell them?”
It was a question he’d asked himself countless times in the previous days, and the inner debates kept coming to the same answer. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“It’s quite a risk, isn’t it?”
He shrugged. “Marty and I aren’t supposed to be in this time at all; nearly everything we do here carries potential risk. Besides, Seamus is perceptive. I can tell he’s begun to get suspicious of something being off, though I doubt he even knows just what it is he’s suspicious of. At any rate, he did take me aside last week to express his concern for Marty. He can see it, Clara. Maggie can, too.”
Clara reached for her bag and then peered out the dust-streaked window at Marty, who stood waiting at the buckboard, a hand gently stroking one of the horses’ necks.
“It’ll be good to bring two more people into our circle,” Doc added. “And I trust them.” He nodded toward the door. “Go. Keep him busy for a few hours.”
“I will.” Clara delivered a kiss to his cheek. “I hope all goes smoothly here.”
After waving her and Marty off, Doc lingered in the doorway a moment, searching for sight of the McFlys’ wagon. There was no rush, seeing as Marty and Clara wouldn’t be back for several hours. It was a clever plan Doc had devised with her, and one which made certain that Marty wouldn’t be around for any of the discussion taking place. He’d tell him, of course, but there was no knowing which way the visit would go. Clara certainly hadn’t been receptive to the time travel explanation. It was a delicate, complicated situation; best not to involve Marty in any potential stress or strife.
Instead, Marty would be spending the afternoon with Clara, accompanying her to buy some supplies and then assisting her with light repair work around her house. It’d be good for Marty to work with his hands and focus on something other than his own ruminations over their current predicament.
Across the room, the calendar tacked to the wall caught Doc’s attention, and he stopped to take in all the crossed out days. They were nearly two weeks into October now. Over a month had rolled by since that fateful day he and Marty were supposed to go home.
In the initial days after the incident with the train and time machine, Marty had done his best to put up a brave front. He’d carried himself with a resilience and optimism that Doc had identified right away as nothing more than shock, though it worked to fool most everyone around them. But the act hadn’t been sustainable in the long run, and the cracks swiftly began to show.
Doc found himself struggling at times to recognize the boy. Marty was sullen these days, far too serious and in his head for Doc’s liking, and seemed to hold within him a quiet sort of anger that he clearly worked to keep a tight lid on. It was unlikely Marty would let it fully emerge, but the cues were there often enough to take notice of—a tightening of the jaw, a gaze that held a heightened intensity, and even a perceptible shift in his breathing rate. Small details but ones that added up and led Doc to make adjustments to their interactions as needed.
It wasn’t something Marty could be blamed for, of course. He was frustrated, scared, and homesick. He was tired of being Clint and playing town hero, and Doc could see the weight of the role wearing on him.
Still, Marty tried his best. He tipped his hat and smiled when people called to him, shook countless hands, and stooped down to talk with gaggles of excited children. He was everything they wanted him to be and, by all outward appearances, pleased by the attention.
The immediate shift in his demeanor once the encounters were over told Doc otherwise.
Doc returned to his fruitless cleaning for a few more minutes, managing to locate a few additional papers that might prove useful this afternoon. He brought them to what he’d designated in his head as the “staging area”—a section of the room in which he’d gathered up sketches, documents, models, and a large chalkboard for use during the upcoming conversation. Clara hadn’t originally taken him at his word, and he didn’t assume Seamus or Maggie would either. If they wanted evidence, he’d have plenty of it.
Of course, it could also just make him look like a raving madman, but he hoped they would lean toward open-minded.
A fluttering, anxious feeling settled in his stomach, and Doc took a moment to stop and orient himself for the task ahead. He wasn’t ignorant to the risk that came with giving the McFlys this knowledge—the potential effects it could have on the timeline—but as he’d told Clara, this all came with risk. He and Marty knowing and interacting with Seamus and Maggie at all was risky. Every word exchanged, every act toward them, could lead to ripples that shifted or sent things off course. There wasn’t much avoiding it, unless he and Marty removed themselves entirely from the area.
That, he knew, was out of the question. They had a solid community here, and Seamus and Maggie were a big part of that. They’d woven themselves tightly into his and Marty’s lives, offering a sense of comfort to the teenager that Doc could see plainly any time they interacted. Moreover, there was the connection to Marty that Seamus felt—a sense of love and protectiveness that he couldn’t seem to shake.
It was remarkable, really. That Seamus had a vague awareness that there was something tying him to Marty was fascinating, and it was a phenomenon Doc had yet to understand. But it was there.
To rip Marty from that, from his family, would be cruel. They were staying put, until Doc managed to produce another functioning time machine, of course. How long that would take in a time period with such limited resources, he didn’t know.
There was a knock at the door, and Doc jumped, hesitating a moment before making his way over. He forced a smile to his face and welcomed the McFlys inside.
No backing out now.
********
Doc stood before his guests, nearly holding his breath as he observed them and scrutinized their features in an attempt to gage what they were thinking. His preliminary explanation—the brief overview of his and Marty’s predicament—had concluded, and Seamus and Maggie had been staring at him silently for what felt like several minutes. In reality, he understood it had only been a few seconds. Doc waited patiently; this was a lot to process.
Seamus shifted in his seat, craning his neck to study the blackboard that was littered with drawings and a list of key points. Doc took a step aside so as not to block his view.
“Oh, this is ridiculous,” Maggie said suddenly, slicing through the suffocating quiet. “It’s some kind of trick you’re playing, is that right, Dr. Brown? Time travel!” She stood, shaking her head as she observed the board. “I thought you invited us over to discuss some kind of important matter, not to hear a fantasy story. Now, if you and Mr. Eastwood are tryin’ to hide a mysterious or unsavory past, there are better—more believable—ways of doing it. It isn’t any of our business how you two came to live here anyway.”
She made a move toward the small wicker basket in which William was sleeping, evidently intent on gathering him up and leaving, but was stopped when Seamus reached up to place a hand on her arm. Wordlessly, he guided her back down to her seat, and they locked eyes for several long seconds.
Doc was made aware of his tight grip on the piece of chalk in his hand when it suddenly snapped in half, clattering to the floor.
“Seamus, you can’t possibly believe this load of nonsense,” Maggie said in a hushed tone.
Seamus merely tipped his head thoughtfully.
At his response, Maggie’s lips formed a tight line, and she regarded her husband with a serious expression for a few moments longer before scanning the contents of the chalkboard. Her eyes lingered on the drawing of the flux capacitor.
“Now, who’s to say you're not simply mad?” she asked, though her tone was soft—the wondering of someone tentatively straddling the line between belief and denial.
“You’re certainly not the first one to call my sanity into question, Mrs. McFly,” Doc replied, unable to hold back the smile that came to his lips despite his nerves. “I do have additional proof, if you’ll allow me to show you.”
Maggie retained her stiff posture as she considered his offer. She turned her eyes to Seamus, an incredulity to her voice when she breathed, “Time travelers.”
“You did say that Mr. Eastwood was a strange young man,” Seamus pointed out.
“Aye. One of the strangest.” Maggie looked back to Doc, smoothing out her skirt and setting her folded hands in her lap before giving a slight nod of her head. “Go on and show us your proof, Dr. Brown.”
Twenty or so minutes later, Doc stood with his guests around the long table he’d cleared. On it lay the items he’d chosen to use as evidence—the hoverboard and some salvaged pieces of the DeLorean being the two most valuable. He’d shown them to Seamus and Maggie as he went through a few more parts of the story, unsure if their continued silence was the result of simply being attentive listeners or of complete disbelief.
He figured it would be difficult to still label him as a raving madman after showing them the hoverboard. That particular component was handled carefully, with Doc taking the time to explain the scientific and technical aspects of the technology as best he could, lest the McFlys react with utter terror at the existence of such a thing. A glimpse so far into the future—into a world with advancements beyond comprehension—was scary, and the last thing he wanted to do was leave them confused and frightened.
“I can hardly make sense of all this, Seamus,” Maggie whispered.
He set a hand on her shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. “We thought we were acceptin’ a simple lunch invitation, Dr. Brown,” Seamus said, a glint of humor in his otherwise shaky voice. “Or that perhaps you needed mine and Maggie’s help with a project around here—adding onto your workshop or fixin’ up the barn.”
Doc wrung his hands together, ducking his head in an apology. “It wasn’t my intention to mislead you; this isn’t exactly something one can be prepared for in advance. I do hope you can see now that this isn’t some tall tale.”
The couple hesitated, as if each was waiting for the other to take the lead. Maggie made the first move, offering Doc a curt nod. “We’ve known you to be a good man since we first met you, Dr. Brown. I’d like to believe you wouldn’t go through all this trouble to try to make fools of us.” She eyed the hoverboard. “Besides, there are things here that simply couldn’t be faked even if you wanted to.”
A breath of relief escaped Doc’s lungs, and he felt his shoulders relax from their previously tensed position. The main risk of them decrying him a lunatic and storming out had passed, it seemed.
“What I don’t understand,” she continued, “is why you’re telling us all of this. It’s certainly not like there was any chance of us naturally concluding we had a couple time travelers in our midst.”
Doc swallowed hard, taking a moment to steady himself before wading into the next precarious portion of the conversation. “Yes, but you have noticed something off.” He settled his gaze on Seamus.
“Young Mr. Eastwood,” the man supplied. “So, that’s the reason for his stormy moods lately.”
“Initially, there was a level of shock and denial, I believe. But the reality of being stuck here, perhaps permanently, has fully sunk in. He’s having a difficult time.”
“Well, I can imagine so,” came Maggie’s swift reply. “Being so far away from his home and all he knows—it’s enough to break my heart just thinkin’ about it.” She took a step around the table, standing to face Doc head-on. “Forgive my bluntness, Dr. Brown, but I suppose this is what happens when you invent a contraption that lets you run all amok through time. Seems to be something man shouldn’t be messin’ with.”
The words didn’t ruffle Doc, stern as they were. Maggie was headstrong and opinionated, but she wasn’t cruel. If she handed out a scolding or lecture, it was likely because it was deserved. Doc respected her for it.
“I hold those same beliefs now, Mrs. McFly,” he told her. “There’s been good to come out of the experience, but it’s also brought on a lot of heartache. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve wanted to destroy it. Unfortunately, there was no good time to do it. But I do often wish I’d never invented it.”
Maggie’s expression softened at the admission, and while Doc was certain she had more to say to him, she opted to hold back.
“But you’ll be wanting to work on a new machine anyway, won’t you, Dr. Brown?” Seamus asked, grazing his fingers along a mangled piece of steel from the car. “To get your friend back home.”
“Yes, that’s my primary focus these days. It’s a massive undertaking, and to be completely honest, I’m not even sure it’ll be possible, but I owe it to him to try.”
“You’ve certainly got yourself a good friend in Mr. Eastwood,” Maggie said, “what with him coming here to save you and all. Loyalty like that isn’t easy to come by.”
Guilt pricked at Doc’s thoughts at the statement, and he swallowed hard, waiting for the feeling to settle. “I’ve never known anyone else as loyal in all my life.”
“Aye, he’s a fine lad,” Seamus noted. “We should all be so blessed as to have a friend like that. Such a shame he’s hurtin’ from all this.”
Maggie nodded her fervent agreement. “The poor dear.”
The couple turned their gazes to the objects strewn across the table, meeting each other’s eyes every so often in silent communication. Maggie reached for a photograph, the one of Marty and his siblings, and gently cradled it in her palm as she studied it. Seamus moved in next to her to get a closer look as well. Doc had used it as part of his evidence—pointing out the clothing that rightly appeared unusual and foreign to Seamus and Maggie. He hadn’t lingered on the image, instead pressing on to the next item.
The couple appeared to be equal parts enthralled and saddened at the picture, and they surveyed the three figures for several quiet seconds.
“So, here, from where we are right now, Dr. Brown,” Maggie began tentatively, “this future hasn’t happened yet? Those two aren’t out there in their own time missing their brother, are they? Making themselves sick, wonderin’ where he’s gone to?”
There was a pleading in her expression, as if she feared what the answer might be. Doc nodded. “You’re correct; that future hasn’t happened yet. I mean, it has—it did—but from this point, it hasn’t. They aren’t missing him.”
Maggie frowned at the answer. “Be that as it may, he sure can be missing them, though. And what about if you can’t get a new machine up and runnin’? He’ll just be stuck here? Never to see his brother and sister or Mam and Da again? And what about when that future does happen, Dr. Brown? Will he be there one day and gone the next? Leavin’ his family to miss him the rest of their days?”
The influx of difficult questions made Doc feel like he needed to sit down, and he dragged a nearby stool over to the table and sank onto it. With his thumb and forefinger, he rubbed small circles in the space between his eyebrows.
“Why, he’s just a boy,” Maggie breathed, her voice losing its edge and falling to a whisper.
Doc expected she knew the answers to the questions she’d posed, so he let the silence hang heavily between them. Maggie sniffled, and Seamus reached for her free hand, clasping it between both of his.
“Don’t you go cryin’ now,” he said softly. “Way I see it, this is a chance for us to be there for him, Maggie. Dr. Brown must think somethin’ special of us to go trusting us with such a big secret, and we can help in what little ways we can. Clint doesn’t have to go on putting on an act for us anymore.”
Right. And if they would be doing away with the act, they had to do away with all of it, didn’t they?
“There is, um, something else I must be honest with you about,” Doc said, trying and failing to keep the wavering out of his voice. He cleared his throat as their eyes settled on him, their expressions curious yet guarded.
He’d already saddled them with so much this afternoon.
“His name isn’t Clint.”
Doc thought he could see a flash of relief across both of their faces at what they perceived to be simply a minor detail. An amused smile quirked the corner of Seamus’s mouth.
“And what might his real name be then?”
“Martin,” Doc supplied, watching as the smile faded. “Martin Seamus McFly.”
Maggie’s gasp sounded loud in the quiet space.
Briefly, Doc feared that Seamus’s intense stare was due to trying to determine if he was being tricked. Doc prepared to retrieve Marty’s driver’s license, one piece of “future evidence” he hadn’t included, but before he could make a move, Seamus’s expression shifted. A shuddered breath left him, and his hands gripped the edge of the table—Doc quickly stepping forward for fear the man might collapse.
But Seamus steadied himself, repeating the name in a whisper. “Martin Seamus McFly.” He turned to face his wife, his mouth moving wordlessly until he managed to find his voice. “He’s ours, Maggie.”
Setting a hand on the side of Seamus’s face, Maggie closed her eyes for several seconds. There was no doubt on her part from what Doc could tell, and for that, he was grateful.
The final hurdle of the conversation, and they were finally over it. No more secrets.
“I knew it, didn’t I?” Seamus asked softly, directing the question to no one in particular. “I knew there was a connection. I felt it.”
“You did, didn’t you?” Maggie said shakily. She picked up the photograph once more, examining it as if seeing it for the first time, sweeping across each face before locking on Marty’s. She swallowed hard. “And to think, he just tumbled straight onto our property. That strange young man—a McFly.”
“Did he know?” Seamus asked suddenly, his sparkling blue eyes finding Doc’s. “Was he tryin’ to find our farm?”
Doc shook his head. “He was running blindly, trying to escape a bear. Him ending up at your farm was coincidence, I suppose.”
“I’m not one for believing coincidences, Dr. Brown,” Seamus replied, taking the photo from his wife. The name rolled off his tongue once more—deliberate and hushed as he spoke it to himself. “Martin Seamus.” He swiped at an eye, succeeding in stopping only the first of several tears that rolled down his cheeks.
“Now, don’t you go cryin’,” Maggie said with a huff. “You’ll get me started too.”
Hurriedly, Doc patted his pockets in search of a handkerchief. He rounded the table and offered it to Maggie, who dabbed at her eyes before going into Seamus’s arms. With great effort, Seamus worked to regain his composure, talking softly to Maggie until she could do the same. Eventually, her tears gave way to sudden laughter.
“Oh, Seamus, we hadn’t a clue what was in store for us when we woke up this morning.”
With a chuckle, he released her from his embrace. “It’s certainly not what I imagined.”
“I understand it was quite a lot to take in,” Doc said, moving over to the couple. “But I hope you know that it's not my intention to burden you with such information. It’s—”
“A burden!” Seamus said with a smile, his eyes shining still with unshed tears. “We've just discovered that boy is family, Dr. Brown. That’s no burden; that’s a blessing.”
Maggie nodded in firm agreement, drawing a warm smile from Doc. Despite his nerves going into the conversation, he’d known Seamus and Maggie’s reactions would ultimately be ones of joy. They’d loved Marty from early on. It was just that now they knew why.
“Can’t promise we’ll be of that much help,” Maggie began, “but we certainly will try, Dr. Brown. We can’t fix things for Martin—can’t help send him home any sooner—but we’ve got a home here for him. He’ll know he’s got family around him.”
“That’s going to be an immense help,” Doc said, feeling one of the many knots in his chest loosen up. Suddenly, it was a bit easier to breathe. “Truly, it is.”
Seamus reached out and set a hand on Doc’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “And we’ll be here for you, too, Dr. Brown. Surely all this must’ve been weighing on you.”
They had no idea.
Doc sniffed and tipped his head back in an attempt to stave off the burning that had suddenly come to his eyes.
“Dr. Brown.” The gently spoken name pulled his attention to Maggie, who gave him a small smile and nod before she added, “You’re doing right by him.”
Doc blinked. Swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Thank you.” He went to the table, beginning to gather up the pieces of evidence one by one and return them to the trunk they’d been stored in. Wordlessly, Seamus and Maggie joined, holding and transporting the various parts with utmost care—much like how they handled everything in life.
They’d navigate this all together, he was sure. One piece at a time.