Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Later, when all is said and done, when he’s had some time to relax and recoup and breathe, Marty takes stock.

Explaining all of this to anyone is almost certainly out of the question. Jennifer, maybe—at least he has her, has someone to talk to about…well, everything. He can’t imagine how he’d manage if he didn’t. Therapy is kind of off the cards, if he ever truly wanted to consider it, so that leaves talking to the only other person who has any sort of understanding of time travel.

Or, well, people.

There are two people who would understand, one more than anyone else in the entire space-time continuum.

He has a feeling that he’ll see Doc again, even if he isn’t sure when. Even if there’s a part of him still angry at that last goodbye, a part of him that wants to know if a handshake and a photo and a few good words are all that their years of friendship amounted to. The anger cools after a while, tempers itself, ebbs away—after all, he’d gone in for the handshake first, he can’t deny that. He’s not sure he has it in him to blame Doc, and he doesn’t really want to, anyhow. He just wants to see him again.

Of course, there isn’t much he can do but wait.

Enough waiting begets some thinking, and it doesn’t take long for a few things to occur to Marty. Really, Doc’s always been there for him, there to listen and give advice and sometimes simply be a safe space for when Marty has needed it. He figures he’s missing that too, missing his friend, missing everything a visit to Doc’s—or just a visit to Doc—would entail. Recognizing it sure doesn’t make it hurt any less, but at least he can figure out a bit of what he’s feeling.

After a while, though, he also starts to realize just how much he’s done together with Doc.

Yeah, sure, there’s a lot he doesn’t know about Doc’s life, but there’s a lot that he alone has been privy to. He doesn’t know what all Doc has told Clara, although he assumes it’s quite a lot—seems like a necessity of marriage, or at least a likelihood—, but it doesn’t mean she was there for those things. Not for the first test of the DeLorean, or for the questionable fashion choices of the future, or for the day Doc fell from his toilet and first came up with the flux capacitor.

Marty marks as many dates on his calendar as he can manage, leaving notes here and there when he wants to be doubly sure that he won’t forget something. November fifth doesn’t need a note, though—he circles that day in red ink, knowing that those memories will never fade.

It hits him, then, as he stares at the calendar, that for everyone else November fifth is just another day. The world doesn’t know about Doc’s inventions, or the brilliance of the flux capacitor, or the wild genius of the man Marty calls his best friend. Even if Clara knows, that still only makes three of them. Doc’s never going to win a prize for the work he’s done. He won’t get an honor for his achievements or his passions, or be known and celebrated in the scientific community.

Marty doesn’t know much about the scientific community, in all fairness, but something about that doesn’t sit right with him.

He’s right to figure that Doc will be back soon; it isn’t long before the scientist returns, family in tow, moving back to the Hill Valley of the present. If present even means anything anymore, that is. Marty still isn’t used to thinking fourth-dimensionally, as Doc would say, but he feels like he’s at least getting better at it.

It’s easy, everything coming back together as it should, much easier than he thought it would be. Sure, they have a much-needed conversation, and it’s a little rougher at first than Marty would want, but Doc is back and everything feels right again. He hangs out at Doc’s place, he helps Doc out—with moving, with experiments, with everything he’s always helped with—, and the world is set to rights.

Fall rolls in like it does each year, the heat of summer calming to balmy days and cool nights. Marty falls back into the un-routine of his life, still getting into too much trouble here and there, still practicing with the Pinheads, his mind more on the future than ever.

On the fifth day of November, Marty knocks on Doc’s door.

”Marty?”

Doc beams, opening the door wider. “You’re early!”

“Yeah, well, I…figured I had something important to do, Doc,” Marty says quietly, pulling a grocery bag out from behind his back. “It’s, uhm, it’s not much, but…well, I figured we could have some cake, and…that’s not a bad celebration, huh?”

They both stand there for a moment, Doc in the doorway, gaze flickering from the bag Marty’s holding back up to Marty’s face. Marty feels his arm start to get a little heavy, and he worries about dropping the bag, but he’s too busy watching Doc watch him.

When Doc speaks again, his brow is furrowed and his voice is softer, a touch of emotion in his throat. Marty can make out the slightest hint of tears in the scientist’s eyes, and for a moment worry bubbles up in his gut.

“Marty, what is this for?”

Marty nearly laughs. He shifts his weight to his other foot, rustling the bag a bit, a smile crossing his face.

“C’mon, Doc, it’s November fifth! I figure even if the world doesn’t know it should celebrate you, we have to!”

Doc stares at Marty for a moment more before something seems to connect in his mind, and that brilliant smile reappears on his face. Before Marty can react, he’s pulled into a hug that almost knocks the air out of his lungs. Doc is earnestly thanking him, but Marty doesn’t really hear it; he’s too busy hugging Doc back, glad that he didn’t have to explain. If he’d had to try, he thinks he probably would have ruined the moment.

Not that that matters, though. As Doc leads him inside, still excitedly yammering on, Marty finds himself thinking once again—about the past, the future, the present that they’re in. How glad he is to have a friend like Doc, someone who has always gone out of his way to cheer Marty up or make him feel important. And for every time that Doc has done something for him, Marty can’t help but feel a bit of pride for bringing Doc that same joy.

Doc fetches them each a soda, and Marty takes the opportunity to toast Doc’s work. Doc, in turn, raises his bottle to their friendship, and Marty can’t stop himself from grinning.

“I think we should do this every year, Doc,” he says later, around a mouthful of cake.

Doc, who still hasn’t stopped smiling, looks utterly delighted.

Chapter Text

“What’s it gonna be tonight, Doc?”

Marty shut the garage side door behind him before carefully leaning his skateboard against the wall, taking care to make sure it didn’t fall. He pulled off his sunglasses and began to pick his way through the space, towards the area of the garage that Doc used as living quarters.

The sun had begun to set outside, the last remnants of day fading away. Doc had given Marty a call earlier, inviting him over for a movie night—something they did quite routinely. Something had been different about this invitation, though; Marty could still hear the sheer excitement that had flooded Doc’s voice, audible even through the phone.

Speaking of Doc…

Where is he?

“Hope it’s a good one,” he added, peering around. “Doc? I know I’m not early, but—”

“Marty!”

Doc’s head popped up over by the television, almost startling Marty. Almost. Definitely almost.

“Jeez, Doc, I didn’t see you there,” Marty muttered, before shaking his head. “Guess this is a special one?”

“Special?”

Doc straightened up, stretching a bit before hurrying over towards Marty. He practically ushered Marty over to the couch, excitement clearly thrumming through him to the point that his hands were trembling ever-so-slightly.

“Special doesn’t even begin to describe it, Marty! When I first read the works of Jules Verne as a boy, I doubt even I could have imagined such a film adaptation. I mean—a hot air balloon! One can only imagine the lengths to which the production team went for all of those costumes and—oh, it’s wonderful, Marty!”

Marty blinked, trying to digest Doc’s words. He sat down on the couch, leaning back against the cushions and looking up at Doc. The scientist in question was pacing back and forth as he spoke, gesturing with such exuberance and intensity that Marty worried he might knock something over.

“So it’s, uh, a good one, then? I mean, like…it’s super accurate or something?”

“In terms of faithfulness? Oh, I’m sure much better could be done, Marty, it’s more of an…extravagant spectacle than a direct adaptation,” Doc shook his head, hair flopping to and fro. “But a spectacle worth watching! Of course, we’ve watched a few classics together, but I think this will be quite a treat!”

He settled himself onto the couch next to Marty, on the edge of the cushion, practically bouncing where he sat. “You know, there’s a very famous recording of the theme done by Mantovani and his orchestra. There are others, of course—a plethora of artists have chosen to record it—but that particular one is…”

Doc gestured with one hand rather vaguely, closing his eyes for several moments. After a second or two, Marty nodded slowly, only somewhat confident that he was keeping up.

“Manto—who, Doc?”

“Mantovani, Marty. I’ve put on a record of his from time to time, I’m sure you’d recognize it!”

Marty nodded again, brow slightly furrowed. He glanced back at the television, then at Doc again, trying to make sure he’d made sense of everything his friend had said. The scientist was smiling at Marty expectantly, drumming his fingers on his knees, clearly itching to put the movie on. It wasn’t the first time they’d watched a movie together, but something was telling Marty that this film wasn’t going to be another Frankenstein.

“Right. Yeah. And…and what film is it, Doc?” he asked after a moment, biting the bullet. “You, uh, never did say…”

“Oh!”

Doc clapped a hand to his head, a rather sheepish expression on his face. “Forgive me, Marty. It must have slipped my mind!”

He swept one arm towards the waiting television, a grand introductory gesture, and grinned. “This, Marty, is Around the World in 80 Days.”

Chapter Text

Steady…

As soon as the last drop of solder had settled onto the wires, Emmett set the soldering iron back onto its stand and pushed his goggles up into his hair. He peered at the connection, examining the wires and the board before nodding in satisfaction. The solder fillet was perfectly formed, smoothly concave and shiny, matching the others on the circuit board.

Picking up a screwdriver, he turned to the counter on his right. Atop said counter was some sort of contraption in the process of being constructed, a mix of metal panels and gears strewn every which way. Some of the panels were fashioned together in a rough box-like shape, the top only gently held down. It was this top that Emmett unscrewed, carefully lifting it up with one hand and pocketing the screwdriver with his other. He carefully tucked the wiring and component inside of the box, setting the circuit board into a waiting bracket and pulling out the screwdriver once again in order to fasten it down.

It was finally coming together, this project. The idea had come to him one restless night, as he lay in bed listening to rain drumming on the roof. Why not create a machine that could adjust the weather? And what a boon it would be! For farming, for disaster management—even for the creation of snow days, for children to play outside!

He’d immediately grabbed a notebook and jotted some things down, noting the device’s title as the Environmental Adjuster, and it only took a day or two before he’d come up with complete blueprints for this new creation. There was something about a new idea, the rush of a new invention, that always seemed to fill him with an extra energy to get the work done. It was exhilarating, truly, and he had to admit that he missed it when between projects.

Granted, he never went very long between such projects—and some he even worked on simultaneously—, but still.

At the very least, he was beginning to make some real headway with this project. Dropping the screwdriver into his pocket once again, he reached across his workstation and flipped a few switches on his recorder, allowing the machine to warm up for a few seconds before rattling off the date and time and launching into a long-winded explanation of the mechanics of the Environmental Adjuster. He only paused briefly when he knocked the yet-unattached parabolic antenna to the ground, the clattering disrupting his words—but not his train of thought.

“Now, with all this in mind, it is imperative—mmph—that this instrument remains precisely tuned. Any deviation, any disruption, even the slightest adjustment, could result in unqualified disaster!”

Having stooped to pick up the antenna, he hurried several steps over to his tools and picked up a ratchet before practically flying back over to the counter. “Note the wrench sizing for attaching the antenna. Initial tests will angle the antenna slightly, beginning from horizontal with the concave portion of the antenna facing upwards, with the rightmost rim raised approximately…”

Emmett gave the antenna a hard look, brow furrowed.

“...Approximately twenty-six degrees. Future tests may alter this configuration, particularly given any variance in locational setup.”

The scientist carefully attached the antenna before pocketing the ratcheting wrench, the tool making a slight clunk in his pocket as it met the screwdriver. “Initial testing will begin momentarily.”

Once the top panel had been set back atop the rest of the device, Emmett made sure the wiring in the back was correctly fastened and the gears on the side properly greased before examining the control panel. He trailed a finger along the options before carefully selecting snow.

“The Adjuster is set to produce snow, and has been calibrated to only create a slight atmospheric change,” he hummed, turning away for a moment and putting away the tools from his pocket. “This is to prevent any major dis—”

Something wet hit his shoulder, and he immediately spun around on one heel. His gaze wandered upwards, eyebrows traveling towards his hairline, to find that a large mass of clouds had begun to form along the ceiling of the garage. Raindrops were falling gently from the clouds, which were relatively petite but a rather nasty dark gray.

“Ah. That’s…”

Without fanfare, the miniature storm proceeded to deposit a comical amount of freezing cold rain on the garage floor, the workbenches, and Emmett. He stood there numbly, soaked to the bone, hair sodden and stuck to his face, blinking—as if that would somehow help provide clarity.

“...rather undesirable,” he managed, spitting out a mouthful of water.

The rain was cold enough that Emmett had already begun to shake and shiver, his teeth chattering. His clothes were plastered to his skin from the force and volume of the rain, and he could feel the wetness of his socks—clearly, there had been enough rain, and there was enough water pooled on the floor, that his shoes had been soaked through. He glanced over at the Environmental Adjuster and was at least slightly relieved to see that the machine had shut itself off.

“One small m-m-mercy,” he muttered, rubbing his hands together to try and get some warmth back into them. He cleared his throat a few times, and tried and failed to stop his teeth from chattering, before raising his voice for the sake of the recording.

“The Adjuster was slightly m-m-miscalibrated, it s-s-seems. It pr-produced a very c-c-cold rain that has accumulated on the floor, appr-pr-proximately two inches’ worth—”

“Hey, Doc!”

Emmett turned to face the door, eyes wide.

“M-Marty!”

“I was just…”

Marty, having fully entered the garage, had turned around to see the puddle of water, the slightly-steaming Environmental Adjuster, and the soaking-wet Doc Brown. He paused, staring, uncertain what to make of the scene before him.

“Uh…Doc?”

“I know, I know,” Emmett replied, waving one hand around before going back to trying to warm himself up. “Slight m-m-malfunction of a n-new project.”

Marty shook his head, something akin to disbelief written across his face. He ran a hand through his hair, looking back down at the pool of water, before meeting the scientist’s gaze again.

“Here, uh, lemme get you a towel or something, Doc. You’re gonna get sick if you keep standing there. How about—”

“WAIT!”

Emmett gestured frantically for Marty to stop, waving his arms around. “The d-device is still plugged in! And m-my soldering iron! Be c-c-careful, M-Marty, I d-don’t want you—”

He cut himself off, sneezing violently into one elbow. By this point, he felt decidedly miserable. His hair was starting to frizz back up, but everything else was incredibly damp. His lab coat was stuck to him, his shirt was stuck to him, his shoes were soggy…calling it ‘rather unpleasant’ would have been an incredible understatement.

Marty, however, moved swiftly, crossing the garage and nimbly leaping over the still-slowly-spreading water. He carefully unplugged the Environmental Adjuster, as well as Doc’s soldering iron, receiving a shaky nod from the scientist as confirmation that he was dealing with the correct plugs.

“Hey, uh, Doc? You’re still recording, d’you want me to shut that off?”

Emmett blinked, experiencing the unique sensation of having all of his thoughts move at the pace of molasses being poured from a jar. He stared at Marty for a moment before the teen’s word’s processed.

“Oh, yes, Marty, that would b-be great, th-thank you,” he nodded, before sneezing again. “I’m glad Einstein is asleep, adding a wet d-d-dog to this m-mess would be…well, certainly not ideal.”

“That’s an understatement, Doc,” Marty laughed, slipping away for a moment before returning with a few towels. “Here, c’mon, come sit down and dry off.”

He held out a towel, which Emmett gladly took and wrapped himself in. Gingerly, he sloshed through the puddle until he reached dry floor, where he promptly went about removing his shoes. Marty then steered him toward a waiting chair, a towel already on its seat; as he crossed the garage, he left behind wet footprints.

“I still n-need to clean—”

“Don’t worry about that,” Marty shook his head, making sure the scientist was safely seated before continuing. “Look, Doc, you just focus on drying off and warming up, I’ll grab a mop and take care of the water, okay?”

Emmett smiled faintly and nodded, drawing the towel tighter around himself. He watched as Marty went off to find the cleaning supplies, before sighing and beginning the slightly arduous process of drying himself off.

Some time later found him sitting again, wrapped in a blanket and sipping at something hot that Marty had set in front of him. Changing out of his wet clothes had certainly helped him warm up, and the drink was an added assistance. Marty, in the meantime, was mopping up the last of the excess water, several towels on the floor aiding in the process. Emmett took a long sip from his mug, watching Marty wring out the mop.

“Thank you, Marty,” he called out softly, raising his mug in Marty’s direction as a sign of thanks. “Your assistance is always appreciated, you know.”

Marty looked up from his mopping and grinned, giving Doc a little salute.

“Hey, any time, Doc. Any time.”

Chapter Text

He watched Marty go, watched the boy wish him a good night and hurry off to bed, and he was alone. Alone again, in his lab, left to his own thoughts.

Doc stared down at the little model car in his hands, turning it over and over as if that would unlock the secret to the conundrum they were dealing with. As if that would somehow present him with an easy solution to the problem they were dealing with.

There was a part of him that couldn’t quite comprehend the faith that Marty had in him. For the boy to show up in 1955, and seek him out without a shred of doubt…well, he couldn’t deny that he was likely Marty’s only hope, that much he was sure of. Even so, Marty’s trust had been complete and total. Since his arrival, Doc had found himself awake late at night, stuck pondering the future. He had given up on positing just exactly how Marty had come to trust him, after everything that he had done.

With a sigh, Doc stared down at the little car once again before turning and walking back towards the model. He crouched down slightly, examining the burn damage with a critical eye. Thankfully, nothing was majorly damaged—perhaps only a bit charred. If he thought it necessary to fix, there were certainly enough things around the lab for such a job, but there wasn’t much of a point in wasting the time now.

It was hard to ignore the looming presence of his past. They were ever-constant, the reminders of what he had been a part of and the work he had done, hovering in the back of his mind, lurking around every corner and in every shadow. Doc could only assume that Marty didn’t know, or surely the teen wouldn’t want to associate with someone like him.

Of course, there was the possibility that Marty did know, or at least suspected—he was keenly aware of the rumors circling Hill Valley, some of which he himself had helped feed for the sake of keeping others away, and he figured it a fair guess that such rumors would be fairly widespread by 1985. If that were the case…

He could only speculate, and he knew better than to let himself get carried away with such distractions. A rogue train of thought in this area was exactly that: rogue, and one that would likely not bring him any benefit. Him, or Marty. If he was going to get Marty back to the future, he needed to focus on removing as much doubt from the whole equation as was possible.

Doc turned and set the car down in one of the cabinets to the side of the model, giving it a gentle pat and making sure it wouldn’t roll away. He turned back to the model and pondered it for a moment longer before flipping the model back over to the chalkboard and examining the various equations and figures he had written out. Brow furrowing, he reached for a piece of chalk and began to annotate some of what he had already written.

He wasn’t used to having someone around who was so wholeheartedly supportive of his work, let alone of his person. Perhaps, when Marty had first arrived, he had been quick to dismiss it as flattery born of polite necessity, fairly used to receiving almost nothing of the like from other individuals in town, but it had quickly become clear that there was nothing but genuineness in any of Marty’s interactions with him. Mere minutes ago, Marty had set a hand on his arm and insisted that Doc was not one of those great dreamers who would fall short of achievement—had even asked if he could help in some fashion, if he could do anything to provide assistance so that Doc might be able to focus more on the matter of getting him back to 1985.

Even thinking about it brought a swell of emotion into his chest, and he had to set down the chalk for a moment. Marty saw him as someone worthy of friendship, as someone who could be trusted, as a person—a scientist—who was capable of achieving great things. Marty was proof of such achievement, his presence in 1955 living and breathing indication of Doc’s own ability to successfully defy the known bounds of science. Proof that he ought not give up on his dreams because of the past, that good things would come of the work wrought by his hands.

Marty had faith in him. And for that and that alone, he couldn’t give up. He wouldn’t give up.

Adjusting his goggles slightly, Doc squared his shoulders and got back to work.

Chapter Text

Marty raised a fist up to the door and hesitated for a moment, hand hovering, before knocking gently. He knew he could grab the key and let himself in if he wanted, but he didn’t want to do that today if he didn’t have to.

Luckily for him, he soon heard movement behind the door, accompanied by a few barks. The teen couldn’t hide his smile at that, knowing that Einstein was probably right at the heels of his owner.

“Marty?”

The door, initially cracked open to reveal one warm brown eye, swung open more fully to reveal Doc Brown standing there. He wore an expression of mild surprise, eyebrows partway to his hairline, but he didn’t seem angry. Marty found himself far more relieved than he had expected, and for a moment just stood there and gazed blankly at the scientist.

“Marty, are you all right?”

“Oh, uhm—yeah, I—sorry, Doctor Brown, I just—”

”Please, Marty, I’ve told you, call me Doc! Enter, please. I was just about to partake in a midday meal! I wasn’t expecting you to come by, is there something I can do for you?”

The scientist glanced at Marty and frowned slightly, brow furrowing. The young teen was looking towards the ground, a slightly embarrassed expression on his face. His hair was messy, his clothes uncharacteristically out of order as if he had almost frantically gotten dressed, and there seemed to be the shadow of a bruise or cut of some sort on his face. Even as Doc tried to make eye contact with him, Marty almost seemed to shy away.

“Marty?”

Doc’s voice was soft, his tone gentle, and Marty looked up at him. The kind tone alone was enough to overwhelm him with emotion, and the young teen found himself blinking back tears. The moment he put a hand up to wipe away his tears, Doc started forward worriedly, placing a hand on Marty’s shoulder; Marty had to fight to hold back a flinch, and Doc’s frown only deepened.

“There’s no need to tell me anything,” he said softly, bending down slightly to be at Marty’s level. “Not if you don’t wish to, Marty. But how about you come in? I can make us some hot cocoa, and we can watch a movie—I suppose it’s a bit warm out for hot cocoa, but—”

“No, Doc, that—that’d be great,” Marty said quickly, shaking his head. “That sounds—that sounds great, really, I’d—I’d like that.”

“Good,” Doc nodded, trying his best to mask his concern. It was rather hard to do, really, as it kept creeping into his expression, knitting his brow together and writing lines in his forehead. He straightened up slightly, ignoring the slight pain in his knees from partially crouching for so long.

“And, if you don’t mind, I’d like to tend to that,” he added, gesturing slightly in the direction of the now-clearly-forming bruise on Marty’s cheek. “I’m sure it doesn’t feel good, at any rate, and perhaps I can be of assistance in lessening th—”

Doc was cut off, the wind almost knocked out of him, as Marty rushed forward and pulled him into a hug. For a moment, he stood there in shock, staring down at Marty in disbelief; then, not hesitantly but instead with the utmost gentleness possible, he wrapped his arms around Marty.

“It’s all right, Marty,” he said quietly, giving the boy a gentle pat on the back. “Here, let’s go inside, and I’ll start on that cocoa. And, Marty…”

Guiding the young teen inside, he pulled back just enough so that he could look Marty in the eyes without breaking the hug. Einstein, snuffling around, nuzzled up against Marty’s legs, managing to elicit a small—if weak—laugh from him and a wobbly smile.

“Yeah, Doc?”

“You can come by any time you need. Understood?”

Marty nodded, his smile genuine this time.

“Yeah, Doc. Thanks. Really, I mean it.”

Doc gave Marty a gentle pat on the back, a warm smile on his own face. He gestured towards the couch in the garage, an invitation for Marty to sit. An invitation for comfort and a safe space, a little bit of peace amidst the usual chaos of the lab and whatever else he was clearly dealing with.

“Of course, Marty. Of course.”

Chapter Text

Emmett brought the mug to his lips, taking a sip of the coffee and humming in quiet thought. He was supposed to be preparing for his class, and the papers on the desk certainly would have given off that impression were anyone to enter the room, but his mind was miles away.

Around six hundred and eighty miles away, although he hadn’t quite made that calculation yet.

He knew something was up. It would be hard to ignore the quietly shrinking size of the CalTech physics department’s staff, even for the most absentminded of individuals. The number of his colleagues who had quietly put in their notices had only continued to climb, with classes consolidating in order to accommodate the changes—at least until new instructors could be found. If new instructors could be found.

Sighing, he glanced down at the lesson plans on his desk and rather unceremoniously pushed them to one side, revealing a small notebook. He set down his coffee and picked up the book, opening it up and thumbing through the pages; every few lines, a different name was written, another colleague who had moved and left a new forwarding address for any contact.

It hadn’t taken Emmett very long to note the pattern. That had been the easiest part, really, something he’d picked up on after only two or three other physicists had left. Finding any further information, however, had proved a greater challenge, with every attempt he made either coming up empty or resulting in some sort of communicative block. It had been left to his mind, then, to figure out just what was going on.

He stood up and cracked his back, heaving another sigh. Class began in only a few minutes, but his thoughts were still decidedly elsewhere. Setting the address book aside, he recollected his lesson plans and gave them a quick once-over before discarding them upon a pile of books balancing precariously on the edge of his desk.

It grated, really, that nothing had been said to him. As much as he and Millikan didn’t necessarily see eye to eye on every matter, he knew that the man wouldn’t have intentionally sabotaged him. No, that wasn’t Robert Millikan’s style, not by any means. Nevertheless, the very thought that he had been passed over left a bitter taste in his mouth, not least because of his credentials. It was evidently a highly significant matter, likely governmental and almost certainly related to the war effort, based on the individuals who had been tapped.

Perhaps…

A few students began to file in, and he greeted them with a distracted wave of a hand before turning to his chalkboards and beginning to write out some of the starting points for that day’s lesson. He was writing almost faster than he could think, scrawling formulas across the board from muscle memory alone.

“Professor?”

Emmett turned on his heel, ginger eyebrows climbing up his forehead. “Mm? Yes? What’s your inquiry?”

The student who had spoken looked a little sheepish, but he quickly smoothed over his own embarrassment and spoke again. “Just—just wanted to know what we were going to cover today. Usually we walk in and it’s at the top of the board and all…”

Emmett blinked a few times, digesting the question, then glanced around the room. Students were still filing in, sitting down in their seats and preparing for the day’s lecture. There was something about seeing the room full of students eager to learn that filled him with a unique form of happiness, something he couldn’t quite find elsewhere—joy from watching young minds grow, perhaps. It was still gnawing at him, though, this mysterious project and his own lack of involvement.

He enjoyed teaching, true, but there was so much good to be done as part of such a project…

“Mm. Of course!”

Turning back to the board, Emmett picked up the eraser and swept it across what he had written, cleaning the surface before picking up the chalk again.

“The beginning of today’s lecture will deviate a bit from our normal proceedings,” he hummed, beginning to write once more. “I’d like you all to work on this—as a class, even! However you see fit for the most productivity! I have to step out for a moment, but I’ll be right back—and eager to see what you come up with!”

I’ll be a part of this, one way or another, even if I have to pester Robert into sending me off!

Chapter Text

“Oh, Emmett…”

The touch was gentle, but Emmett still flinched a bit as his mother brushed over the bruise forming on his forehead. He had managed to hit his head quite hard this time, hard enough for the near-immediate formation of the contusion in question, and had evidently made enough of a sound in response to gain his mother’s attention.

“Please, be more careful. It could be worse next time.”

“Yes, Mother,” he replied dutifully, meeting her gaze. “I promise.”

“Perhaps you’ll learn a lesson about crawling around beneath your bed, yes?”

“…Yes, Mother.”

“Ouch!”

“Are you all right there, Emmett?”

Emmett slowly straightened up, rubbing his head, a rather sheepish expression on his face.

“Ah—Robert, I—I wasn’t expecting you,” he replied rather quickly, stepping back from the filing cabinet he’d been going through. “Is there some pressing matter at hand?”

“I only meant to discuss some course assignments with you,” Millikan replied, arching an eyebrow, “but are you sure you don’t need to sit down?”

Emmett quickly shook his head, then winced slightly. “No, no, everything is quite fine. Simply…forgot I’d left the upper drawer open.”

As if to put a period on that topic of conversation, he reached behind him and pushed the filing cabinet drawer closed. “Now, course assignments?”

“Say, Brown, you’d think they’d have hung the lights higher if they’d known you’d be here, eh?”

A smattering of laughter echoed around the room, several scientists joining in, and Emmett allowed himself a small smile. The light in question was still swinging back and forth, set in motion when he had managed to walk directly into it. Carefully, so that he wouldn’t burn his hand—as he’d nearly singed his hair—, he reached out and steadied the light.

“Perhaps fortunately, we were not hired to be masters of humor,” he remarked somewhat drily. “We have work to do, gentlemen. The light and I will share a few words later.”

Another round of raucous laughter went up, and Emmett speared them all with a rather pointed look.

“Work. This bomb isn’t going to build itself.”

“Hey, Doc, are you okay?”

The scientist looked up from the wiring he’d been inspecting, staring at Marty.

“Hm?”

“You’ve got, like, a bruise on your head,” Marty clarified, gesturing in the direction of Doc’s face. “Something happen?”

“Ah, that…”

“Ow!”

Emmett grimaced, rubbing at his head, before looking up at the DeLorean door and carefully extricating himself from the vehicle.

“I’ll have to be wary of that, or Marty will start to ask questions…”

“No, nothing serious, Marty, just, er, bumped into something,” he said after a moment, blinking a few times before meeting Marty’s gaze again. “I believe it’s healing properly, at any rate.”

Marty stared at Doc for a moment longer before shaking his head. “Jeez, Doc, you gotta be more careful.”

“Man, these doors are…”

“Hazardous?” Doc snorted, carefully getting out of the DeLorean.

“Well, I was gonna say unique, Doc, but…”

Marty quieted, staring at Doc for a moment. The scientist raised an eyebrow as if to ask why.

”Y’know, you hit your head on it in ‘55, too. And…wait a minute, wait a minute, Doc, is that what all those bruises were from? Before you told me?”

Doc grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Guilty as charged, Marty. Guilty as charged.”

The wrench echoed loudly as it clattered to the ground, metal on metal creating a series of clanks that only worsened the pain throbbing through Emmett’s head. He groaned, one hand pressed atop his hair, the other clutching tightly to the ladder he stood on beneath the time train.

“That’s the second time this week I’ve seen you do that, Emmett.”

Emmett turned, surprised, and nearly fell off the ladder. Were it not for Clara rushing forward to grasp the bottom of it and steady it, he might well have met the ground in that moment.

“Clara! I didn’t see you there,” he replied earnestly, hurrying down the ladder. No sooner had his feet touched the ground, however, than Clara had turned him around and begun to examine his head.

“It’s all right, Clara, darling,” Emmett insisted, attempting to grasp one of her hands, but Clara gently swatted his hand away and continued to peer at his forehead. She tutted softly, shaking her head.

“Oh, let me worry, Emmett. One of these days, you’re going to hurt yourself!”

Emmett pulled her closer, planting a gentle kiss on her cheek.

“Well, I promise today is not that day, my dear.”

“Emmett!”

“Ouch!”

Clara glanced over towards the kitchen. After a moment, though, she simply smiled and shook her head.

“Do you need anything, Emmett?”

There was a pause, with no response.

“…I’m getting the Tylenol. And an ice pack.”

“Thank you, Clara, dear.”

Chapter Text

“Come along! We mustn’t let our expedition dawdle!”

“Slow down, Emmett!”

“On the contrary, you ought to speed up! We’re wasting precious time!”

Flashlight held aloft, Emmett waved on the rest of the little group that was tagging along behind him, encouraging them forward. Glee was written across his face, a bright smile there for all to see. As he turned, the beam of his flashlight fell across several signs in stark red and white.

“Uh, Emmett?”

“Hm? Speak up, my good fellow!”

The young boy gestured to the signs. “Maybe…maybe we shouldn’t?”

“Nonsense!” Emmett cried, shaking his head fast enough that his hair flopped back and forth. “There hasn’t been any sort of geologic activity that might present a concern or threat to the stability of the mine, after all.”

He put his hands on his hips, looking to all the world like a man on a mission. Well, boy. Boy on a mission.

“The longer we tarry, the less daylight we have!”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode towards the mine entrance, squeezing past the dilapidated boards that had once fully blocked off the tunnel and disappearing into the depths of the mine.

“I hope you’ve learned your lesson, Emmett.”

He could still hear his mother’s words, her voice ringing in his ears, her tone in that moment one of the iciest he’d ever heard from her. The punishment had stung, yes, but at the time he’d been more upset about not being allowed to listen to the radio than anything else. Now, however…

Well, he had never once regretted that escapade, not truly, but now more than ever he was incredibly grateful for those distinct fanciful days of his youth. He’d managed to hide the DeLorean in the tunnels of the old Delgado mine, safely wrapped up and secured, and if he hadn’t…well, Marty wouldn’t have been able to come for him. There was, perhaps, a distinct part of him that was rather irked by the fact that Marty hadn’t listened to his instructions and gone directly home to 1985, but that part was far overwhelmed by the warmth he’d felt seeing his friend again.

And the fact that Marty had come to save his life, and had done so successfully. That was kind of important too. Just a touch.

Emmett picked up one of his wrenches, peering up at the time train. He pursed his lips for a moment before stepping up onto his ladder, moving to carefully adjust one of the components along the train’s exterior.

Perhaps he had learned his lesson, in a sense. After all, he’d certainly learned the importance of the past when it came to the events of the future—and how critical it was to have a keen knowledge of one’s surroundings. He assumed, however, that that had not been the meaning of his mother’s words; her focus, after all, had been more on his safety, he supposed.

That lesson…was probably one he would never properly learn.

Oh well.

Chapter Text

“No, no…”

Doc ran a hand through his hair, which only managed to make his already unruly waves stand further on end. He was pacing in front of his chalkboard, feet tracing a well-worn path across the floor, muttering under his breath and occasionally glancing at the figures and symbols scrawled across the board.

Properly modifying the DeLorean to ensure safe time travel was proving more than a bit difficult, and he was nearly at his wits’ end. He was no stranger to working on the cutting edge of physics—after all, half of the work surrounding the Manhattan Project and the construction of the atomic bomb had been an exercise in creating new physics!—, but the current lack of progress was beginning to grate. One particular set of variables had him stumped, leaving him progressively more irritated the longer time went on without him being able to figure out the problem.

Turning on his heel, he strode back over to the chalkboard, lab coat fluttering behind him. He picked up the chalk once more, raising it to the surface of the board, before sighing and setting his head against the chalkboard.

“It simply isn’t there…”

“Hey, Doc!”

Doc turned to see Marty just as the teen shut the garage door. He grinned at Doc, who offered the best smile he could muster up in that moment.

“Marty! Shouldn’t you still be in school?”

“It’s late afternoon, Doc,” Marty laughed, shaking his head. “School’s out. But, uh—”

He gestured at Doc. “You look kinda stressed, Doc. Something up?”

Doc blinked a few times, glancing back at the chalkboard and then at Marty. He sighed again, running a hand through his hair once more. It still didn’t help.

“I’m fine, Marty, merely a problem that is proving rather obstinate! I’m sure I’ll crack it sooner or later, I just need more time…”

Marty gazed at Doc for a moment longer, one eyebrow raised ever-so-slightly, before shrugging. “You’re the doc, Doc. I…was going to practice some guitar, but if you’re working…”

“Nonsense, Marty, that’s perfectly all right!” Doc shook his head, wandering over to a nearby chair and sinking down into it. “In all truth, I could use a bit of a break from this. I think if I stare at it any longer right now, my eyes will start hurting.”

”Jeez, Doc, yeah, take a break,” Marty muttered, shaking his head. Having set down his skateboard, he walked over and picked up the little yellow Chiquita before leaning against the wall. He didn’t bother to plug it in, instead choosing to strum a few chords here and there.

Doc rubbed at his temples, trying to stimulate some sort of thought that might provide him the answer to the problem still ominously scrawled across the board. Eventually, though, he let himself relax the slightest bit, sitting back further in the chair and listening to Marty. Something about what the teen was playing seemed familiar, yet Doc was sure he’d never quite heard it before. He tapped a finger on his lips in thought, brow furrowing.

“…Marty?”

“Yeah, Doc?”

Marty looked up from the guitar, pausing in his playing. “What’s up?”

“That song you’re playing…”

Doc gestured at the guitar. “I’m certain I’ve never heard it before, but it—”

“Aw, yeah, sounds familiar, right?” Marty interjected, nodding as if he knew exactly what Doc was talking about.

“Yes,” Doc blinked. “Yes, that’s exactly it.”

“Well, probably ‘cause it sort of is?” Marty shrugged. He gestured to the Chiquita as he spoke, showing Doc a few different chord positions.

“Sometimes, when I’m working on my own songs, I’ll pull some chords from songs I like, y’know? I’ll restructure them and all, there’s no fun in copying, but it’s like…an exercise, sort of. It doesn’t go into my songs, it’s just, like, learning the patterns and stuff. So it’s not new, but it helps me learn. Kind of like those problem sets they like giving us in chem…Doc?”

Doc, however, was somewhere else, at least mentally. He stood up slowly, eyes wide, before turning towards Marty with that almost manic grin on his face. There was a touch of chalk on his forehead from earlier, which somehow managed to complete the picture quite perfectly.

“It’s not new.”

“…Doc?”

“It’s not new physics at all! It’s old! Old math!”

Marty looked absolutely lost, expression that of confusion as Doc whirled back over towards the chalkboard and began to scribble across it. The scientist seemed absolutely gleeful, making various notes all over the board, laughing softly to himself before turning and beaming at Marty.

“Thank you, Marty! Thank you!”

Marty blinked a few times in confusion, then shrugged yet again.

“Uh…sure thing, Doc. Any time.”

Chapter Text

“Aw, jeez, Doc…”

Marty sighed, staring at the scientist from across the table. He was fully face-down, out for the count, leaving Marty on his own to deal with…the entire situation around them. ‘Eggs’ stared first at Doc, then looked over at Marty, one eyebrow raised in suspicion.

“Is he…”

“He, uh, he can make the stuff, he just can’t hold it,” Marty laughed weakly, hoping that that would be cover enough. “He’ll be up and at ‘em in a bit, don’t—”

Perhaps mercifully, he was cut off from whatever else he might have said by a barrage of gunfire. He hit the deck alongside the others, his concern for himself only outpaced by his concern for Doc—who hadn’t even moved! The scientist was still seated at the table, coming to just long enough to lift his head up amidst the gunfire before knocking back out.

“Aw, jeez, Doc,” Marty muttered, before giving Eggs a bit of a rough shake of the shoulder. The man nearly jumped out of his skin before realizing it was Marty and not some rival goon come to grab him.

“Hey, look, I gotta, uh, find a place for the Doc to rest, d’you have any suggestions?” he asked, fixing the mob boss with a particularly steely look.

This always works in the movies, it oughta work now, right?

To his relief, Eggs nodded. The gunfire had settled somewhat, the goons having made their point, and the boss looked left and right before slipping a hand into his suit jacket and pulling out a card. He handed it to Marty, who spared it only a brief glance before tucking it into a pocket.

Probably don’t want to lose this…

“Sure thing, Zipper. Numbers ‘n all is on da card, you just shows ‘em that and you’ll be set.”

Marty cringed internally at the name, fighting the urge to shake his head.

Thanks for that, Doc. Why’d you have to tell him my name was Zipper?

“Gotcha. I’ll, uh, let you know when he’s, uh…awake and all.”

“Of course,” Eggs nodded, standing up and dusting himself off. “You, uh, gonna need a hand, or…?”

He gestured to Doc, who was still out cold. Marty sighed softly, shaking his head in mild disbelief.

Well…I’ve carried him before.

“Nah, I can handle it.”

Chapter Text

“Marty!”

“Doc!”

“Marty, you gotta come back with me!”

“Where?!”

“Back to the future, it’s incredible, you’re not gonna believe your eyes, get in the car!” Doc exclaimed, waving his arms around. He set his hands on Marty’s shoulders, eyes wide with that familiar manic energy.

“Right now?” Marty replied, glancing between the microphone in his hands and the still-smoking DeLorean behind Doc. “I’m right in the middle of a song—”

“I’ll have you back in thirty seconds—after all, it’s a time machine,” Doc grinned, gesturing behind him. “C’mon!”

Marty blinked, then shrugged, a grin spreading across his face. “You’re the doc, Doc!”

Doc practically bounded back towards the DeLorean, throwing open the driver-side door once more and clambering in. Marty followed suit, tossing the microphone to Jennifer before jogging back towards the car and getting in on the passenger side. He carefully shut his door before leaning back in the seat.

“Alright, excuse us, everyone, there’s a little science experiment goin’ on here,” he hollered through the window. “Uh—give us some room!”

Pulling his head back inside the vehicle, he made sure the window was up before turning to Doc. The scientist had already turned on the time circuits, and had punched in a date and time; he grinned at Marty, that manic energy still there but somewhat relaxed into genuine wonder and glee.

Marty, who had had his mouth open to say something, paused.

“…Hey, Doc?”

“Hm?”

“Congrats.”

Doc turned more fully towards Marty, one brow arched toward his hairline. He tilted his head to the side, as if to ask for a touch of elaboration.

“On the time machine,” Marty said, gesturing around the DeLorean. “It works, Doc. You did it. You…I dunno, you deserve some congratulations. At least, I think so.”

Doc’s expression softened even more, a warm smile on his face. He reached over and set a hand quite firmly on Marty’s shoulder, meeting his gaze evenly. There was a hint of something in his eyes, a soft shimmer, and for a moment Marty almost thought they were tears.

“Thank you, Marty,” he said after a moment, before giving Marty’s shoulder a pat. “Thank you for…for believing in me then, too.”

Marty didn’t have to ask for Doc to elaborate on that. He simply nodded, finding himself uncharacteristically choked up. There was a part of him that had been able to tell back then, had been able to see how little Doc had trusted himself at times, and while he hadn’t wanted to pry back then he did have at least some understanding of what might have been behind that. He’d done the best he could to try and dispel that—after all, the Doc he knew, the Doc he was friends with, had built the time machine on his own, had never met Marty back in 1955.

Or, at least, he assumed so. He still wasn’t good at that ‘thinking fourth-dimensionally’ thing.

Regardless, though, every word he’d said in 1955 had been true—at least to Doc. Doc had never once let him down, ever, and Marty sure knew what it felt like to have no confidence in a personal project. He had never once lacked belief in Doc—even when the model had caught on fire, or when the cable had detached at the top of the clock tower. Sure, maybe his confidence had wavered once or twice, but…

But he’d never stopped believing in Doc. He’d never stopped trusting his friend.

“‘Course, Doc,” he managed quietly. “Like I said, you’ve never let me down. I wasn’t gonna let you down.”

The two friends gazed at each other for a moment longer before Doc turned back towards the dashboard, checking over the sensors one more time. Marty took the time to glance out the windows once more, frowning as he noted just how many people were around—and how little room there was.

“Hey, Doc? We’re in the town square.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh…we don’t have enough road to get up to eighty-eight?”

“Roads?”

Doc grinned at him, that manic energy back once more in full force. As he continued speaking, he flicked his glasses down, hands planted firmly on the steering wheel.

“Where we’re going, we don’t need roads.”

Chapter Text

Marty pulled out a chair, sinking down into it and leaning back with a sigh. He had to admit, the house that Doc and Clara had moved into with their sons was pretty nice. It was somehow the right amount of balance between cozy, spacious, and that odd eccentricity that he’d come to associate with Doc more than anything.

The scientist in question was standing by the counter, stirring some sugar into a cup of coffee that he had fixed for himself. Once satisfied, he walked over to the fridge and pulled out a Pepsi Free. He walked back to the table, setting down the Pepsi in front of Marty before pulling out the chair across from the teen and sitting down.

“Thank you for your help, Marty,” he hummed, raising his coffee cup in the direction of the teen before having a sip and sighing happily. “Ah, that’s good…”

“‘Course, Doc,” Marty replied, nodding. “Anytime. You know I’m always willing to help.”

He cracked open the Pepsi and took a sip, staring down into the bottle before looking back at Doc. The scientist had produced a notebook from one of his pockets, and as he drank his coffee he was scribbling something down with his free hand. From where he sat, Marty could make out a few equations—not anything he understood, unfortunately—and one or two diagrams. Among them was a clock, prompting a smile to cross Marty’s face.

“Hey, Doc?”

“Mm? Yes, Marty?”

“Can I, uh…ask a question?”

Doc looked up from his notes, setting down his pencil on the table and nodding intently. “Of course, Marty.”

Marty set down his Pepsi, trailing one finger down the bottle before looking over and meeting Doc’s gaze. “It’s, uh…well, I was kind of wondering…back in 1955, when we were setting up for the DeLorean, with the wire and all that…”

“…Yes?” Doc blinked. “Did you have an inquiry about the cable? Or the electrical process? Or—”

“Doc, you paid off that cop, didn’t you?”

For a moment, all was quiet but for the sound of the birds outside the kitchen window. Marty stared at Doc. Doc stared at Marty. Neither said a word, locked in silence, the air between them so thick it was almost palpable.

And then, without warning, every clock in the house went off, startling Marty enough that he jumped in his seat. Doc had the good grace to look a bit sheepish at Marty’s reaction, and reached forward to give his hand a pat.

“Apologies, Marty.”

“Nah, Doc, it’s, uh—it’s just been a while, that’s all,” Marty shook his head, settling back into his chair. “It’s fine.”

But the sheepish look on Doc’s face didn’t go away. He ran a hand through his hair, an awkward half-grimace still on his face, looking anywhere but at Marty.

“...Doc?”

Marty rolled his eyes, a small smile on his face. “C’mon, Doc, you think I care? I had to get back to 1985.”

“It’s the principle of it,” Doc muttered, shaking his head. He picked up his coffee cup again, staring into the dark liquid as if it held some sort of guidance for how he ought to explain himself. If he needed to, that is.

“Doc. You stole plutonium for the DeLorean,” Marty snorted. “Like this is somehow worse?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Doc sighed, setting down his coffee again and standing up. He pushed his chair in and began to pace back and forth across the kitchen, feet tracing a path that was somehow already well-worn. Perhaps it wasn’t very surprising—Marty knew Doc could be a bit of a worrier, after all.

“Although I'd argue that I was not the one who procured the plutonium originally, but that is a non sequitur. I certainly didn’t make a habit of doing such things, but—as you said—it was imperative that we got you back to 1985, and—and, well, he seemed a touch suspicious regarding the Time Vehicle, and I didn’t want him potentially damaging the—”

“Emmett?”

Both Doc and Marty glanced over at the doorway to the kitchen, the scientist pausing in his tracks where he’d been pacing. Clara stood there, one hand on her hip, brow furrowed in concern.

“Yes, Clara, my dear?” Doc managed, one foot tapping out some unknown rhythm on the floor. “Is something the matter?”

“I think I ought to be asking you that, Emmett,” Clara replied softly. She crossed the room to her husband, reaching up and gently cupping his cheek with one hand. “I could hear your pacing across the house. What on earth could be bothering you so, this early in the day?”

“It’s, uh, it’s my fault, ma’am,” Marty interjected, sitting up straighter in his chair before pushing himself to his feet. “I, uh…”

He glanced over at Doc, as if to ask for permission to continue, but Doc had closed his eyes and was leaning into Clara’s touch. Biting back a chuckle, Marty continued.

“Back in 1955, when we were setting up to get me back to 1985, this cop came poking around, and I, uh…well, I thought that Doc paid him off, ‘cause we didn’t exactly have a permit for what we were doing.”

“It was necessary to get you home,” Doc sighed, opening his eyes but still leaning into Clara’s touch. “I didn’t want anything getting in the way of—”

“No, no, Doc, I wasn’t—look, I don’t care about that, seriously,” Marty shook his head, expression earnest. “That wasn’t even my main point in asking! There was something more that that cop said, is all.”

“...More?”

“Yeah, see, I thought I heard him say something about…about you setting something on fire? Or, like, making sure that wasn’t going to happen?”

Doc went red in the face, and Marty had to bite back a laugh. Clara, however, couldn’t hold back her own amusement, and her peals of laughter brought a smile to the scientist’s face—even if he was still clearly mortified.

“Emmett! You really do have stories left to tell me!” she giggled. “What is this about?”

“Clara, dear…”

Doc smiled weakly, glancing over at Marty before looking back at his wife. “There are some stories I don’t tell.”

“Oh, come on, Doc!”

“Don’t be a spoilsport, Emmett!”

“All right, all right, fine!”

Doc held his hands up in mock surrender, chuckling. “Fine, fine, I’ll tell you both. But first, I suppose I should set the scene…”

Chapter Text

Come on, Emmett. They’re only stairs.

Doc stared down at the steps, taking in a shuddering breath. The very thought of starting to climb them was enough to make him unsteady, sending a wave of dizziness through his body. He reached out for the handrail, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

Only stairs. Stairs that lead up to the top of the building and—

He had to hold back the urge to be sick, bitterness clawing at his throat and threatening to make him upheave the meager dinner he’d had. As much as he’d been worried about Marty seeming unwell, he himself had been so nervous about the entire matter that he hadn’t managed to eat much. Of course, he hadn’t mentioned anything about it to Marty—after all, the poor boy was already stressed enough, and he certainly didn’t want to add to it. The solidity of Marty’s faith in him was a marvel, particularly when considering his own wavering faith in himself.

Lifting up his foot to set it on the first tread felt like lifting a massive concrete block, the action cumbersome and heavy despite only taking a few seconds. It was the knowledge of where the stairs led that had him so stricken, that had him desperate to turn around or go anywhere other than straight ahead and up. He couldn’t decide whether it was a relief to be up the first step, or if it only served to increase the terror running ice-cold through his veins.

You haven’t got time for this, Emmett. Marty needs you. The success of this depends on you.

It took less time than Doc had predicted for him to make it up the first flight of stairs, although he wasn’t entirely sure whether or not he had somehow zoned out during the process. As he rounded the corner and started up the next flight, he found himself feeling suspiciously floaty—as if he had become untethered from his own body. Despite this, however, his feet kept on, carrying him up the stairs and towards the top of the clock tower.

Marty needs me. I have to reattach the cable. I have to get Marty home…

By the time he made his way to the top of the tower, Doc was sweating far more than usual, his hands so clammy he could barely grasp the last few feet of the stair-railing. He cast a singular glance back at the stairs, shuddering, before stepping around the clock’s mechanisms and bell. Even from within the building, he could hear the howling wind from the storm developing overhead, rain pounding on the roof; it was all he could do to swallow the still-rising fear that was clawing its way up his throat.

With a slight grunt, he pushed open the window-shaped panel that led out to the clock ledge, having to fold himself up slightly in order to climb out. Carefully, he put a hand on the statue nearest to him, using it as leverage to help himself out onto the ledge. He made the immediate mistake of glancing down towards the town square, and the fear bubbling up in his chest instantly gripped his heart like a vise.

Shit.

Doc could hardly hear over the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears. He glanced back out over the town square desperately, practically glued to the courthouse wall bricks, wishing with all his heart that he were back on the ground staring up at the clock tower—rather than looking out at the town from such an immense height! He clung tightly to his hold on the statue, knees shaking, slowly forcing himself to stand upright.

Steady…easy does it…

With what felt like the speed of a snail crawling through molasses, Doc began to turn towards the clock, attempting to reorient himself so that he might traverse the ledge in a safer fashion. As he did so, he looked down again, and the driving nausea came back with a vengeance. He practically threw himself back against the statue and the bricks, unable to stop himself from hyperventilating.

This is absolutely ridiculous. Come on, Emmett!

There was a part of him that was utterly ashamed at the uncooperative nature of his own body, at the way terror had taken root in his bones, despite the fact that he’d known this would happen even before he had started up the steps. Some voice in the back of his mind was chiding him, the tone and accent all too familiar, and despite his best efforts he couldn’t entirely drown it out.

He didn’t need his father’s voice to remind him that he shouldn’t have been so afraid.

After a moment of mental wallowing, he somehow summoned up enough courage to try inching back across the ledge. He could feel the stone beneath his feet, through the soles of his shoes, and as he shifted it began to crumble. With a yelp, he forced himself upright, scooting his feet away from the now-broken portion of the ledge.

This is taking too long…

Doc couldn’t recall the last time he had felt so severely afraid, fear clinging to his bones and tearing at his throat like the worst sort of sudden sickness. Perhaps it was bad luck to even consider the depths of his fear at that moment, as the ledge beneath his feet fully gave way. He barely managed to grab onto the clock, clinging to the wrought metal desperately as his legs flailed.

No. No no no n

There was nothing beneath him, nothing but air and a fall that would certainly do serious damage—if not worse. He could feel his grip slipping, the clamminess of his hands betraying him as he came closer and closer to that dreaded fall. The cable had slipped from his hand, but he barely noticed, too focused on trying to prevent himself from becoming a pancake on the steps below. His own heartbeat was so loud he could hardly hear the noise of the storm above it, every muscle in his body aching as he tried again and again to pull himself up.

You’re going to live to see 1985, damn it! You’ve got to!

By some great miracle, he managed to haul himself upright, planting his feet against the bases of the statues and effectively plastering himself against the clock. His arms and hands burned from the effort, unused to the specific strain of preventing him from falling to his doom. His chest was heaving as he tried to calm himself, gulping down air like a man deprived of proper oxygen for decades on end. Each glance he cast over his shoulder only provoked another whimper, the now-fairly-justified fear in his veins only further threatening to leave him paralyzed there against the clock.

The cable…

Doc could feel his heart against his ribcage as he slowly tried to turn himself around, pressing his back to the clock and holding tight to the metal. A brief notion of humor crossed his mind—he probably looked a great deal like Leonardo da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, clinging to the clock as he was, and the shortest bark of a laugh pushed past his lips. A surge of adrenaline coursed through him, and with a steady level of care he wouldn’t have thought possible—particularly considering that he was still shaking—he managed to grasp the lower cable in his right hand.

The relief of that was short-lived; the upper cable still hung free, swaying back and forth as the wind tossed it around. Doc eyed it with a squint, attempting to calculate the best instant to lean forward and grasp it. The wind, however, proved an unkindly variable, refusing to remain constant. Each time he attempted to reach out for the upper cable, it would swing in the opposite direction, his fingers closing on air and his entire body thrown into the lurch as his center of balance shifted. He cast another glance towards the ground, only to find that the stone steps and grass were spinning below—in fact, everything around him was spinning. It was becoming nearly impossible to fight the nausea at this point, the sensation rising to the base of his throat, and every breath felt like a battle to choke through.

Truly in the depths of panic, he screwed his eyes shut, desperate for any sort of relief.

“Remember, Doc, you can accomplish anything if you just put your mind to it!”

That last image of Marty’s face crossed his mind, the boy watching him run off towards the clock tower in the desperate hopes of reconnecting the cable. Doc could hear those words echoing in his head—could see the concern in Marty’s eyes, too, concern and…

The thought of dwelling on that now only worsened the bitter taste already lapping at the back of his tongue, so Doc forced down any thoughts of the future and opened his eyes. As much as he wanted to avoid looking down, he couldn’t—he had to see the ledge, at least in part, in order to safely inch across it, after all, and he was just far enough from the upper cable that he still needed to move a bit before he could reach it.

It was almost more of a journey across the ledge than it had been to get up the stairs. Carefully inching several more inches to his left, with little glances down from time to time, he reached out for the upper cable. His fingertips brushed it and it went spinning again, prompting a grunt of frustration, but when it swung back towards him he managed to grasp it. A quiet little gasp of relief escaped his lips as his fingers finally closed around the connector, and he allowed himself a moment of pride. It was long enough for him to realize just how heavy his breathing was, and how uncomfortable the sweat pouring down his back was—despite the relative cool of the November night, coupled with the gusts of the storm, he was positively drenched and fairly certain he was close to overheating.

Later. Gotta get this connected, gotta get it fixed, gotta make sure Marty gets back…

Stretching the cable in front of himself, Doc moved to insert the connector into its coupling, but found the two ends unwilling to meet. The sound that wrenched itself from his lips was ungainly, but he could hardly believe that he had come so far—so high, of all things—only for it to be of no use! And now Marty wouldn’t get back, and he was stuck there atop the clock tower…

No. Think logically, Emmett! It was connected before, you can get it reconnected now!

His thoughts finally managed to catch up to the pace set forth by his racing heart, and in a flurry of movement he pulled the cable over his head. Running it behind himself gave just enough lead for the two ends to meet, and they connected with a satisfying click. Doc allowed himself a cry of joy, noting the time on the clock behind him, before realizing he was still atop the tower. He glanced down at the ground once more, which was no longer spinning quite as badly but was still far too far away for his liking.

Never doing this again. Never never.

His gaze flickered towards the lower portion of the cable, and he took as deep a breath as he could manage. He was already moving, though, grasping the cable in both hands and leaning into it.

Well. There’s really only one way down quickly, isn’t there?

Here goes nothing.