Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sunday, December 20, 1885 / Sunday, October 27, 1985

Out on the scrubby plain, raw wind buffeted their garments without mercy. Doc tugged down the brim of his hat and pulled his coat tighter about himself, surveying the result of their last several months' blood, sweat, and tears. Beside him, Marty was silent and curiously withdrawn; Doc supposed that it was only natural he should feel anxious about the journey they were going to undertake. In his own fashion, he'd also come to regard the Hill Valley of 1885 as home. He took Marty's hand.

"We'll come back someday," Doc reassured him, squeezing. "I know we will. Call it a hunch."

"You had better, Mister," said Clara, chidingly. "At least you won't experience that much dissonance regarding what day of the week you're getting back," she added, proudly patting the side of her highly specialized locomotive. "Sunday to Sunday. It's a sensible leap."

"Pardon me for saying so, ma'am," said Marty, with fond, feigned propriety, "but I can't believe we helped you build a fucking time train with parts salvaged almost entirely from scrap." He sighed and removed his hat, running one hand through his hair. "Just a bit of advice, for what it's worth: everywhere we went, we screwed stuff up whether we meant to or not. Be careful."

Clara beamed at him, and Doc couldn't help but experience a swell of pride. "Thank you for that unflagging vote of confidence," she said, narrowing her eyes a little. "Don't you worry about me, young man. Forgive me for speaking so plainly, but you kept making a mess of things because you're boys. Me, now, I have no intention of traveling in the past. I'd much rather see what's ahead."

"Once you've pushed us to the edge of the tracks, we'll vanish, instantaneously arriving in 1985. You and your train will vanish, too, depending on what settings you input. I can't help thinking your first stop should be the year 2015, or maybe some point beyond," said Doc, before Marty had the chance to get his dander up about Clara's remarks. "Once you're there, look into a Mr. Fusion for your energy source and get hover-conversion done on the train. That way, you won't be restricted by tracks or by roads, and you won't risk getting stranded somewhere like we did."

Clara nodded, as if she found that advice more pertinent than Marty's. "Now, you listen to me closely, Emmett," she said, reaching for his hand, stepping toward him in her warm, thoroughly-starched traveling clothes. "Should you ever need to contact me, send a message via Western Union to the precise time and location we've discussed. I'll make frequent stop-offs there."

"Should we be worried exactly how much red-eye it's taken to fuel this thing?" Marty asked, glancing up at the train's bold side-emblazonment of C.E. CLAYTON. Doc could tell from the set of his jaw that something was wrong; he had grown visibly upset. "Maybe look into conversion over to a safer combustion source for backing your steam," he continued. "You know, in the future."

"I plan on learning absolutely everything I can," Clara reassured him. "Marty, I promise."

"Can't stand it," Marty sighed, hugging her fiercely from side-on. "I'm gonna miss you like crazy."

Clara patted his arm with her right hand even as she continued to squeeze Doc's with her left. "We'll be just fine," she said resolutely, "and of course I'll miss you both. More than I can even say."

"I guess Mayor Hubert won't be too pleased about having to recruit a new teacher," Marty mumbled against Clara's shoulder. "Everybody liked you, and I don't blame 'em. You were better than any teacher I ever had."

Doc let go of Clara's hand, reaching to carefully extract Marty from where he'd latched onto her. "This town will get on whether any of us are in it or not," he said. "Besides, your ancestors are here. Maggie and Seamus both have good heads on their shoulders, and that kid of theirs will go far."

"I'm not ready for this," said Marty, letting Doc hold him, his gaze fixed on Clara. "I'm really not. What if something goes wrong and we end up in each other's intended destinations, or—"

"Then we think on our feet just like we always have," Doc reassured him, "and we react accordingly."

"Emmett," Clara said, fixing him with a look that was equal parts joy and trepidation. "Good luck."

Doc managed to gather her into his embrace without letting go of Marty, at which point it turned into the three of them clinging to each other for what felt like a very long time. Clara broke away first, straightening her clothes; as no-nonsense as ever, she set her hand on the locomotive's railing and mounted the steps, peering down at them with expectant determination.

"I know, I know," said Doc, resigned, gracing her with a salute. "We'd better get in the car."

The trip was, in a word, exhilarating. Doc defaulted to something other than spectacular this time because he figured Marty might appreciate it; however, judging from the vise-grip in which he had Doc's hand trapped against the now-irrelevant temperature gauge during the entirety of their train-propelled acceleration up to eighty-eight miles per hour. Doc hoped that Clara would be all right. He hoped that she'd find reception as warm as he had on arrival in the future; he hoped—

There was a blinding flash of blue-white light through the windshield, and then silence punctuated only by the unhurried, repetitive ding of a railway signal as they blinked into the afternoon sun.

"Jesus, Doc," Marty breathed, turning to blink at him in disbelief. "I think we might actually be back."

Doc nodded tentatively, squeezing Marty's hand in return. "I think you may be right, Future Boy."

And it was then he realized that the railway signal hadn't stopped clanging, and that it hadn't been their arrival after all that had triggered it. He took a hesitant breath and glanced in his side mirror.

"Doc," Marty said, urgently shaking his arm, apparently having caught on. "Doc, I think—"

"Open your door and get out of the car!" Doc shouted, reaching for his door-handle, by now on autopilot. He gave it a tug and then kicked the door as hard as he could, launching himself forward—

He thought he could hear Marty's screams, most of them various mangled permutations of Doc's name. He hit the ground hard with his shoulder and rolled, painfully, until he felt scrub and dust instead of trackside gravel. The railway signal rang in his ears even after the thunderous collision was through. The DeLorean would be a total loss, that much was a given, but Marty—

They collided with each other halfway, fell in a gasping tangle just to the side of the tracks on which Marty had landed. Doc squeezed him, relieved, and then let his hands move from Marty's shoulders down to his hips in as much of an impromptu assessment as he could manage. No broken bones, or at least he didn't think so, but they'd sure as hell both be bruised to an extensive degree.

"Hey, Doc," said Marty, weakly, his voice a wavering mess. "Thanks for the warning back there."

"Don't mention it," Doc managed, finding that he'd instinctively touched his lips to the corner of Marty's mouth. He pressed them there briefly, as much of a kiss as they could afford under the circumstances. He didn't think they had an audience, but he didn't want to take the chance.

Marty rendered his caution a moot point. He grabbed Doc and yanked him down, his lips parting the instant Doc's covered his. The kiss tasted like desperation, like victory, and Marty's fists were shaking so badly in his duster that Doc idly wondered if Marty would manage to tear the cloth.

Doc concentrated, accepting Marty's desperation, returning it as soothing reassurance.

Moments later, Marty hummed into the kiss before pulling away. "Sorry," he whispered, forcing himself to let go. "You're hot in that coat, you know that, Doc?"

"Not really," Doc replied, the non sequitur drawing his attention to the cool air against their skin. "In addition to avoiding synthetics, I tend to favor lighter materials so that I don't overheat." He eyed his coat. "As a result, they tend to be much less stiff than the usual coats of the same design."

"What about all that crap you were wearing in 2015?" Marty asked, rolling away from him, and got unsteadily to his feet. He offered Doc a hand, smiling wryly. "You can't tell me that stuff was natural."

"I assure you that it was, or there's no way I could've worn it," said Doc, letting Marty help him up, "and if you want me to prove it to you, we still have those clothes balled up somewhere—"

They both turned and regarded the DeLorean's wreckage, a kaleidoscope of glass and twisted metal and dozens of disparate parts. It was a sobering thing to set eyes on; Doc walked over to what he recognized instantly as what was left of the flux capacitor, suppressing a sense of dread. Marty followed him.

"All those years of work," Doc murmured, regarding the remnant. "My family's money, gone."

Marty kicked the display with the toe of his boot, somberly watching the numbers flicker and vanish. "You didn't do it in vain, though," he said. "Look at all the neat stuff we learned in the process. Did you ever find out the answer to that question, Doc?"

"Which one?" Doc said, balefully regarding the rest of the wreckage. "There were so many."

Marty joined him, making an abortive movement to reach for Doc's hand. "Why?"

Doc frowned, not understanding until he remembered standing on the street in 2015 and ranting at Marty about why he'd invented the time machine. Answering the age-old question of human existence.

"I think I have an inkling now," Doc said, reaching for Marty's hand, actually taking it.

"Yeah?" Marty asked, squeezing his hand, and then laced his fingers with Doc's without hesitation.

Doc smiled, grieved that the DeLorean was gone, but somehow unable to regret anything. "Yeah."

"Let's get outta here, Doc," Marty said, tugging at him, "before somebody reports us to the police."

***

As aggravating a circumstance as it was, Doc could understand why Marty was taking his time in the shower. Neither one of them had experienced the luxury of hot water in months; in Doc's case, it had been nearly a year. Impatient with Einstein's over-excited attention, Doc fetched him a treat (even though he'd just been fed, the brat) and snuck into bathroom while the dog was distracted.

"It's just me," Doc said, raising his voice so that Marty would hear him. "Mind if I join you?"

"I'd sure as hell hope so, Doc," said Marty, pushing back the curtain. He let his eyes sweep over Doc while he got undressed, grimacing a little at the visible traces of grime on his wrists and neck. "Yeah, okay, that's disgusting, but we can fix it," he added once Doc had stripped down, pulling him inside.

"You were in no better shape before you stepped in there," Doc pointed out, sighing he stepped under the spray, the hot water pounding his chest as Marty got right to work on his back with the soapy washcloth. "Ah. As much as I'd grown fond of 1885…"

"I couldn't have lived without hot water, Doc," Marty insisted vehemently, working his way down to the small of Doc's back with even circular strokes. "Well, I could have if I'd had to, but I'd have been holding out hope that you'd have invented indoor plumbing well ahead of schedule."

"I'm a scientist, Marty, not a miracle worker," Doc said, closing his eyes, bracing himself against the wall to stay upright. "Besides, don't be ridiculous: indoor plumbing has been around for centuries. The fact that the United States didn't have it as the standard in every home until the 1940s was appalling."

"Did your house have it in the '40s?" asked Marty, curious as he worked. "Or the '30s?"

"Yes," Doc admitted, finding Marty's touch distracting. "We could afford it in the '20s, even."

"You were born in 1920," Marty reminded him. "That's some good memory you've got."

Doc tugged the washcloth out of Marty's hand; the fact he was reaching around to scrub Doc's belly now was something of an ill-disguised ruse. Marty took the cue for what it was, wrapping one careful hand around Doc's erection. "I don't want to talk about the past," Doc sighed. "I'm tired of it."

"Then how about we focus on the present?" Marty asked, slicking his free hand with soap from the caddy. He made a two-handed job of it, alternating strokes with soothing, slippery ease. "Is that okay?"

"More than," Doc sighed, closing his eyes, content to let Marty continue what he was doing until Doc could hear his breath beginning to hitch, too. He eased Marty's hands off-task, turning to face him, the spray rinsing his back. "Come here," he murmured, backing Marty up against the far wall.

"I'm already here," Marty gasped as Doc took him in hand. "C'mon, no fair. I started—"

"Shhh," Doc said, kissing him quiet, and then pressed kiss to the side of Marty's neck before getting down on his knees so he could concentrate on the task at hand. Marty responded beautifully to manual stimulation, but, under the circumstances, Doc's mouth probably wouldn't go amiss.

"Oh God," Marty groaned, pressing his hips back against the wall. "I'm not gonna—"

"The point most certainly isn't for you to last," Doc said, pulling off him just long enough to speak. He adjusted his grip, twisting gently as he let his tongue dip into Marty's slit. Above him, Marty choked, and Doc wondered why on earth he should hold back now. "Marty, it's all right."

Marty drew several deep, shuddering breaths, as if trying to steady himself. "But—"

Ah, that explained it. Doc withdrew with a lingering lick, raising an eyebrow at him. "My neighbors have been hearing noises for years, and I haven't had the cops called on me yet." He stroked Marty a few times, twisting thoroughly around the head. "I want to hear you."

Apparently hearing Doc was all the permission that Marty had needed. His cries, soft at first, increased with each added stimulus. When Doc took Marty back in his mouth, that was the end of it.

"Jesus Christ!" Marty shouted, a merciless echo in the enclosed space. "Doc! Fuck, I—"

Doc retrieved the washcloth from where it had fallen next to Marty's foot, using it to sponge at what had gotten on his chin. It made little difference now, the mess, because the shower was doing an excellent job of clearing it as quickly as it had appeared. Doc licked his lips and glanced up at Marty, whose cheeks were flushed now from more than just steam. He got to his feet, holding onto Marty for balance, and wasn't at all shocked when one of Marty's hands found its way back to his hard-on.

"I still think you cheated," Marty insisted, giving Doc a firm stroke. "Turning the tables like that."

"I built a time machine when all the laws of physics said it was impossible. I'm used to cheating," said Doc, wryly, but his mind was backsliding fast. "Marty," he sighed. "This is…"

"If you say it's a bad idea, so help me God," Marty muttered, working Doc harder. "You just had me screaming fit to bring down the house, so don't you dare think you're gonna get off that easy." He reconsidered his phrasing, letting go of Doc so he could use both hands to position Doc's against the wall on either side of his head. "Well, what do I know. Maybe you are." He slid down till he was crouching in front of Doc, the wall at his back. "What did you say to me, huh? Buckle up?"

Doc squeezed his eyes shut. Not only was Marty giving him orders in that tone intensely arousing, but he was also remembering another night, long ago, when Marty had told him to do that very thing. Back then, it had been about intensifying their kisses well past innocence, but the way Marty's tongue felt against his skin, that kiss from long ago had gone outright incendiary.

Doc cried out, slamming one fist against the tiled wall. Marty seemed to take that as indication that he should up the ante, so he did the same thing with his tongue that Doc had done to him only moments before. It was hardly the first time they'd had their mouths on each other, what with those precious months they'd had to themselves in 1885, but the sheer urgency of it was stunning.

"God, Marty," Doc breathed, his head bowed, his attention on the lips and tongue and heat surrounding him. "That feels amazing. I can't even tell you..." How long I've dreamed of this, how long I've wanted you back, how long I've imagined seeing your face. When Marty hummed against him, Doc gritted his teeth and cut his internal monologue short. "Wait, wait, don't do that just yet," he whispered, not sure if the spray from the shower was drowning him out. "Go a little slower—"

Marty paused for a moment, considering this, before deftly swirling his tongue. "Like that?"

The warm breath against his over-sensitized flesh made Doc gasp and press his hands harder against the tiles. "Yes—"

Marty's tongue returned, deft and merciless, one hand working the rest of Doc's length while the other cupped his balls. When Marty made a questioning hum against him, Doc involuntarily opened his eyes. Marty's questioning, brilliant blue gaze was fixed on him, mischievous, wanting to know if he was doing it right. Marty's tongue worked even faster in the moment their eyes met, daring him.

"Stop," Doc gasped, reaching down to touch Marty's cheek, easing him back with fingers curled carefully at the curve of Marty's jaw. He almost didn't manage to hold off, but he caught sight of Marty's shocked expression just as his orgasm hit. He hated himself for closing his eyes, but the sound of Marty's breath told him all he needed to know about Marty's reaction.

"Jeez, Doc," he managed after a few seconds, sounding proud. "Good thing we're in the shower. Holy shit." Doc opened his eyes in time to see Marty mop at his chest with the washcloth and then turn his attention on Doc's belly and thighs. "I'm gonna ask you to do that more often."

"Make a complete mess of you?" Doc asked, trying to catch his breath. If only you knew.

"Yeah," Marty said, letting Doc help him to his feet, "as a matter of fact. That was hot."

"We'd better hurry," Doc sighed, reaching for the shampoo. "This hot water's gone lukewarm."

They got out of the shower exactly an hour and a half after Marty had gone in. Doc found his contemporary clothes a welcome change from too many buttons and layers, and he was grateful that Marty's occasional habit of staying over had always resulted in him keeping extra clothes in Doc's bottom drawer. Damp, but dressed, they sat down on the edge of the mattress, leaning into each other.

"So I guess maybe we have a problem on our hands," Marty said hesitantly, studying his hand cradled between both of Doc's. "I'm gonna want to be with you way more often than my folks will consider normal. If I start spending the night more often than I already do, they're gonna know something's up."

"As much as I'm going to miss having you in my bed every night, I think we'll need to restrict ourselves to one night per weekend, or perhaps every other," said Doc, his mind racing, stroking Marty's hand to keep him calm. "One night per weekend might not be unreasonable, but if anyone catches wind—" Married in all but law and name, he thought, and I can't even find a way to keep you by my side.

Marty shuddered against him. "Yeah," he said, the word heavy with meaning. "I don't think I could wait two weeks before seeing you again."

"We'll be able to see each other, of course," Doc said. "We just can't be as casually intimate as we've been these past few months."

"I know that, Doc," Marty said, sounding frustrated, running his free hand through his hair. "But, hell, waiting to see you is gonna drive me nuts. I can still sneak out on the odd week-night just like I used to? As long as I make it home before dawn, nobody will know the difference."

"We would need to be absolutely scrupulous about you getting back home," said Doc, severely. "One morning of you not turning up for breakfast is all it would take, Marty. We'd be done for."

Marty's jaw tightened as he nodded. "I know how high the stakes are, okay? I've only been ma—ah, in a stable, committed relationship with you for a few months now. I'm not about to jeopardize what we've got."

Yes, and I'd put a ring on your finger in a heartbeat, Doc thought, Marty's stumble far from having gone unnoticed. "As long as you understand, then I'd say we've reached an agreement."

"I have another problem, too," Marty sighed, averting his gaze. "There was this, uh, trip to the lake Jennifer and I were supposed to take last night. It didn't happen, obviously, given she was out cold on her porch swing and I wasn't even here—and, you know, thank God—but it doesn't change the fact I've gotta deal with my shit. She thinks we're still dating."

"Before you traveled to 1955, you were," Doc pointed out gently. "I remember you telling me about the trip. I also recall a heart-to-heart that we had about not feeling like you needed to rush things just because the two of you were concerned about the lack of physical intimacy in your relationship."

"I guess what I'm trying to say is," Marty sighed, squeezing Doc's hand, "I've gotta go. She'll probably wanna see me because it's Sunday afternoon, you know? I'll get home, and she'll have called. I should just go straight to her place, come to think of it. Nobody in my family has come here and busted down the door looking for me, so I'm gonna assume they think I'm still at the lake."

Doc nodded, sighing. "That's wise, Marty. You should get going. I've got a lot of clean-up to attend to around here; Einstein's gotten into some things in our absence and left a few messes."

Marty stood up, but he didn't let go of Doc's hand. He used the connection to wheel around in front of Doc, stepping in close, his pensive eyes drifting half-closed when Doc slid both arms around his waist. "I'm gonna miss you so much tonight, I want you to know that," Marty said, bending to kiss him.

"The sentiment's returned," Doc murmured against Marty's mouth. "Get out of here, Future Boy."

"Love ya, Doc," Marty replied, kissing Doc's forehead before pulling away. "You know that, right?"

"Like a universal constant," Doc sighed, shooing him fondly. "You know I love you, too."

Monday, October 28, 1985

Doc startled awake to the sound of a key in his front door. Before he'd had time to throw off the covers and get out of bed, Marty was already standing inside and fending off an enthusiastic Einstein with the door still open behind him. "Doc?" he asked, keeping his voice down. "Are you awake?"

"Marty," Doc responded, rubbing his right eye and trying to wake up faster, "what are you doing here? Did something happen?"

"What?" Marty sounded genuinely surprised. The ambient light in the room was cut drastically when he closed the door behind him and locked it. "No, everything's fine—down, Einstein—okay, maybe it's not fine, but I'm okay? Why?"

Doc got up, moving over to Marty and turning on the light. "Because I thought we said we were going to wait for the weekend."

Marty shrugged, staring at the floor, immediately warming to him. "I know, but—"

"Marty," Doc said sternly. "Monday isn't part of the weekend. And we had yesterday—"

"I needed to see you," Marty snapped, throwing himself into Doc's arms, hugging him tightly. "I missed you. And I'm really stressed out by all the changes, Doc. It's heavy."

Doc sighed, hugging him back just as firmly, pressing a kiss to his hair. "I know. I've missed you too. Last night was...more difficult than I'd anticipated."

"That's a hell of an understatement," Marty muttered into his shoulder. "I had another one of those fucking awful dreams, and you weren't around to help me get back to sleep."

Doc closed his eyes. Ever since the night of the Hill Valley Festival, Marty had been struggling with intense nightmares; some permutations were more unbearable than others. When the dream had been that Marty had shot Mad Dog and watched as he bled out, Doc had gotten Marty back to sleep by holding him close and speaking to him nonstop. But when it had been that Doc had gotten shot and died in Marty's arms, there'd been nothing to do but to hold Marty while he cried himself to exhaustion.

"I'm so sorry, Marty," Doc murmured, meaning every word. "I wish I could have been there."

Marty clung to him. "I nearly woke up the whole house. Mom came in and fussed over me."

"Then I'm glad someone was there for you," Doc said quietly. "And I realize that you must be under immense strain from whatever conversation you ended up having with Jennifer, too." He tugged Marty toward the bed, directing him to drop his vest and get out of his vaguely damp clothes. Doc wondered briefly if it was sprinkling outside; regardless, Marty did as he was told without much fuss and, in just t-shirt and underwear now, gladly crawled into bed when Doc threw back the covers. When Doc followed, Marty closed the distance between them with a fierce, determined kiss.

"God," Marty said, as if all he wanted to do was kiss him, but the words kept coming. "It was hell." Another kiss, this one pressed to the corner of Doc's mouth. "I hated it." And another, lingering. "I felt so guilty I put myself in her shoes, only I kept imagining it was you doing the dumping. It was almost worse than the nightmares, Doc. Almost."

"That kind of useless self-torture will get you nowhere," Doc chided, kissing him in return. Marty was still trembling a little, too worked up for Doc's liking. "Try not to think about it. Listen to me instead."

"God, I used that stupid line," Marty lamented, "that stupid it's not you, it's me crap. I mean, who says that? I feel like a tool just thinking about it."

"To be fair," Doc pointed out, "it was you. So it was at least the truth." He reconsidered his words, stroking Marty's hair. "I don't mean that as an insult. I mean you've changed."

"Yeah, I guess…" Marty sighed, tugging the covers up over both of them, burrowing into Doc. "She did have shit to say about how I'd been spending more and more time with you. She said even the Pinheads were starting to feel neglected—can you believe it? I guess I wasn't as good at managing my social calendar in this timeline as I thought. She said she needs somebody who'll be there for her."

"You've been here for me," Doc reassured him, stroking Marty's back. "Above and beyond."

Marty nodded in agreement. "Yeah, and that's how I know I've made the right decision. It just...hurt. There was no way it was ever not going to hurt. We'd been dating for a year and a half."

"You and Jennifer were good friends before you were anything else, unless I'm very much mistaken," Doc reminded him. "I think you'll be just fine."

"Hell yeah we were friends first," said Marty, sounding relieved. "I don't think I could just date some random…" He nuzzled Doc's earlobe, kissing the sensitive spot just beneath it. "I'm so fucking tired, Doc," he sighed, yawning, his body tense and apologetic. "Can we just sleep?"

Doc reached across him for the light on the nightstand, snagging the chain and clicking it out. "We can do whatever your heart desires," he murmured, resting his cheek against the top of Marty's head.

"I want you to hold me until your stupid alarms go off at ass o'clock in the morning, how's that?"

"That," Doc promised, settling in for the handful of precious hours they had, "I can certainly do."

Friday, November 8, 1985

"Doc, I got an A on my English test," Marty said numbly, holding some stapled pages in one hand, looking absolutely miserable. "Who knew I knew so much about Shakespeare? Certainly not me."

Doc frowned, reaching for him, ushering him inside. He waited for Marty to drop his backpack and lean his skateboard against one of the workbenches before he placed both hands on Marty's shoulders, guiding him over to the well-worn red armchair. Marty sat down after a slight nudge, accepting the can of Pepsi Free that Doc slid into his hand. "Ordinarily, I'd be all in favor of a grade like that," said Doc, carefully, "but this somehow doesn't sound good?"

Marty heaved a sigh that felt, to Doc, like it had originated in the soles of Marty's shoes. "I didn't study for this test, Doc. I was barely able to string two words together for the essay part."

Doc frowned, taking a seat on the low coffee table opposite him, motioning for the test. His gaze landed first on the A written in red pen just to the left of Marty's name, the date of the test (October 20th), and that his class was third period. The first page was the usual mess of numbered multiple choice answers, some short answers (one of them, Marty had gotten wrong), but it was the second and third pages that made Doc raise his eyebrows.

He was used to seeing Marty's handwriting—pretty standard, at least whenever Marty took notes for him on an experiment that he couldn't directly oversee—but he'd never seen so much of it before. There were a few blank lines between the first and second paragraphs, but the paragraphs were fairly substantial. The essay covered symbolism in King Lear and how it compared to some other text they covered in class (English had never been one of Doc's favorite subjects), but there were a number of remarks in the margins mentioning Excellent use of in-class discussion material and one paragraph littered with enthusiastic checkmarks.

When Doc looked up from the test, he saw that Marty was rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"Marty?" Doc asked, unable to deny his confusion. "This appears to be excellent work."

Marty rubbed his face a few times before glancing at Doc again. He looked exhausted. "It's like this in all of my classes, Doc. It turns out I'm a straight-A student."

"I don't want you to think I'm not taking your concerns seriously, but isn't that a good thing?" Doc asked gently.

Marty winced as if this revelation physically pained him. "This is the new normal, Doc. In the original timeline, I did all right—if I got a D, I'd get in trouble with my parents, but nothing major. But I can't keep this up! I'm not this—this—" He gestured at the test in Doc's hands. "I'm not him! I'm not the super-genius Marty who can do this kind of shit!"

Doc set aside the test, and gripped Marty's shoulders firmly. "It's all right, Marty."

"How?" Marty's jaw tightened. "The next time I take a test, they're gonna know, Doc! They're gonna know that I'm not this version of myself, and—"

"Marty," Doc said firmly, trying to calm him. "Close your eyes, and take a deep breath."

Marty did as he was told, his breath evening somewhat. "Okay, I did. So now what?"

"Now, you're going to listen to me," Doc said, keeping his voice as calm as possible. "When you changed history in 1955, you created a timeline in which things are different, yes, but not impossible. You've always had the potential to be this version of yourself."

Marty's eyes popped open to give Doc a suspicious stare. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Doc began, gesturing for Marty to relax, "that you wouldn't have been able to make those grades before you went back to 1955 if you didn't have the ability to do so."

"So are you're saying that all those times that I actually busted my ass and still got a B were my fault for not trying hard enough?" Marty asked flatly.

"Yes and no," Doc admitted. "No matter what timeline we're in, you're always going to be you. You're a bright young man, and, yes, if you worked hard in school, I believe you'd be fully capable of making straight-A marks. Are you with me so far?"

Marty nodded, still frowning, but he didn't look like he was about to shut down.

"Now, in the original timeline, your home-life wasn't pleasant, and your family didn't have a lot of money. This was primarily because your father allowed Biff to bully him at work, am I correct?"

Marty opened his eyes to peer at Doc curiously. "How do you know about that?"

"I remember you when we first met, and how fascinated you were with some of the more mundane items around the lab," Doc said. "The rest was conjecture from what little you've said over the years, and from the one time your mother came here while you were at school."

"Ah, jeez, what happened?" Marty asked, wincing. "Did she read you the riot act?"

Doc shrugged. "I think she wanted to make sure I wasn't a pedophile or something similar. When I showed her the lab and discussed how much you were helping me with my experiments, she calmed down. Personally, I think she was more interested in the fact that I could afford to pay you than in anything else."

Marty groaned. "That sounds like her. Uh—the old version of her, anyway," he corrected himself. "Jeez, I'm never going to be able to get used to that. Do you think that our memories of the old timeline are going to stay with us? Or do you think those will fade?"

Doc shrugged. "Who knows? It could be that the new timeline will eventually assert itself, and our memories will change to fit accordingly." He paused for a moment. "Where was I?"

"I could make straight A's if I wanted to, and, in the old timeline, my home life sucked," Marty said, annoyance creeping into his voice. "Nothing we didn't already know, I guess."

"More importantly, your family wasn't as well-off as they are in this timeline," Doc pointed out. "Tutors are considered a luxury, especially if they're being paid especially large sums to make sure that the student in question excels."

Marty's eyes widened in panic. "Are you telling me that I might've had a private tutor?"

"It's possible that you might've had several, especially after your brother and sister graduated from high school," Doc offered. "Your parents would've focused all their energy on you."

Marty stared at him, wild-eyed. "This isn't helping, Doc! If my parents find out that I don't remember what I learned from the tutors, they're gonna know something's up."

Doc cupped Marty's cheek. "Which brings us back to the question of whether or not the new-timeline memories will assert themselves. If they do, you'll have nothing to worry about."

"If they don't, I'm screwed," Marty moaned, nuzzling into Doc's hand and pressing a kiss to his palm. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but 1885 was a lot easier to handle than this."

"1885 also had highly unsanitary conditions, barbaric medical practices, and a very limited worldview," Doc said dryly. "The only reason that we had a higher standard of living back in 1885 was due to the fact that I'd successfully established myself as a blacksmith."

"Yeah, well, it's not like I have a lot of marketable skills to fall back on, Doc," Marty grumbled.

"You have your music," Doc offered, shifting his hand so that he could brush his fingers through Marty's hair above his ear. "Which reminds me—did you submit that audition tape?"

Marty winced, tilting his chin up and falling back against the armchair to stare up at the ceiling. "Of course I didn't, Doc. It's not like we're actually any good…"

Doc considered Marty for a long moment. In the original timeline, Marty had often expounded on topics in which he expressed interest, although they tended toward either the latest experiment that Doc had been working on that Marty had deemed far out, Jennifer, the Pinheads and their music, or, on occasion, a book that he'd recently read. Just as often, Marty had always mumbled about not being good enough whenever Doc had tried to encourage him. Jennifer had been the only aspect of life where Marty's desire for success had actually outweighed his crushing doubt.

"You won't know unless you try, Marty," Doc pointed out. "Sometimes, you have to take that risk." He found himself vividly reminded of the Marty he'd encountered in 1938, especially during the encounter at the Science Expo with his father. Marty had talked about the fact that the younger generation needed to take chances in order to follow their dreams, and he'd actually done the impossible: managed to convince the old man to allow Doc to pursue his dreams. From where he was sitting, Marty had a long way to go before he reached that point.

"I know, I know," Marty said, and it really did feel like the two of them were reading from a TV script that Doc had already seen. "But what happens if I try, and I'm still not good enough?"

Well, if the program was going to stay the same, then Doc decided that the least he could do was change the channel. He leaned forward and brushed a kiss against Marty's lips.

"I just hate the idea that—" Marty startled when Doc took his hands in both of his. "Doc?"

Doc tugged at Marty's hands with all of the care he could possibly muster. "It's been a long day, and, right now, all I want is to feel you in my arms. How does that sound?"

Marty lit up, using Doc's hands as leverage to get up and follow him to the bed.

One intense hour and a few blissfully week-overdue orgasms later, Marty murmured, "I'll tell you a couple things I don't miss about 1885."

"Hmmm? What's that?" Doc asked lazily, trailing a finger along Marty's bicep.

"The really crappy bed and the lack of heating," Marty said, making a show of snuggling into his pillow and giving Doc a lazy, contented smile. "Hey, um…thank you."

Doc raised an eyebrow at him. "What have I said before about thanking me?"

Marty shook his head. "It's not that," he said solemnly. "It's…that I usually have to pin you down before you'll let me take the lead. I'm thinking I know why you let me do it this time?"

"Why?" Doc asked, hopefully smiling, wondering what Marty's answer would be.

Marty shifted, snuggling closer to him, gingerly resting his head against Doc's chest. After the months they'd spent in 1885, Doc had gotten used to Marty's habit of looking away while answering a serious question after they'd been intimate. "Sex with you is something that I feel confident about. Yeah, I'm guessing we're probably doing really vanilla stuff here, but that's okay, because that's where we're comfortable, and we like it."

Doc hummed in agreement, running his fingers through Marty's hair again.

"And even if we wanted to change things up a little, it would be okay, because we'd just treat it like one of your experiments," Marty continued. "If it doesn't work, then that's okay. It's something we know to avoid next time."

"And if it does work?" Doc asked, genuinely curious what he'd say to that.

"Then we can try it again," Marty replied, lazily tracing patterns against Doc's skin. "You've gotta repeat experiments more than once before you can say that they worked, right?"

"Right." Doc pressed a kiss against Marty's hair. "How do you feel now? Better than earlier?"

"Much better," Marty admitted, winking at him. "The sex didn't hurt, either. Thanks, Doc."

Friday, February 14, 1986

Doc set aside the latest issue of National Geographic, checking his watch. Marty was running late, which wouldn't have been of any particular concern if they hadn't made plans to head out to the lake for the weekend. Doc had never particularly held with the observance of greeting-card-company-manufactured holidays, but Marty had ideas about romance.

Resolutely, he resumed the magazine and read until, ten minutes later, the sound of Marty's truck pulling up outside set Einstein into a flurry of enthusiastic whimpering and scampering.

"Yes, Einie, I know," said Doc, indulgently, getting up to answer the door. "He's here."

Marty stood on the doorstep looking somewhat abashed, and it wasn't immediately apparent why until he slung off his backpack, unzipped it, and produced what looked suspiciously like a box of chocolates from the only remaining family-owned chocolatier in Hill Valley.

"I had to scour the phone book to find this place, Doc," he said, shoving the box into Doc's hands. "One time, you mentioned this candy shop your parents had liked; I think you said it had been in the same family for like fifty years or something? Well, the sleuthing was worth it. Happy Valentine's Day, Doc. Now, are you gonna invite me in so I can kiss you or what?"

Doc turned the box over in his hands, unable to prevent himself from fixing Marty with a helpless grin. The place hadn't just been his parents' favorite; he'd loved getting treats there as a kid. "Get in here before I change my mind, Future Boy," Doc said, ushering Marty inside.

"You bet," Marty said, eagerly following him, kicking the door shut behind them. "In fact, I—"

Doc pinned him up against the door before he could say another word; both the kiss and his free hand fisted in Marty's shirt earned him an adorably shocked Mmmph? Marty's reflexes kicked in after a few seconds, much to Doc's relief. He wrapped his arms around Doc's neck, gasping between kisses, and managed to yank the box of chocolates free of Doc's grasp. He dropped it on the floor and put his arms back where they'd just been, breathing hard.

Einstein, meanwhile, was snuffling the box. Doc could hear him lapping at the shrink-wrap.

"As much as I'd like to continue this," Doc said wryly, "we'd better get Einstein out of harm's way and hit the road. I expect to catch plenty of fish in the morning. We can have chocolate for breakfast this once as long as you don't expect me to make a regular habit of it."

Marty rubbed the side of his neck. "Sounds like a deal, Doc," he said, leaning forward for another kiss. Slower this time, more contemplative. When he pulled back to look at Doc again, there was something troubled in his expression. "I gotta tell you, this weird thing just happened at home."

Doc retrieved the chocolates and took Marty's backpack off his hands, sticking the box back inside it. "Here," he said, "tell me about it while we load up the truck. I'm going to need help getting this stuff outside; there's more of it than I remember. Since when did I have so many fly-rods?"

"Do you remember anything about how Biff used to be in the old timeline?" Marty asked, following the direction in which Doc had pointed, taking hold of the cooler handles. "Jesus, what is this? Live bait? Gross, Doc." He carried it toward the door while Doc gathered up the haphazard bundle of fishing poles, and then followed him outside. "I ran into him on my way out."

"You ran into Biff Tannen on your way here?" Doc asked, setting the poles in the back of the truck before taking the cooler away from Marty so he could settle it there, too. "Why is that unusual?"

"Well, I literally ran into him," Marty explained. At Doc's startled look, he admitted, "I clipped his car with the truck. See?" He pointed to a nasty scrape on his back left fender. "And I thought, well, shit. Here he is just trying to back out of the driveway while I've got my mind in the gutter, and I swear Dad's gonna kill me if the insurance premiums go up. Anyway, I was pretty terrified, but I got back out of the truck, and Biff was already out of his car. I remember thinking—" Marty paused to catch his breath, genuinely upset about the incident. "Doc, when he looked at me—"

Doc set a hand on Marty's shoulder, guiding him back toward the house. "What happened?"

"He just looked kind of confused," said Marty, blankly. "Like he was shocked to see me instead of Dave or Linda or somebody. And then he smiled at me and said hi. Smiled, Doc. Like—he looked so amused? Like I'm the last person on earth he'd expect this from."

"It stands to reason you probably are," Doc allowed, handing Marty a knapsack full of camping paraphernalia once they got back inside. "Nothing about this timeline suggests you're a careless kid."

"Anyway, I was about to answer him when my Dad came outside," Marty sighed, shouldering the knapsack. "He must've heard the impact; that kind of sound is hard to miss even when the damage is minor. So my Dad comes out asking what seems to be the matter, and then he stops and looks at me like he's puzzled to see me with my backpack and the truck all fired up. It didn't occur to me my parents would assume I didn't have plans, but, silly me, they were all over the break-up when it happened, weren't they?" Marty closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Dad totally ignored Biff at that point and asked me where I thought I was going, didn't I know Dave was counting on the company this weekend because he's single, too?"

"This is certainly a fascinating conundrum," Doc said cautiously, pausing as he rescued the remainder of their gear from a slobber-happy Einstein. "What did you end up telling your old man?"

"That's the amazing part, Doc," said Marty, heading back toward the door to hold it open for him. "Before I could even open my mouth, Biff launched into this totally outlandish string of apologies about how he hadn't been watching where he was going, it was all his fault, honest, Marty was just telling me how he's on his way out to the lake for a stag weekend with the guys." He shook his head, grabbing the stuff off Doc's hands, chucking it into the back of the truck. "Biff covered for me. He didn't even know where I was going, and he actually, honest-to-God covered for me." Marty shrugged and threw up his hands. "Why would he do that, Doc? I don't understand."

Doc tilted his head, considering. "What did your father have to say about all of this, anyway?"

"Apparently, I can't go out on Valentine's Day unless I have a date or a stag night," said Marty, shrugging. "It's like he was happy to hear it, I swear. He told Biff to get his insurance information to us as soon as possible, and that was that. Biff made some wise-crack before he got back in his car, oh, you know, who needs a Valentine anyway? And my Dad kinda cracked up and went, oh, you'd better not let your wife hear you talk like that. I just—wow, Doc. You don't understand. The way things used to be, I'd half expected—"

"The Biff you encountered in alternate-1985 was nothing more than a potentiality that, thankfully, never came to pass," Doc sighed, tugging Marty in by the wrists. "I remember what a bully he used to be to you and your folks in our original timeline, but I don't think he ever raised a hand to any of you—unless you count what he did to your mother and father in 1955."

Marty nodded, glancing up at Doc. "Is there anything else in the house, or can we get outta here?"

Doc sighed. "I hope you're not trying to change the subject, because it's clear you need to talk this through," he said, indicating Marty's backpack, which Marty had slung over his shoulder and been carrying for all this time. "If you haven't got anything else, then we're set. Only Einstein left to pack."

"Yeah, and the canned food and the can opener," Marty said, cracking a smile. "I don't know, Doc. I was scared to death, but it turned out I had no reason to be. That's tough to square with."

"Come on, then," Doc said, leading Marty back inside. "Let's get Einie and his gear, and then get this show on the road. You've had another rough day, it sounds like, and I'm not about to let that slide."

"Can we have more than just chocolate for breakfast?" asked Marty, hopefully. "Before fishing, I mean?"

"We can have that and chocolate at the same time, for all I care," Doc said, holding the door. "After you."

Tuesday, May 13, 1986

There were no two ways about it: Marty's day at school had sucked. His teachers had all had it in for him, what with all the surprise instances of calling on him even when he hadn't raised his hand. He left without saying goodbye to anyone, fetching his skateboard and backpack in a rush.

The constant weariness that had become habitual since their return to 1985 started to ease when Doc's home came into view, but, this time, Marty sensed that there was something wrong. He couldn't put his finger on how he knew, necessarily, but as he kicked his skateboard into his hand and got the key from under the potted plant, it wouldn't leave him alone.

Einstein perked up the instant Marty opened the door, bolting for him and accepting Marty's head-rubs with jittery contentment. Must be nice to be a dog, Marty thought. Life's easy.

"That's funny," Marty muttered, giving Einstein more of a thorough rubdown. "You're not usually so anxious when you meet me at the door, are you, Einie?"

Einstein sneezed in reply, and then trotted back to his bed, where he curled up and looked dejected.

"Huh. Hey, Doc?" he called, looking around, wandering through the familiar space. "Is something wrong with Einstein?" When he didn't hear a reply, he frowned. "Doc?"

Einstein whined in his bed before getting up, trotting over to the front door, and sitting down.

"You wanna go out for a walk, Einstein?" Marty asked, trying to calm down. Just because Doc wasn't there, it wasn't the end of the world. It just meant that he was out running an errand or something. He hadn't seen Doc's bike outside, after all, and, since the DeLorean had gotten destroyed, Doc had been stuck relying on either his bike or his twenty-four-hour-science-on-demand armored utility van to get around town. "Let's go for a walk and see if Doc gets back while we're out, huh?"

Einstein was his usual self during the walk, at least, sniffing mailbox posts and lifting his leg on the occasional tree. When he finally did his business on somebody's lawn, Marty cleaned it up with the high-tech scooper Doc had designed ages ago, and then headed back, not surprised when Doc wasn't there to greet them. His unease grew.

A quick search of the lab, which made Marty steadily more frantic the longer it took, yielded nothing until Einstein barked, nosing at a box underneath the bed. Confused and still worried, Marty yanked it from its hiding place and dropped it on the bed, uncomfortably reminded of the box that Doc had used to carry the plutonium before he upgraded the DeLorean with a Mr. Fusion.

He popped the catches after some hesitation, opening it to find a handwritten note lying on top of a set of folded clothes. Unfolding the note, he read:

Dear Marty,

I'm sorry that I wasn't there greet you when you got home. If you're reading this note, then I have most likely encountered some kind of trouble and will require your assistance.

For the past few months, I've been conducting a personal research project using more traditional methods. However, I recently encountered a dead end. Last week, I sent Clara a letter via Western Union, requesting her assistance. She arrived while you were in school today. She is well and sends her regards.

With Clara's help, I've traveled to the date May 18th, 1938. In order to best help me, I'll need you to go to the library and check the vertical files after this date. If I've made the news, my alias for this trip is Carl Sagan. In the event you find some reference to me, put on the enclosed set of garments—they should be in your size. After you've found out what's happened, wait at home for a sign indicating how you should proceed next. It shouldn't be long, and you'll know it when you see it.

Clara gave us a surprise, which we'll need to discuss when we see each other again and are (hopefully) out of danger. Please accept my profoundest apologies with regard to these circumstances.

I love you,
"Doc"

Marty lowered the note, not liking the idea that Doc needed to apologize in advance about a so-called surprise Clara was giving them.

He lifted each article of the old-fashioned outfit one at a time to see what he was working with. Ever since Doc's thirty-five-year-old self had dressed him in that gaudy pink cowboy get-up, he'd grown leery of clothes he didn't know for absolute certain were period-compliant.

This time, though, he had to hand it to Doc—not only were they in his size, but these were things he could've worn even back in 1885 without raising eyebrows. Of course, thinking about 1885 reminded him of all the things he missed about living back then, especially the regular sex. Shaking his head, Marty glanced at Doc's clock collection and figured he had just enough time to get to the library.

The Hill Valley Public Library was almost as big as the courthouse, with rooms that smelled like dust, vinegar, and old books. Luckily, the vertical files weren't too difficult to find, although he had a hell of a time hiding what he intended to do from the librarians.

Checking through May of 1938 hadn't yielded much except for newspapers he had to be slightly careful with. It wasn't until June 14th that he hit paydirt. His stomach dropped at the sight of Doc's startled expression in the photograph. He wore a suit and a straw boater hat, holding up an old-timey mugshot placard. Right next to it was the headline CARL SAGAN KILLED.

Well, if ever Marty needed to know what kind of catastrophe he was supposed to fix, this was not only setting off alarm bells, but also circled in red pen multiple times. It took some finesse to work the newspaper free and, subsequently, to avoid the librarian who was monitoring the place. He eyed the Xerox machine for a moment, wondering if it would've worked just as well, but decided that it was better not to risk photocopies lacking the capability to change as events were altered.

Now all I have to do is wait, Marty grumbled inwardly. Great.

One phone-call home to Mom, along with a lot of I dunno how long this study session is going to last and I swear, I'll head straight to school in the morning, Doc's already set the alarms, got him permission to stay the night. While he would've wanted to remember the tactic for the next time he wanted to sleep in Doc's arms during the week, he knew that using it up now was necessary in service of a higher cause. He couldn't sleep in Doc's arms if Doc was dead.

The eerily-familiar crackle of electricity and a blinding flash of white light from outside at four AM woke both Marty and Einstein out of a restless sleep. Rubbing his eyes, Marty stumbled into the driveway with Einstein on his heels, and then stared.

"Doc, I swear to God," Marty breathed, taking in the ice-encrusted exterior of the DeLorean, completely baffled as to why it was there, but absolutely positive that it was the surprise from Clara that he and Doc had to discuss. "If you've gone anywhere else in this thing without me, I'm going to kick your ass."

Einstein whimpered, cocking his head. He probably recognized the vehicle meant trouble.

"Yeah, I know, Einie," Marty said gently, stroking the dog's ear. "I don't like it either."

He kicked at the door handle to open it, stepping back to inspect the interior. Sure enough, the car was empty, but how the hell had Doc managed to do that without it crashing into the house? He checked the pedals to see if maybe there had been a brick involved, but in the glowing lights from the control panels Doc had installed inside the DeLorean, he couldn't see anything.

"Well, it looks like I'm going after him," Marty sighed. "C'mon, Einstein, let's get you inside. There's no need for both of us to go wandering through time."

Einstein whimpered again, but followed Marty inside. Marty changed quickly, folding the newspaper with care and tucking it under his arm before nudging Einstein back from the door once he'd opened it again. "No, boy," he sighed. "You've gotta stay here and wait for us. We won't be gone long, promise."

He gingerly closed the door and locked it before turning back to the DeLorean. Taking a deep breath, he sat down in the driver's seat and turned the hand-crank, watching the time circuits blink on. Having verified what he'd expected to see, he shrugged and punched in the date June 13th, 1938, deciding he'd play it safe and arrive at four in the morning. He didn't need to be jetlagged as soon as he got there.

It wasn't until he'd glanced at the flux capacitor that he noticed the dictaphone sitting on the passenger seat. It was labeled with a piece of masking tape that had MARTY scrawled in Doc's handwriting across it. Marty didn't hesitate to snatch it up and press play.

"Marty, if you're hearing this, then the new automatic retrieval system that Clara designed was a resounding success!" Doc announced on the recording, his voice tinny.

Marty's eyes narrowed. "We are definitely going to have a nice long talk, Doc."

"Again, my sincerest apologies for not telling you about this, but your schooling should come first," Doc said with a combination of genuine apology and firm strictness that made Marty want to strangle him and kiss him at the same time. "We'll argue about that later. Now, allow me to explain the automatic retrieval feature."

Marty folded his arms across his chest, settling back into the seat. "This should be good."

"In the event of my failure to return to the DeLorean within an allotted time, I've programmed the time machine to jump to these fourth-dimensional coordinates without me. After this feature has performed the initial jump, it won't activate again. I'm sure that you've read my letter and made the necessary arrangements in preparation for this trip."

There was a pause in the recording. "Marty, I'm sorry that you have to come find me. And I'm sorry that I didn't tell you I knew this was g—"

The recording cut off, leaving Marty breathless. "What?" he demanded. "What the hell are you talking about?" He rewound the tape and played it again; it cut off at the same point. "God dammit, Doc, what the hell?" He slammed his free hand against the steering wheel in frustration. "This isn't how you make a relationship work, Doc! Just so you know!"

Marty closed his eyes, leaning back against the head-rest, trying to keep his breath slow and even. A few minutes passed before he felt calm enough to pull out of Doc's driveway and head out toward the city limits. Everything's gonna be fine, he told himself. You survived 1955 and 1885 and a ton of other unpleasant decades, for crying out loud. You can do this.

When he found Doc in 1938, Marty was going to give him a piece of his mind.

Thursday, May 15, 1986

"Here we are," Doc announced as he pulled the DeLorean into his driveway, "back in good old 1986."

Marty felt like he had been holding himself back ever since Doc had come to rescue him in 1938, but now he couldn't stand it any longer. He was either going to hit Doc with that piece of his mind or kiss him, but he wasn't sure which needed to come first.

"Now, what is it that's had you so—" Doc began to ask, but Marty stopped him by grabbing the front of his tweed jacket and dragging him into a deep, relieved kiss.

Doc eased back from the kiss with a look of contentment. Marty knew that they had to be careful, since it was only May, but whenever Doc looked at him like that, it just made Marty want to kiss him more.

"Not that I'm objecting," Doc murmured, questioning. "but you're usually more cautious than this."

"Sorry, Doc," Marty said. "I can explain when we get inside, but…let's just say I didn't want to wait."

Doc nodded, shooting Marty a curious glance, but followed him inside readily enough. Einstein greeted them both, enthusiastically snuffling around their feet before wandering back to his bed. "Einstein should be all right," Doc said. "I took him out for a walk before the award ceremony—"

Marty turned Doc to face him, and then wrapped his arms around Doc's waist, burying his face against Doc's chest. He closed his eyes, smelling the familiar combination of laundry detergent, Doc's aftershave, and, well, Doc. He felt something inside him unclench.

"Marty?" Doc asked, cautious, hugging him back just as warmly. "Are you all right?"

"I feel like a complete asshole," Marty muttered into his shirt. "I can't even begin to explain."

There was a brief silence before Doc asked, "Are you referring to what happened in 1938?"

Marty nodded, snuggling into him a little more. "I'm so sorry, Doc. That must've been hell."

Doc hummed, as if considering something. "You know you don't have to apologize, don't you?"

"Don't have to—" Marty blinked, not sure he'd heard correctly. He pulled back to stare at Doc incredulously. "Are you crazy? Of course I have to apologize!"

"For what, exactly?" Doc asked, irritatingly unfussed that Marty had had a one-night stand with his younger self and had been a complete dick to him. "Making sure that I didn't make the worst mistake of my life?"

Marty scowled at him. "You know why, Doc. That must've messed with your head for years."

"If you feel the need to apologize for making my first time a memorable experience, then you'll have to allow me to apologize for not warning you in advance that you were going to do so," Doc said.

"Since when did you know—" Marty demanded, realizing exactly how Doc would know less than two seconds after he'd given him a fondly exasperated look. "Oh. Right."

Doc nodded, looking satisfied. "Even as we were talking about my past sexual experience during your first sexual encounter, it was difficult not to tell you the entire story. Still, it's dangerous to know too much about one's future. And I felt I would've been telling you too much about my past, too."

"A little warning would've been nice," Marty grumbled, not meaning it as much as he probably should have. "Maybe it would've helped to know that I wasn't done time traveling just yet."

"Just like you tried to warn me about my parents' deaths in 1946?" Doc asked gently. "And that you were going to hurt me in 1955 unintentionally?"

Marty felt his heart drop like a rock in his chest. "I didn't want you to just…walk into it blind. If I knew that my parents were going to—"

Doc set both of his hands on Marty's shoulders. "I appreciate the sentiment behind it, Marty, really. But feeling that dread for an entire year, without knowing what was going to happen or when, was almost worse than the day of the crash. Thankfully, you didn't tell me exactly what was going to happen, or else I might've done something drastic in order to prevent it. That might have changed the timeline irrevocably."

Marty gritted his teeth, guilt hitting like a one-two punch. He'd already messed up the timeline because he'd thought Emmett and Edna were just going to be a harmless fling. Knowing that he could've done something else equally as bad when he'd been trying to help hurt just as badly. "I'm sorry."

Doc stroked his cheek, still infuriatingly calm in light of all that had happened. "Marty—"

"Look," Marty cut in tightly, his stomach twisting into knots. Jesus, at this rate, he was going to start crying. "Stop trying to make me feel better about fucking up. What else did I do wrong?"

Doc frowned at Marty with worry in his dark eyes, damn him. "Your cautionary words regarding the future weren't a mistake," he said.

The humiliation was severe enough that Marty had wanted to jump off a cliff out of shame, but now he wanted to shove Doc off that cliff too. "Doc, you just told me—"

"I know," Doc said firmly. "I know what I said, but listen to me. By warning me about 1946, you gave me a chance to verify who you really were in 1955. Yes, I was extremely hurt that you didn't remember me, but I also couldn't believe that you hadn't aged in seventeen years, which was another clue that you really were telling the truth about coming from the future. Those two facts together resulted in my decision to help you."

Marty still felt like Doc was trying to make him feel better, even if the explanation made sense. "What about telling you about the flux capacitor?" he muttered. "Didn't that count for anything?"

"It broke through the anger and despair I'd been feeling over yet another invention failing to work," Doc admitted. "I could've told anyone in the future that story, but I had to know that it was really you and not someone who happened to resemble you."

"And then I didn't get your reference about friends getting in the way of work." Marty winced. "Doc, I'm really sorry about that too. We keep echoing each other, don't we, and sometimes the wires cross."

"You had warned me that you wouldn't remember meeting me," Doc reminded him. "Seeing you not understand what was happening made the veracity of that statement clear."

"And that kiss right before I took off for 1985?" Marty asked, hoping to finally receive elucidation.

Doc winced. "Born out of desperation," he admitted. "I hadn't seen you for seventeen years, and then you come back to me exactly the way you warned me you would: terrified, confused, and desperate to get back to your life in 1985. I felt like I needed to do something to say goodbye to you." He sighed heavily. "Of course, I should've realized what effect that would potentially have on both of us. Had you harbored any romantic feelings towards me before that point?"

It was a simple question, but Marty felt like the two possible answers could lead to two very different outcomes. But even as he looked into Doc's eyes, he knew he should tell the truth. "No."

Doc nodded. "I'd thought as much, given how long you and Jennifer had been dating." He looked like he was about to add something else, but Marty beat him to the punch.

"Doc, if you apologize for starting this relationship, I'm going to get really pissed off," Marty said with conviction. "I'm officially a month away from being recognized as a legal adult, and I'm old enough to make my own decisions. We were together for three months in 1885, so, really, I'm probably already eighteen. Either way, I chose to be with you, and I haven't regretted it once. I feel sorry as hell for what I put you through in 1938 and 1955 and any of the other years where I've fucked up, but I don't regret anything."

"As long as you're certain, that's something I'll never feel compelled to do," Doc promised. "How could I apologize after all the joy you've brought me? Surely you know it outweighs the pain?"

"God, what a relief," Marty sighed, sagging into his embrace. "And here I thought maybe I'd ruined our chances at having anything completely normal ever again, what with all the stuff that's come back to haunt us. You have to admit there's never been a relationship like ours anywhere. Or any…when, I guess, but that's not even a word."

"I can't deny that we're likely one-of-a-kind," Doc said. "Sheer probability is on our side."

Marty frowned, suddenly realizing something. "So, wait. I lost my virginity to you after you lost your virginity to me." He blinked. "Doc, that's heavy."

"Not only that, but the same statement applies to me as well," Doc said, grinning when he saw how stunned Marty was. "Only we could've managed it, of course. I have no doubt of that."

"Let's not do anything else out of order, okay?" Marty asked with an unsteady smile in return.

***

They were just settling down to Chinese take-out—hungry and exhausted after all they'd been through, for sure—when a knock sounded at the door. Marty raised his eyebrows at Doc, wondering if he'd been expecting any deliveries, but Doc's look in return was equally mystified.

"I guess I'd better answer that," Doc said, wiping his mouth on a napkin and getting up.

Marty was tempted to follow him, but he realized the smarter course of action was probably distracting Einstein with bits of chicken so he wouldn't trot over and try to get in the stranger's face. He could hear a hushed, intense exchange, followed by the delivery woman asking Doc to sign here.

Doc came back once he'd seen her off, wearing the most apologetic look Marty had seen in a long while. He held out a yellowing envelope for Marty to inspect. It bore Clara's copperplate handwriting.

"Do I even wanna know what this is about?" Marty sighed, setting his chopsticks aside. "I've had enough letters from the nineteenth century turning up out of nowhere, thank you very much."

"I don't know what it's about any more than you do, so let's read it together," Doc suggested, making a detour over to his desk in order to fetch a letter opener. They ought to have been more careful unfolding the document, because the points at which it had been folded cracked a little when they flattened it against the ottoman. Marty let Doc sit in the armchair so he could stand at Doc's shoulder, frowning at what he saw on the page. Old-fashioned handwriting had never been too daunting, for some reason, but Marty supposed that was because he'd been living with Doc's for quite a while. The letter read:

My dearest Messrs. Brown and McFly,

I trust you will not have been expecting to hear from me again so soon—that is, relatively speaking within the constraints of your own immediate experience. For my part, I should have liked to leave you to your newfound peace and happiness, but a matter of some troubling significance has recently come to my attention. It concerns the fate of Hill Valley and environs some hundred-and-twenty-odd years from now; even as I write this, I find myself struggling with what particulars I ought to provide. In the year 2002, with which I have had some passing personal trade, a scientific research facility located in the Great Basin will unleash some manner of devastating technological plague that would, within months, reach our fair city. I cannot become personally entangled in this endeavor for a multitude of reasons, not least because I may in fact have developed an emotional attachment of my own. This party dear to my affections and most high in my regard has implored me not to take such risks; and so, I am left with little choice but to enlist your aid. Please find enclosed reproductions of such documents as will provide you with the relevant date, time, and location of the catastrophe. I wish you every success in this endeavor, my friends, should you choose to intervene. I am not so foolish as to assume that the pair of you taking me up on this proposition is a foregone conclusion; however, I feel that your joint conscience and sense of obligation with regard to the place we call home is unwavering. And should you be lost, I take strange reassurance in knowing that I should prefer to lose you both rather than suffer the hardship of watching one of you lose the other. Something too much of this. You shall be in my thoughts continually until such time as we meet again. If we do not, then godspeed: I know every time and place in which I might find you again even long after you are both gone, and that is a comfort.

All of my love and fondest wishes, as I rest assured I have yours,
Clara Elizabeth Clayton

"Aw, jeez," Marty muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut so he wouldn't give in to the stinging in his eyes. "I don't think her intention was to lay on a guilt-trip or anything, but I swear the heart-wrenching stuff there at the end makes it impossible for me to refuse her." Marty tapped the page. "She's quoting Hamlet here; I just read it for class."

"Refusal would never have been an option," Doc sighed, re-folding the letter, reaching into the envelope to retrieve the remainder of the documents. He glanced over them, doubtless getting all the relevant details, so Marty checked out of the stress-loop to pet Einstein while Doc digested the information. "Well, the mission is straightforward enough. When do you think we should leave?"

"How about we finish eating first?" asked Marty, wryly, giving Einstein one more piece of chicken before picking up his plate and retreating to the edge of the bed. "Also, we need to lay out some rules here now that we've got an operational time machine on our hands again."

Doc tucked all of the documents back in the envelope, sighing heavily. "I was afraid of that."

"You asshole, you didn't tell me about this," Marty said, jabbing his chopsticks in Doc's direction, "and you went all cryptic in your letter. We need a no-secrets policy from here on out."

"Where once I might have said it's never wise to know too much about one's future," Doc sighed, "I'm inclined to agree with you. Secrets have caused us our fair share of grief over the years, haven't they?"

"No more secrets, and no more trips unless we go together," said Marty, emphatically. "Every time we've gotten split up, it's been no end of bad news, Doc. I never wanna travel alone again."

"Granted, even in numbers, safety isn't guaranteed," Doc said, setting the envelope aside, retrieving his own plate. "I've been considering this since earlier, and, honestly, if either of us owes the other an apology, I can't help but feel it's me. Inasmuch as you felt you behaved terribly toward me in 1938, I behaved even worse toward you in 2015," he continued. "I gave no sign that I remembered kissing you in 1955 even though I sensed that it was weighing on you. I was so convinced that we were there for the sake of saving your future with Jennifer and the kids that mentioning it would've been—"

"Would've been the decent thing to do, Doc, regardless of why the hell we were there," Marty cut in. "I mean, yeah, I forgive you. I'm at the point now where I can forgive you anything, but your silence and obliviousness were confusing. I wanted to know if I stood a chance with you, any chance, because so much of it would've directed the decisions I made from there on out."

"Even if that future will never exist," said Doc, resolutely, "I still believe that we did a decent thing." However, his expression was pained. "I am sorry for it, Marty, and for my actions during that time above all. Decent thing or not, perhaps we never should have gone."

"Hey, if we hadn't," Marty said, "I would never have had an inkling that maybe things were gonna suck royally for me and Jennifer down the line. You saw what a shitty wedding we had, I guess, and how disappointing everything was from then on out. I have to believe now that none of this would have worked out for us if we hadn't taken every single trip we took, exactly as we took them."

"Your optimism is a baffling thing," Doc replied wonderingly, "but I won't question it ever again."

"For the record, though, we did have to go back to 2015," Marty pointed out. "You'd left Einstein there!" The dog licked Marty's hand at the mention of his name. "Everything worked out."

"About this finishing-dinner business," Doc sighed. "I fear I've lost my appetite at this juncture."

"Well, I'm not leaving for 2002 until my lo mein is gone," Marty said, and kept eating.

Epilogue: Saturday, May 17, 1986

Marty had always hated dreams where he knew he was dreaming, because he could never change what was happening in them. It was like being stranded somewhere with a broken DeLorean, only worse.

He heard the gunshot go off and saw Doc go down before Julia Foreman ordered the swarm to take over Doc's body. But instead of the swarm advancing on him like it had before, it coalesced into a grimy, hulking man wearing old-fashioned clothes and carrying a gun. You're Mad Dog Tannen, he thought blankly as Doc rose from the spot in which he'd fallen. Still looking angry and determined, Doc faced down Mad Dog, lifting his hand as if he were aiming a gun at him. Marty's hand rose at the same time, as if of its own accord, holding a gun and pointing it at Mad Dog.

"It's either the hand or the head, Marty," Doc said to him. "You've got a decision to make."

"What if I don't want to shoot?" Marty shouted, watching as his thumb eased back the hammer.

"Then things are gonna go bad for you," Mad Dog growled at Doc. "Just you watch, blacksmith."

"Would you really let me die, Marty?" Doc asked, his eyes fixed on Mad Dog.

"No—of course not!" Marty said frantically. "How could you even ask me that?"

"You got to the count of three, McFly," Mad Dog drawled. "Hand or head?"

Marty's vision narrowed to the gun in Mad Dog's hand, his finger-muscles tensing.

"No!" Marty shouted. He watched in horror as his arm swung around, pointed the gun at Doc's chest, and fired. He wanted to drop the gun so badly, but found he still wasn't in control of his limbs. "Doc!"

Doc recoiled, looking startled. His hat flew off, revealing short hair, glasses, and a pristine lab coat. "Now, Martin, that was a foolish thing to do, don't you agree?"

"Citizen Brown?" Marty gasped. "What—but I fixed that! I changed history!"

"You fixed it. You did it against my expressed wishes!" Citizen Brown said sharply, scowling and advancing on him while waving away Mad Dog, who had turned into Biff in his stupid polo shirt. "You decided my significant other for me! How many times have I told you that I didn't invent the time machine for personal gain?"

"I didn't!" Marty screamed, his hand lifting again. "Edna was no good for you—"

"And you're any better?" Citizen Brown sneered. "Or is Clara, for that matter?"

Marty fired again, screaming as he watched Citizen Brown turn back into Doc. "Doc? Oh, God, Doc!"

"Marty…" Doc said weakly, clutching at his chest, which was where the first shot had landed. He staggered and fell as he ought to have done when the first shot hit, and when the bloodstain spread, Marty could see that the fabric it stained was white. Doc wasn't Doc, not anymore. Marty would've known that shock of wild auburn hair anywhere, would have recognized that pale, freckled face long after he'd forgotten his own name. "Or is...your name Michael after all?" he rasped.

Marty's eyes snapped open in pitch-darkness. He was screaming, or trying to scream, but no sound escaped his lips. He tried to move his limbs and failed, unable to thrash against Doc's arm wrapped securely around his waist. After a few seconds, he managed a strangled whimper.

Doc stirred, his arm around Marty tightening. "Is everything all right? Did I wake you?"

Marty tried again, and, finally, it felt like something in his throat had been unlocked. "No," he panted, "but I think I need some help here, Doc. Am I awake, or is this just another—"

"Unless we're far more deeply entrenched in each other's heads than I generally assume," Doc said, his tone sleep-roughened, yet soothing, "then I severely doubt this is another dream. You're safe."

Marty tried shifting in bed, and then breathed a sigh of relief when he felt his limbs respond. Using his newfound freedom, he shifted and rolled over until he was pressed against Doc's chest. "Good."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Doc asked, his hand mapping Marty's changed geography before gathering him close. "I can't stand that you've been…having nightmares at home with no recourse to venting." He sounded startled. "You've been having them since we came back, haven't you?"

Marty inhaled slowly, thinking back to the dream, feeling the weight of previously-suppressed memories settling in his mind. "Yeah. Because I shot Mad Dog Tannen in the hand to save your life."

"Since you shot him?" There was a long, revelatory silence. "Great Scott. Yes, it's coming back to me now."

"There's something else," Marty said slowly, tentatively letting his hand creep up from Doc's hip until he encountered Doc's bare chest. "What do you remember about 1938?"

"Marty, I know that you changed my personal timeline when you came to rescue me in 1938, but…" Doc's voice trailed off in wonder, as if something else had begun to come back.

"Doc?" Marty asked reluctantly, not sure whether interrupting him was a good idea or not.

"Michael—Marty, you were—" Doc touched Marty's face, his cheek, his hair. "Great Scott. No wonder I couldn't keep my hands off you in 1885." Marty felt Doc press a soft kiss to his forehead. "I must've been making up for lost time."

"I can't seem to forgive myself for how long you ended up waiting for me, Doc," Marty whispered. "And it hurts like hell to admit this, but I was so tempted to stay. If I'd remained in 1938, we could've had a life together. A life where neither one of us would've caused the other any inconvenience by being too fucking young—"

"Come now," Doc chided gently. "If your age is an inconvenience to me, then mine is to you."

"Yeah, but at least you're legal," Marty shot back. "I'm the one who's a problem here."

"My point is, neither one of us is a problem," Doc said. "These are just facts around which we'll have to work until such time as the law comes to its senses. And that's less than a month off."

"If I hadn't walked out of your bedroom that night, I swear I'd have never left 1938 at all."

"Then it's quite fortunate that you did. Neither of us could have predicted the way my life might have been altered with your continued presence in it." Doc paused before adding in a lower, more confessional tone, "If I had seen you that night in 1938 the way I saw you that morning in 1885, I couldn't have let you go. I would have tried to go with you. I would've followed you anywhere."

Marty thought about that for a long, hard moment before he couldn't stand the weight of it any longer. Instead, he grumbled, "I think you should've warned me about one thing, Doc."

"Oh?" Doc asked, sounding curious and vaguely worried all at once. "And what's that?"

"That you were a redhead," Marty said accusingly. "You know I have a weakness. You're lucky I didn't start flirting with you the second I laid eyes on you."

"What makes you think you didn't?" Doc asked, amused, like he knew something Marty didn't.

"Wait, what? I didn't flirt with you," Marty protested. "At least not that I remember!"

"Asking me to knock off work early to go drink beer? And then when you remembered that we weren't old enough to drink—or possibly you remembered that alcohol was still illegal at the local level—you changed it to getting sodas? If one of us had been female, it would've sounded very much like a date."

Marty was grateful Doc hadn't turned on the lights, because his face was on fire. "Oh. Um."

"And here I'd been convinced you were settling for second-best," Doc sighed. "Will wonders never cease. Another reason I held my peace in 2015 was the constant reminder of Jennifer's presence."

"You're not a consolation prize, Doc," Marty insisted, "because I'm lucky enough to see the cute redhead, the handsome guy you are now, and everyone else you've been in between. That's more faces than most people see when they look at their significant other, wouldn't you say?"

"When I look at you, Marty," Doc said, squinting a little at close range in the darkness, "I get to wonder who I'll watch you become, and, for me, there's no greater joy than anticipating the adventure."

"Well, as long as Emmett's still around," said Marty, softly, "and I think he is, especially on a night like tonight…" He trailed off, gathering his courage; what he intended to do was going to hurt, there was no way around it, no way around words that should've been spoken forty-eight years ago. "I want him to know that I'm sorry. I'm sorry for a lot of things—sorry that I behaved the way I did, sorry that I wouldn't let him do what he wanted, sorry that I couldn't stay. I'd do anything to make amends."

"You were forgiven the moment I first set eyes on you," Doc whispered, his tone edged in strangely familiar, yet undeniably decades-out-of-date laughter. "You helped me pick up the folders. Nobody else in town would've cared to do so much as that. They'd have laughed at me and kept on walking."

Marty took a shaky breath and buried his face in Doc's neck again, kissing the spot in which he'd have given Emmett one hell of a hickey had time and circumstance permitted. "Doc, what the hell else are we going to remember?" he asked. "This has already been more than I can take for one night."

"I can face what memories may come," Doc said, "because we'll be the ones who make them."