Work Text:
1985
Tiffany dug her teeth harder into each other as she scrubbed the hood of Mr. McFly's car; Dad had told her to polish, not scrub, but fuck him. It was his idea that she get a job working with him.
After she got caught spraying graffiti on the Mayor's house, it was either this or being shipped off to military school. Out of the two choices, she would have rather been flayed and have her body dumped in a chlorine pool while she was still alive. It wasn't as if she had done anything racist-- she just insinuated that Mayor Wilson's kids looked more like the mailman than him. "Cuckholded boob" didn't count as a racial slur, and it wasn't real blood-- it was red spray paint.
She heard the front door of the house opening, seeing Mr. McFly and Marty standing behind the storm door.
"See, Biff and Tiffany are out there, waxing it right now," she heard Mr. McFly telling Marty.
Don't remind me, you little freak of nature, she wanted to bark out.
She didn't care if she was eighteen-- it had to count as child labor. This was what those newsboys were talking about, wasn't it?
"Uh, now, Biff, I wanna make sure that we get two coats of wax this time, not just one," Mr. McFly called out to her father.
Dad lifted his head up. "Just finishing up the second coat now."
"Now, Biff-- don't con me," Mr. McFly warned.
Tiffany suppressed a scoff, only staring daggers at both her father and her employer, as the former gave a few apologetic and sickeningly humble laughs.
"I'm-- I'm sorry, Mr. McFly," Dad apologized. "I meant we were just starting on the second coat."
"And that one was totally on me, Mr. McFly," Tiffany added, though she made sure that her tone was anything less than apologetic.
As Mr. McFly turned to head back into his perfect little palace, Tiffany growled through a closed mouth.
Dad had told her all about his little "history" with Mr. McFly; apparently, her father and his buddies delighted in tormenting the gangly little bastard since they were in diapers. And it was especially easy because poor George McFly never fought back.
At first.
Then, Mr. McFly had suddenly grown a spine during their senior year of high school and decked her father in the parking lot outside some stupid school dance when he was trying to get lucky with Lorraine.
Then the bug and Lorraine had shacked up, got married, and dumped out three little crotch goblins.
And maybe, Tiffany's little grudge wouldn't be so harsh if the youngest of the crotch droplets weren't so... pleasing, for lack of a better term.
She looked back up from the car, seeing Marty peeking from behind the door. Although her first instinct was the same pure hatred that she felt for anyone with a drop of McFly blood in their veins or with McFly semen festering in their wombs, she allowed her face to soften into a more, "come hither" look.
Maybe he was looking because perfect little Jennifer Parker wasn't putting out.
Just as her father had once lusted for the now-Mrs. McFly when he was her age, Tiffany would be remiss if she denied that she had certain... fantasies about Marty, even if she couldn't find it in herself to understand him.
Not just regarding his taste in women (the self-righteous daughter of the police chief, and a theater nerd, boot), but... everything.
They grew up in a small town, went to the same schools. Their families would always be continuing to cross paths as long as they stayed in Hill Valley. She had watched as he grew into a handsome young man; any girl would have been lucky to have him, and Tiffany had been determined to be that girl.
She wanted to take him in her room, see exactly how dirty a good little Catholic boy like him could be.
But ever since Marty McFly had first laid eyes on Jennifer Parker in nursery school, Tiffany Tannen knew that her cause was lost. It didn't meant that she had stopped trying; she had finally given up after his seventeenth birthday.
The mailman then came to drop off a package, and Dad insisted that she go inside with him to hand it off. Tiffany knew full well what was in that package-- further proof that her father had crapped on her future while she had been chilling in his junk.
She also had to go inside to return the keys to Marty's truck to him; she had promised that she would personally handle his precious new baby. Her father had stopped her from leaving a present that she had collected from Needles when she hooked up with him last night.
But, when Needles was through with Marty later, she would at least take pride in that accomplishment.
She and her father had replaced the engine in Heather's aunt's Rolls-Royce. She knew the older woman's work route, and she knew that the woman was very litigious.
If Marty's ego was as fragile as she thought (and his dick as small), the best that she could think of was a lawsuit that would cost Mr. McFly every royalty check that he would earn from his little booky-wook.
And she would use every page from that damned, kitschy novel to wipe her ass.
All that it had taken to get Needles to agree was to remind him of how she still pined for Marty, how Needles couldn't possibly drive faster than Marty's wussy little 4x4... as well as a strategically-timed blow job.
She watched from a window as Marty and Jennifer seemed to be sharing a tender moment outside the garage before thrusting the curtain over the window.
God, it made her sick!
Dad had invited himself and her to breakfast with the McFly family, so she was probably going to spend Saturday morning trapped watching Marty make cow eyes at the little bitch.
"Hey, Marty," she walked outside. "My dad wants me to show you these stupid matchbooks that he made for the shop, for some damn reason--"
She stopped when she saw something out-- no, floating above the road, like it was levitating. The tires turned down flat, looking more like hockey pucks with thick rubber gaskets than tires.
And it wasn't just any car; part of the steps to avoiding time in a military school was to memorize every single make and model of automobile since Henry Ford. It didn't hurt helping her recognize such a unique model when the designer and owner of its company had been arrested for trying to sell coke to the feds.
"A-- a flying DeLorean?" she sputtered out in disbelief.
Was she still on a trip from those mushrooms she took with Needles last night?
The gritty eighties reboot of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang that she was seeing before her then took off, before making a U-turn and vanishing in a blast of light and smoke, leaving behind two fiery trails.
Tiffany's ears began to ring from the noise; she crushed the matchbooks in her hand. Everything around her seemed to turn blood red as she was filled with a sudden sense that her father's own stupid decisions weren't the only culprit for the sorry state of her life.
"What the hell is going on here?"
~oOoOo~
2015
"Yes, Warren, I know! I was there!" Tiffany yelled into the cell phone at her husband. "Dad and I went back inside Cafe 80s. I don't want people to think that it happened on my watch. What kind of mother would they think I am?"
"They would think that you were the kind of mother who cared that her son just crashed into the courthouse!" Warren argued. "Is he hurt?"
"No, he's fine! Screaming about how he was framed--"
"Oh, I wonder where he got that idea," Warren wondered sarcastically.
"Oh..." Tiffany could feel something building up inside of her as she drew out the syllable, finally letting loose, "Fuck you! You know what? You can pay for everything-- the damages, Griffin's bail, his lawyer-- fuck you straight to Hell, Warren!"
She slammed the phone down on the table, staring at it before lifting her head up and looking in her father's direction. She gave him the most hateful glare that she could before she grabbed her phone and stormed out of the building.
Tiffany stopped in her tracks when she caught sight of Marty McFly, Jr. outside of the Blast From The Past antique shop. She and her father had seen him come into the Cafe earlier, and from their conversation with him, he seemed to have forgotten what a pathetic bastard his father had turned out to be.
But it wasn't the seventeen-year-old whose voice was still cracking like a twelve-year-old that made her stop; it was a very familiar sight.
"Flying DeLorean?" she thought aloud. "I haven't seen one in thirty years."
When flying cars started becoming the norm, she had guessed that the flying DeLorean had been a prototype, and that the suckers who'd been selected to test-drive it were stupid enough to do so on a residential road.
But a part of her wondered how Marty and Jennifer could afford to own such a desired car; she doubted that any collector would be recluctant to sell to him after his little "accident."
Maybe she had gone too far with the accident; the most that she had expected was a lawsuit, not for Marty to get hurt. It didn't mean that she didn't take pleasure in the fact that Jennifer had been injured.
And yet, Jennifer had remained by Marty's side-- not out of love or whatever squooshy crap-- but because of pity.
Her train of thought was interrupted when someone bumped into her.
"Sorry, excuse me, sorry," the figure apologized.
Wait a minute-- Tiffany thought.
That was most definitely Marty McFly Jr., walking out into traffic like an idiot and almost getting hit by a car.
Tiffany's eyes darted between the Marty Jr. opening the gull wing door of the DeLorean and the Marty Jr. getting honked at by a ground motorist.
"What the hell? Two of them?!"
Quietly, she crept behind the first Marty that she had seen, hearing a voice that undoubtedly sounded like "Doctor" Brown. The first Marty was cootchie-cooing over Brown's little mutt.
The same little mutt that had torn her underwear off her ass in sixth grade and made her a laughingstock up until her high school graduation.
Brown was going on and on about sleep inducers and changing future history (whatever the hell that meant!) as Tiffany tried to listen discreetly. Then, the first Marty dropped something; it had been in a bag for Blast From The Past.
"What's this?" Brown asked as it picked the object-- a book-- up and skimmed through it.
"A souvenier," Marty replied.
"'Fifty years of sports statistics,'" Brown read the subtitle. "Hardly recreational reading material!"
Apparently, Marty-- the seventeen-year-old version of the senior-- didn't have as many scruples as his perfect little family liked to say. He had bought that almanac to win some cash for himself in 1985.
But Brown was a fuddy duddy as much as he was a crackpot. He had a stick up his ass that something like that could screw up the timeline, and he was ready to dump it in the trash.
He stopped when he saw that apparently, Jennifer was being examined by a couple of police officers.
Tiffany hid behind the back door of the terminal, hearing as Doc and Marty were panicking about a possible paradox if Young and Tight Jenny ran into Old Fogie Jenny.
"And this stays here!" she heard Brown declare, obviously referring to the almanac. "I didn't invent a time machine to win at gambling. I invented a time machine to travel through time!"
"I know," she heard Marty say defeatedly.
The next sound she heard were footsteps running off. She opened the door just a crack, slinking between the door and the door frame, and thanking God that she had the foresight to have postpartum liposuction after she had each of her kids.
For a scientist who had mastered traversing the time vortex, Brown seemed to have forgotten one thing-- if you want to throw something away before someone can see it, bury it beneath all of the other shit.
It was the same way that she hid Needles' and Dave's condoms in the bathroom wastebasket before Warren could see it. Sure, it was still an open secret, but she wasn't stupid enough to make it that obvious.
Carefully, she picked up the almanac betwixt two fingers.
As plain as day, memories kept flooding back-- a life where Daddy spoiled her with everything she wanted.
A life where they lived in a house that looked more at home in New York City than a small, landlocked California town, rather than still living in Great-Grandma Gertrude's house.
A life where she reigned supreme over Hill Valley High... like a god.
Sure, her parents were still divorced, but she didn't particularly care about that either way, no matter what the school counselor said.
And... it was also a life where the McFlys weren't even numero uno in Hill Valley.
"So... that old crackpot was onto something after all," she mused.