“Brace the butt of the rifle against your shoulder. No, not like that. You’ll get a black eye if you hold it like that. And spread your feet apart. The recoil isn’t like a six shooter handgun -- it’s much more intense.”

Emmett Brown paused to reach out and adjust the weapon in his friend’s grasp. “All right, better. Hold it…just like that.”

Marty McFly frowned, his features tense with concentration. “Okay, now what? Do I shoot?”

Doc nodded to the glass bottles lined up on some boulders. “Try it.”

The teenager squeezed the trigger. The rifle fired, a flash of light spewing from the muzzle. Marty staggered back a step from the recoil. Doc watched as the shot went wide, not even winging any of the bottles, instead striking the trunk of a nearby tree. The booming echo startled the winged wildlife, and the birds took off from the nearby lake amid caws and squawks.

Marty lowered the rifle and looked at Doc. “Tell me again why I have to learn how to use one of these?” he asked, sounding mildly frustrated.

Doc patiently withheld a sigh. “Rifles were used for hunting and protection,” he said.

“And things like the Colt Peacemaker weren’t?”

“They could be,” Doc admitted. “Particularly for the protection aspect. But you don’t have a handgun anymore.”

Marty sighed. “Yeah -- I should’ve kept that when I had the chance.”

Doc didn’t particularly share that point of view. He wasn’t very comfortable with the idea of Marty involving himself with firearms. The teen still seemed to see them more as toys than tools. But since the scientist was getting married in just a few days, and Marty would probably be living on his own -- temporarily, Doc hoped -- he knew the teen had to learn some basic frontier living skills. In fact, he should have taught those things to Marty months ago, when it became apparent that they were going to be in the old west for a while -- months, possibly even years.

But he had been distracted by something he wouldn’t have believed just four months prior; distracted by a woman, Clara Clayton, his soon-to-be-wife. Doc’s heart gave a little flutter with that realization, though it was certainly nothing new now. He couldn’t help smiling, as he thought about her. And he couldn’t help missing her, either.

It had been her suggestion to visit the lake this last weekend before their wedding.

“You won’t be of any help here,” Clara had told him last week, looking faintly frazzled from the wedding plans. “And this will be your last weekend as a bachelor. I suspect your best man may want to spend some time with you, without me around.”

Doc’s best man was, of course, Marty. Who else could he have even asked?

Clara was right, though, as usual. Since their engagement in early November, he had scarcely spent any time with his friend. Marty, oddly, wasn’t complaining. But the silence concerned Doc. When he wasn’t thinking about the wedding plans, or making the necessary arrangements for the honeymoon, or debating where he and Clara would be living as man and wife, Doc worried about the teen. It wasn’t like Marty to be so distant and so quiet; the scientist couldn’t remember the last time he had seen him smile or laugh.

He hated the idea of leaving him alone after Tuesday, but at the moment there wasn’t any alternative. Doc didn’t have quite enough money saved up yet to purchase a real home. Clara couldn’t move into Doc’s livery stable, where he currently set up house. And Marty couldn’t stay in Clara’s three-room cabin, where Doc planned to go after their honeymoon.

Provided, of course, Clara still could work. That matter was still under consideration, as it was currently not permissible for married women to teach. Hill Valley had been desperate for a teacher, however, and it was now the middle of the school year. Finding and hiring a new instructor at this point would be next to impossible. Doc had written a letter to the school board, explaining the circumstances and providing what he felt was a strong and logical argument for them to allow Clara to continue to work, at least until the end of the school year. The board was supposed to have reached a decision by now as to whether or not she would be employed after the holidays, but as of Friday afternoon, when he and Marty had left for the lake, they were still debating. If Clara was forced to resign, they were going to be in a pickle with the housing situation; her current home came with the job.

“Yo, Doc? Are you there?”

The inventor blinked rapidly, his eyes focusing on Marty’s face peering up at him. He half expected his friend to be annoyed with his mental lapse, but the teen instead looked tired, almost bored. That was uncharacteristic in Doc’s eyes. Worrisome.

“Yes, sorry,” he said. “I was just thinking….”

Marty pursed his lips together. “About Clara? Or the wedding?”

“About after the wedding, mostly.”

His friend suddenly looked intrigued. “Are you worried about the, uh, wedding night?”

Doc got the drift of Marty’s question and shook his head quickly. “Oh no, no, not at all. I just wish we knew whether or not Clara was going to keep her job. If she isn’t… well, I hate the idea of her having to move into the barn. It’s no place for a woman; there’s no privacy.”

“Yeah,” Marty said, setting the tip of the rifle down on the ground. “Should be a real blast living there alone.” His voice was flat, but his tone carried no bitterness.

“It won’t be forever,” Doc said immediately. “Hopefully I can find a home by next summer. And one that will give me more space and privacy to work on a new time machine.”

“A new time machine,” Marty repeated. “You’re still thinking about that?”

“Absolutely,” Doc said. “I even brought the documents with me.” The reasons behind that were more paranoia-based then anything else; he thought it highly unlikely that anyone would break into his home during the forty-eight hours while he and Marty were away, but there could be fires or other disasters. Doc planned to purchase a safe as soon as possible.

Marty’s demeanor brightened a bit. “Really? You should work on ‘em tonight.”

Doc nodded once. “We’ll see,” he said neutrally. “Now, let’s get back to the rifle lessons. It’ll be dark soon.” In half an hour, if the angle of daylight was any indication.

Marty made a face, but he hefted the weapon up again. “Aim for the whiskey bottle,” the inventor said. “Steady. Posture’s good. Remember to anticipate the kick back…. Okay, try it!”

Marty pulled the trigger. The glass to the left of the whiskey bottle lost its neck in a shower of glass sparks. The teen lowered the gun, turning his head to look at Doc. He smiled faintly. “Well, I got one.”

“One,” Doc agreed. “Just not the one. Try it again a few times and let me know when you hit the target.”

He wandered off as Marty started firing again. The sound of each shot echoed against the surrounding hills surrounding, the only real noise in the otherwise frozen landscape. Leaving his friend behind, Doc made his way to the small one-room cabin two dozen feet away. The building belonged to the mayor of Hill Valley, Hubert Parker, who considered Doc something of a friend. Had the cabin not been provided to him as a favor, Doc wouldn’t have selected the lake for a destination. A foot of snow was already on the ground, and the water was half frozen over.

Inside the thick log walls, the air was dry and warm. The fire that Doc had kept going continuously since their arrival the previous afternoon was down to glowing coals. The inventor took a moment to throw a new homemade presto log into the hearth, along with some other pieces of chopped wood, to ensure its continuous presence. He then prepared a new pot of coffee, setting it to brew on the small cast-iron stove. The cabin was small but cozy. In addition to the stove and fireplace, it contained a double wrought-iron bed, a small table with two chairs, and a small, worn couch.

As he waited for the coffee to percolate, Doc stepped over to one of the glass windows that overlooked the lake. He wiped away the condensation to watch Marty. Two of the bottles had been smashed since his departure, but the whiskey bottle still stood whole. Then, as Doc watched, the teen narrowed his eyes, adjusted his stance… and, as he fired again, obliterated the bottle. The scientist nodded once, pleased.

“He’s getting it,” he murmured aloud.

Marty smiled with his success, then lowered the rifle and turned towards the cabin. He came inside a minute later, his cheeks flushed from the cold air outside. “I nailed it, finally,” he said as he closed the door at his back, cutting off the flow of cold air.

“I saw,” Doc said. “Good job. Keep practicing at it when you can, and I’ll see if I can perhaps find some handguns for you eventually. I know you prefer those.”

“Yeah -- those are more like a videogame,” Marty said. He leaned the rifle against the wall, then headed for the hearthside, taking a seat on the couch. He held his hands out towards the flames, which were catching anew with the fresh fuel. “What else is there to do?”

“Have you ever hunted before?”

Marty made a face. “No,” he said. “Do I really need to learn that? Isn’t that why there’s butchers now?”

“It may be a handy skill to learn, but no, I don’t think it’s entirely necessary. And I can understand your reluctance to shoot anything.” Particularly considering the attitude Marty had probably soaked up from his time regarding killing woodland creatures. And Bambi probably didn’t help, either.

“Good,” Marty said. He stared into the flames for a moment, the fire’s flickering glow making his face all but impossible to read. Doc sat down next to him and took off his hat, feeling like he should say something. But the subject he most wanted to discuss with his friend seemed to be the one Marty was most vague on -- his true feelings on the forthcoming marriage, and towards Clara.

Doc had tried. Many times, in fact. Each time he was pressed, Marty either dodged the question entirely, or told Doc that he was “fine” and that he thought Clara was “okay.” Even the inventor, as distracted and sidetracked as he currently was, knew that it wasn’t the truth. The evidence was numerous. There was Marty’s general attitude the last few months -- cranky, mostly. There was the night of the engagement, where he had gotten quite drunk at the saloon, and blurted what seemed to be his real opinions before unceremoniously passing out. And then there was the almost nightly ritual, now, of Marty talking in his sleep.

Doc didn’t think it was something Marty commonly did -- or, rather, he had no prior memories of noticing such behavior in his friend -- and little of the words he would utter made any sense. But the problem seemed to be getting worse; Doc had woken more than once in the last few weeks from Marty’s voice on the other side of the room. The seventeen-year-old was oblivious to the problem, so far as Doc knew.

Marty broke the silence between them now. “Are you nervous about being married? That’s a pretty heavy change.”

Doc shook his head. “Not nervous, no,” he said. “Curious and excited, yes, but if I have nerves… well, they’re not based on doubts. I have none of those.”

Marty’s lips curved up faintly. “I thought everyone was supposed to get cold feet at the last minute?”

“It’s not quite last minute, yet. There are two days remaining. If I have any unease at all, it’s about how this could influence future history.”

“Is that why you planned the wedding on a Tuesday?”

The scientist nodded once. “I wasn’t going to chance booking the church on a weekend date when another couple may have needed it for a ceremony or event. Besides, the custom of marrying on weekends is much more twentieth century than nineteenth.” He sighed softly. “I just hope this won’t have far reaching effects down the line. All those people attending the wedding….”

“You could’ve eloped,” Marty said, slouching into the back of the couch and turning his head to look at Doc.

“No,” Doc said. “Clara didn’t want that, and I certainly wasn’t going to force it on her. Women have very precise notions about their wedding days.”

“Yeah,” Marty agreed, shifting his eyes back to the fire. “I can’t believe Jennifer’s reaction when you took us to the future; after she found out we were in a time machine, all she wanted to know was if we had a big wedding.”

“Yes, and how many kids you had,” Doc said, recalling that moment.

“Just the two?” Marty asked innocently.

“No one should know too much about their own future,” Doc cautioned, sidestepping the question. “Besides, the future is in a constant state of change, based on our actions in the present. What I saw may not come to pass anymore. In fact, I really hope it doesn’t.”

“It won’t if I’m stuck back here,” Marty muttered softly, the words easily heard by Doc. “You and Clara aren’t planning on having any kids, are you?”

Doc shook his head, the very idea absurd. “No,” he said. “Too risky for her, and the space-time continuum.”

“Yeah, and you’re old enough to be a grandfather,” Marty said. “No offense. So if you guys don’t want kids, what can you do about it here? They don’t have the Pill now; how can you make sure accidents won’t happen?”

“There are methods,” Doc said, a little uncomfortable by the subject. “Humans have been practicing forms of birth control for hundreds of years. Granted, many of them are not as failsafe as they are in a hundred years, but… well, Clara and I will be careful. The presence of a human being who was not here at all in any form could create disasters that we can only fathom.”

“Right,” Marty said. “And the presence of us and Clara here is okay.”

Doc got to his feet, smelling the coffee. “No,” he said. “It’s not. But it’s temporary, and it’s much more acceptable because we were all born before the invention of the time machine. Not so if Clara and I were to have a child. It could have unforeseen consequences.”

Marty watched him from over the edge of the couch as Doc collected a couple mugs from the supply of dishes and poured the steaming brew in them. “Things are going to change, though,” he said, so softly that Doc wasn’t sure if he was meant to hear the words.

“Of course they are,” Doc said, bringing Marty one of the mugs. The teen accepted it after a second’s hesitation. “But it’s an inevitable occurrence.”

Marty stared at him a moment. Doc thought he was going to say something, but instead he raised the mug to his lips and took a sip. He made a face as he tasted the coffee.

“I’d kill for Pepsi,” he muttered.

“That’s still a few years off,” Doc said. “Sorry.”

Marty sighed and stared into his cup, lapsing into a melancholy silence. Doc went over to one of the windows and looked outside. Dusk was falling already, and flakes of snow had started to drift through the air. He hoped it wouldn’t last too long; he was eager to get back to Clara. He had seen her Friday, but even a day was too much to be apart, in his mind.

It won’t be so much longer, Doc thought. In just seventy-two hours, now, we should be lawfully wedded.

He looked away from the window at Marty, who was looking back into the fire, frowning, his own gaze distant. That pinch of worry came back about his friend, but Doc didn’t bother to attempt another interrogation.

Perhaps, he thought, the best thing he could do for Marty, for himself, and for Clara, would be to spend some more time on the time machine plans….

Although it was after midnight, Doc couldn’t put the notes for the time machine away. He felt he was on the verge of something. His concentration was a hundred percent in the moment. Clara and his forthcoming wedding was forgotten. Marty’s quiet presence nearby was unnoticed. The wedding was as distant as 1985.

Physical needs, however, were harder to shut out. When Doc noticed it was getting hard to make out the figures and sketches on the paper, he looked up -- and noticed two things. The lamp was almost out of oil, and the fire was down to amber embers. He had to blink a couple times to draw his brain away from the fascinating world of nineteenth century power sources and vehicles. He shook his head once, mildly chiding himself for losing thorough track of time, then pushed himself up out of the chair and onto his feet. He stretched as he walked, his neck and shoulders aching faintly from leaning over the table. Doc wondered why Marty hadn’t bothered to throw more fuel on the fire, but got his answer as he reached the hearthside. His friend was draped across the length of the tiny couch, sleeping under a couple thick quilts.

The inventor checked the time on his pocket watch and was amazed that it was long after midnight. He was on a roll -- but he would need to go to bed soon if he wanted to have any energy whatsoever for the few hours’ ride back to town. Doc sighed as he snapped shut his pocket watch and tucked it away. He added more wood to the fire, sending a brief shower of sparks heavenward, then turned around, brushing his palms off on his pants.

Doc jumped at the sight of Marty, who had sat up while he had been tending the fire. “Doc,” the teen said softly, his words little more than a sleepy murmur. “Why are you doing this?”

Doc was all but certain that his friend wasn’t referring to the addition of wood on the fire. Marty sounded different when he spoke in his sleep. Aside from making little sense to the scientist, the words were frequently uttered with odd pauses and sometimes ran together in a slurry mumble. But he was sitting up this time -- that was a new development. And, as Doc stepped closer, allowing the increasing glow of the firelight to reach his friend, he noticed that Marty’s eyes were half opened in a glassy, unfocused squint.

Is he awake this time?

“Why am I putting more logs on the fire?” Doc asked carefully. “Well, it would get cold in here very quickly if I didn’t.”

Marty seemed oblivious to the words. “How can you do this to me?” he asked, sounding hurt and angry -- and remarkably clear. Doc edged closer, wondering if he could break into the dream conversation that Marty appeared to be engaged in. It had happened only a couple times before.

“What do you mean?” he asked softly. “How can I do what to you?”

“I knew something like this would happen,” Marty said, getting more agitated. “So much for your bullshit promises, huh? Well, don’t worry, I’m goin’.”

He made a sudden, quick movement, and Doc realized, a few seconds too late, that he was going to actually try to stand and leave. “No, Marty,” he said, reaching out to put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, intending to push him back to the couch.

Marty pulled away, his reflexes not dulled from the strange state he was in, and jumped up to his feet. As he attempted to step forward, however, his feet became entangled in the quilt. He stumbled and, unable to catch his balance, toppled right to the floor, hitting the boards face first with a jarring thud.

Doc immediately knelt next to his friend, concerned. “Marty?” he asked. “Are you all right?”

The teen raised his head slowly, blinking. “What happened?” he mumbled, sounding as confused as he looked. Doc gathered that he was awake now. “What…am I doing on the floor? Did I fall off the couch?”

“Well, I’m not entirely sure, but I think you were sleepwalking.”

Marty rolled onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow and staring at Doc like he had just sprouted horns. “Huh? Sleepwalking? I don’t sleepwalk….”

“Well, I’m not sure what else to call it. You’ve also been talking up a storm in your sleep lately, and I gather that’s something atypical of you, too.”

Marty frowned. “I’m still doing that? But you were supposed to wake me up if I did that!”

“If I was to do that it would be a nightly occurrence,” Doc said dryly. He watched his friend as Marty sat all the way up. “Something is clearly bothering you,” he said. “And it’s not getting any better as time goes on.”

“I can handle it,” Marty said, wrapping one of the quilts around his shoulders and hugging it tightly around him. He looked towards the fire, clearly avoiding Doc’s gaze.

“I’m not too sure about that,” Doc said, prying gently. “This conversing in your sleep has been getting steadily worse, and clearly reached a new level tonight. What’s wrong, Marty? What’s bothering you so much?”

Marty held very still for a moment, blinking a few times as he stared at the flames. His eyes finally darted over to look at Doc, then abruptly lowered to take in the floorboards. “I’m just bothering you now that you’re getting married to Clara,” he said, so softly that the inventor almost didn’t catch it. “I’m just a burden, and you’re not gonna need me around anymore now that she’s in your life.”

The confession was unexpected, but the words were not. “That’s not true,” Doc said immediately. “What gave you that idea?”

Marty checked the list off on his fingers. “We practically never spend any time together anymore -- unless we’re working. You’re making me live alone in town after the wedding. We never, y’know, talk anymore about things….”

Doc was quick with rebuttals to the charges. “I think that last one there isn’t entirely my fault. Whenever I’ve tried to talk to you lately, all I get are the same answers. ‘I’m fine.’ ‘Clara’s great.’ ‘Things are good.’ You’re the one who’s been persistently quiet.”

“Well, maybe if you stop asking me the same old questions….”

“I ask you the same old questions because I don’t think the answers you give are entirely the truth.”

There was a long pause. Marty looked into the fire again. “The truth’s too complicated,” he said.

Doc waited for an elaboration, but when it didn’t come he attacked another accusation of Marty’s. “I assumed you would be more comfortable living in the stable than with me and Clara,” he said. “Especially since her home is so tiny. Was I wrong to assume that?”

Marty half shrugged. “I…just…you said you wouldn’t ditch me back here,” he said, the words coming out in a rush. “And it seems like you’re doing that. I mean, I understand you’ll be married now, you’ll have a wife and all that stuff, but…. I don’t have anything, Doc. Nothing. My family’s a hundred years away. My girlfriend’s a hundred years away. My music’s stuck in the future. The only thing remotely familiar to me here is you. And every day you’re changing more and more. I feel like half the time I’m with a stranger. I mean…. Goddammit, I’m happy you found someone like Clara but…I’d be happier if we were both back in 1985, y’know?”

Doc mulled the words over a moment. “You should know that nothing will change between us simply because I’ve married.”

Marty shook his head hard at the statement. “They already are changing,” he said. “And what will happen if Clara doesn’t want me around, huh? What if she tells you that it’s her or me? I’m not stupid, Doc. I know who will win that round.” His voice cracked a little on the words before he lapsed into silence again.

“Clara won’t ask me to choose, Marty,” Doc said. “She’s not jealous of you. She knows how important our friendship is.”

“How do you know?” Marty muttered. “Did you ask her?”

“In a way, yes,” Doc said, recalling his proposal to the schoolteacher. “I reminded her of my many faults and obligations when I asked her to marry me. She didn’t care -- she told me that. She knew that you were part of the deal. She’s a wonderful woman, Marty -- and, yes, I know I’ve said that countless times before. But it’s true.”

“She might change her mind about me after the wedding,” Marty said darkly.

“I doubt that very much,” Doc said. “And no matter what happens, I can assure you that you will not be booted out of my life.” His mind leapt to the words the teen had uttered in his sleep just minutes before. “Were you dreaming about that sort of scenario just now?”

There was a hesitation before Marty nodded once. “I’ve had that dream a lot, actually,” he murmured.

“Well, no wonder if you’ve been worrying about it. And I’ve said this before -- the living arrangements are temporary. Hopefully within the next few months I can find a real home for Clara, myself, and you. You’re my responsibility while we’re back here -- I’m the reason you’re stuck here in the first place, really. After all, I sent you here.”

“But you would’ve died if I hadn’t come,” Marty said.

Doc sighed. “Maybe so. But I still should’ve acted more responsibly in ‘55. I think the sight of my own mortality made me behave a bit irrationally.”

Marty leaned back against the foot of the couch. “I just…I wish I wasn’t so jealous of you.” At Doc’s confused expression, the teen went on. “You’re so happy. You’ve got Clara. You have someone to share stuff with…to love. Jen’s so far away….” He ran a hand through his already mussed hair, looking like he wanted to cry.

Doc took a moment to think about how he would phrase his response. “You know, I was envious of you more than once for the relationship you had with Jennifer,” he said. “I didn’t think I would ever have anything like that myself. And I, too, feared that when you started seeing her that I wouldn’t see you anymore.”

Marty looked at him, startled. “Really? Why didn’t you say anything?”

Doc shrugged. “I don’t think the subject came up. And after the initial excitement passed from your new dating experience, you came around frequently again. Also, you were happy; I was happy for your good fortune. I wasn’t jealous of you and Jennifer; I had no malicious wishes for either of you. But I did wish I had someone to share my life with like you both had. I wished I could have that, too. I may have envied you for that, but I knew there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. It wasn’t your fault that you had found someone. And I certainly wasn’t going to stop you from spending time with her, or make you feel guilty about it.”

Marty shook his head faintly once. “I never knew,” he murmured.

“I think it’s a fairly common reaction one has when one of their close friends gets into a serious relationship,” Doc said. “Particularly if they’re both single when they become friends. I would be surprised if you weren’t feeling strange about my marriage. And everything else that has happened in the last few months.”

“Everything,” Marty repeated, leaning forward and cradling his head in his hands. “My whole life’s turned upside down. Nothing’s the same -- not even you.”

“And not even you, either,” Doc said. “But that would happen no matter what. I’m sure if I hadn’t met Clara, you would find I was different in a number of ways regardless. I spent nine months here before you arrived. I had my time to adjust and evolve.”

Marty rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. Doc waited a moment, then asked the question that he had been sitting on for the last few minutes. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this before now? Why did you keep it all to yourself? It was obvious to me that something was bothering you, but I’m not a mind reader; I can’t know what’s gong on in your head unless you tell me.”

The teen sighed. “I thought you’d tell me that I was right,” he said. “That I was right about all this shit, and that you really didn’t want me around anymore. ‘Get lost, kid, you’re on your own now.’” He pulled the quilt tighter around him.

Doc smiled faintly. “Well, I’m telling you that you’re wrong about that. You may have to live alone for a few months, but I’m not going to leave you alone, or kick you out, or abandon you. You’re my friend, Marty. My getting married won’t change that. Would you cut me out of your life if you married Jennifer?”

“Hell, no. But she wouldn’t want me to.”

“Yes. Exactly. Just like Clara.”

Marty stared at him a moment, the words finally seeming to sink in. “You could change your mind after you’re married,” he said. “So could she.”

“It won’t happen. I promise. Please don’t worry about this anymore, Marty. I’m concerned about you enough already.”

“Why?”

Doc sighed, wondering if he should share this with his friend; why not? “It’s pretty obvious to me that you’re not happy.”

“What the hell should I be happy about? Everything that’s important to me is a hundred years away!”

“Maybe so, but you’re here now. You should make the best with what you have. Enjoy aspects of this time that aren’t around by 1985. Know that you aren’t alone here -- and that you will eventually get back home if I have anything to do with it. Things could be much worse than they are.”

“Maybe,” Marty said, sounding skeptical. He looked down at an edge of the quilt, tugging at a loose thread. “Are you sure you’re not gonna ditch me?”

“I promise you,” Doc said again, quite firmly. “Put the thought out of your mind.”

The teen was silent a moment. “Okay,” he said, looking up. “Thanks. That helps…I think.”

Doc got to his feet a little stiffly. “You may be happy to know that I’ve made some progress on the time machine notes,” he said, changing the subject to something less…heavy.

Marty looked up from the floor, where he remained sitting. “Do you have any kind of timetable idea, Doc?” he asked. “When I will see home again?”

The scientist was honest. “It may take a few years, Marty. These things take time.”

“So what will that mean? Won’t people notice that I’m out of synch with everything? Older?”

“We’ll do something to make that a non-issue, to undo it,” Doc said.

Marty ran a hand down his cheek. “To undo it,” he echoed, half to himself. “Okay, I can live with that. Thanks, Doc.”

Doc watched as his friend got to his feet and staggered back to the couch. “Do you think you’ll be able to sleep peacefully, now?” he asked.

“I hope so,” the teen said. “But if I start talking again, or walking, or doing anything crazy and weird, feel feel to slap me awake. I won’t hit you back.”

Doc restrained a smile, hearing a bit of his old friend in the utterance. “All right -- I promise, this time.”

They arrived back in Hill Valley in the late afternoon. Doc had hoped to return sooner, but a series of little delays had set them back.

The first was a side effect of the previous late night -- it was almost ten before Doc had woken up, and subsequently woken Marty, who had indeed spent the rest of the night quietly and peacefully. (So far as either of them knew.) The teen seemed calmer this morning, not as sulky, and the inventor found himself cautiously optimistic that the change in temperament was something more permanent, a result of the talk they’d had the night before. Surely it had to be possible.

Then there was the weather. It had snowed a few inches overnight, which made the trip home slightly more treacherous, the paths slippery and icy. They had had to go slowly, not wanting the horses to lose their footing.

“I told Clara that we’d be back around one,” Doc said as they rode into the outskirts of HIll Valley. “I hope she’s not too worried.”

“Stuff happens,” Marty said. “She probably figured that the weather slowed you up. It’s not like you can call ahead and let her know.”

The inventor knew indeed, but he was still mildly anxious. That sensation leapt up into the stratosphere when he and Marty finally arrived at the stable -- and Clara, who had clearly been waiting for their arrival, came out to meet them. Doc immediately noticed that her eyes were red and her nose swollen, as if she had been crying.

“Oh, Emmett,” she said shakily. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

Doc’s heart began to hammer, and he found it hard to breathe a moment. Something was wrong -- something was dreadfully wrong! Had Clara changed her mind about marrying him? Was she going to tell him she’d had some sort of epiphany? He swallowed hard as he dismounted, telling himself firmly not to panic.

“What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

Clara pressed one hand to her pale cheek. “My family telegraphed me this morning,” she said. “Papa’s fallen ill. They won’t be able to come to the wedding.”

That was all? Doc somehow managed to conceal his relief under a mask of concern. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said, actually weak in the knees that it wasn’t something even more dire. He wrapped his arms around his fiancée and pulled her close. Clara sunk into his embrace, resting her head on his shoulder and sniffing. “Will your father recover?”

“I think so,” Clara said. “But the doctor told him that traveling across the country is out of the question. And Mama doesn’t want to leave his side.”

“What about Christopher?” Doc asked. Clara had only one living sibling, an older brother who was a pharmacist in her New Jersey hometown.

“He is still coming,” Clara said. “But, oh, I had so hoped my parents could be here….”

Doc rested his chin on the top of her dark hair, idly noticing Marty slipping away into the barn with some of their packs, giving them some privacy. “Do you want to postpone the wedding?” he asked, though he certainly did not. If Clara wanted that, though, he would support her.

Thankfully, she shook her head. “No, it’s too late. And it could be spring before Papa has the doctor’s permission to travel out here. I suppose Chris will simply have to give me away.”

Doc gave her a squeeze, then reluctantly let her go to tend to the horses. He grabbed Newton’s and Galileo’s reins and tugged them forward, towards the barn doors. “Did the school board reach a decision about your job?” he asked.

Clara shook her head as she followed him into the barn. “Not that I’ve heard,” she said. “I think they’re still debating the matter. Do you really believe they’ll let me continue to teach until the summer break?”

“It’s possible,” Doc said. “We looked long and hard for an instructor before you came along. In the future it doesn’t matter what the marital status is of teachers. Maybe the town can be persuaded to some foreword thinking. This is the west, after all.”

After he put the horses in the stalls and gave them some fresh oats to munch on, he sat down with Clara for a quick update on the wedding plans. Aside from the last minute change with her parents, there were precious few other wrinkles to report. She was going to spend most of the day tomorrow decorating the church for the ceremony, along with some of the other women from the area. And, of course, after tomorrow, she would be avoiding Doc until they met in the church, at the alter.

“So I didn’t miss anything the last two days?” he asked, just to be certain.

Clara shook her head. “No.” Her eyes drifted over to regard Marty, who was poking through the contents of the “kitchen” shelves at the other end of the room. “How was your weekend?”

“Good,” Doc said softly. “We had a talk late last night. I’m hopeful that Marty will be feeling better about things now.”

He was careful with his words, just in case they were overheard. Clara sensed his reluctance to elaborate and nodded once to show she understood. “You can tell me more about it later,” she murmured, patting him on the arm. “Why don’t I get supper started?”

“You don’t have to do that!” Doc said immediately.

“Oh, Emmett, don’t be silly. Besides, I won’t be allowed to do much cooking at all this week. You and Marty can use all the home cooking you can.”

“She’s got a point, Doc,” Marty agreed, catching that. “I’m not turning down real homemade food that doesn’t come out of a can!”

Doc let the argument go. “All right, I suppose…. But you shouldn’t feel obligated to do all the house chores all the time. Where I’m from, couples would share them.”

Clara looked astonished and Marty snickered. “Hopefully you can do a better job than you did with the garage,” he said. “That place was a mess….”

“I had other priorities at the time, and no roommates beyond Einstein,” Doc said, not seeing what was so funny. “A wife will require a different way of living.”

“Especially if you’re crammed in a two-room cabin.”

“There’s three rooms,” Clara corrected gently as she nudged Marty out of the way of the small cooking area. “Anyway, Emmett promised me that he would keep his little creations sequestered over here.”

Doc nodded, confirming the words, when Marty looked over at him, an eyebrow raised. “There’s marginally more privacy here,” he said. “And you’ll be around to guard ‘em.”

“Gee, thanks. So that’s my new job, then, an invention security guard…?”

The evening passed pleasantly. Doc marveled at the change in Marty -- he was much more relaxed, smiling once again, in general a pleasant human being to be around. Clara was clearly astonished by this change. When Doc escorted her home, she asked him for the full story of their weekend together.

“And just like that, his whole perspective shifts?” she asked when the inventor had explained their discussion the previous night.

“Well, I gathered that Marty had been worrying about these things for months. Certainly he’d been talking in his sleep since late September. He must be relieved that it’s all in the open now.”

“Yes, I would guess so based on his behavior now.”

But Clara frowned, pensive. Doc didn’t understand.

“You don’t sound entirely certain about that. Do you think there’s something more? Do you think Marty is faking his happiness?” That seemed a bit farfetched to Doc.

“I don’t know,” Clara said. “He just seems so changed from the way he was before. It seems almost… well, it’s queer that he’s so changed simply based on a conversation you had.”

Doc puckered his mouth into a frown. “Well, I suppose I can ask him when I get back. But I don’t think he’s pretending to feel the way he’s acting now. Not if he couldn’t muster that these last few months.”

Indeed, when Doc returned back to the barn, he wasted little time in checking in with Marty, who was sprawled in one of the armchairs, scribbling something on paper. The teen didn’t look up when Doc came in and approached him, not until Doc actually called his name. When he pulled his attention up and away from what he was writing, his eyes looked glassy, as if his mind was very far away from the present.

“What are you doing?” Doc asked, first and foremost.

“Trying to write a song,” Marty said. “I have all these ideas…. I should probably get a notebook or something to keep ‘em in. I just grabbed some paper for now. You don’t care, do you?”

Doc shook his head. “No, not at all. Are you feeling better today, Marty? Since our talk last night?”

“Yeah,” the teen said, his eyes drifting to the paper. He clearly wanted to finish whatever it was he had started. “Why? Are you worrying about me again?”

“No. I just noticed that you seem…well, less worried today.”

“I am,” Marty said. He crossed something out on the paper and then scribbled something new in it’s place.

“Well…that’s wonderful. I’m glad to hear it.” Doc waited a moment for Marty to say something more, but he continued to write, biting his lower lip in concentration. The inventor felt oddly shut out and brushed aside. He wondered if that’s how he made his friend feel when he was engaged with something in his head.

He turned around and walked away, but Marty’s voice stopped him a minute later. “You’re right about Clara,” he said. “She’s a neat lady. I hope you guys are happy together.”

Doc turned around, the words thoroughly unexpected. Marty was still writing on the paper. He couldn’t see the smile that blossomed on his friend’s face.

“Thank you,” the inventor said, feeling oddly choked up by the approval and the well wish. “I’m sure we will be.”

“Great Scott! I’m getting married today!”

The exclamation jarred Marty awake. He opened his eyes, startled, seeing the faint grey shadows of dawn. His face, the only part of him not currently bundled in a couple layers of quilts, was freezing, having been exposed to the night area. Marty pulled one of his hands free of the layers and rubbed his cheeks, trying to get some feeling into them. He heard Doc’s feet moving rapidly around the stable area, as if he was running around.

Although barely awake, he was curious enough to sit up. Cold air whisked around him, chilling his skin through the flannel long underwear as he swung his legs over the side of the cot. He quickly wrapped one of the thicker blankets tightly around him, trying to keep as warm as possible. He leaned over to draw back one of the sheets hanging down, separating a small corner of the stable for his own “room.” The allotted space was barely large enough for the cot and a chest Doc had found for him to keep his clothes in. Marty hadn’t bothered to do anything to personalize the tiny space. It was simply a spot to sleep, and go for privacy… not that he really needed it, since Doc was out so much with Clara.

As he slid a few inches of the sheet aside, he saw Doc slam to a stop near the back window above the desk. The scientist had clearly just woken up; he was still clad in his long flannel underwear and a thick robe. He was looking outside, his eyes wide, his posture ramrod straight. Marty could tell he was wound up -- and it was only… he squinted at one of the clocks nearby… about 7:20 in the morning. The wedding ceremony itself wasn’t until two in the afternoon. He resisted a groan, wondering if Doc was going to be nuts the whole morning.

He better not drink any coffee today; he sure as hell won’t need it!

“Great Scott!” the inventor burst out again, slightly louder, his hands going up to his unruly hair. “It’s snowing!”

“How is that a big deal?” Marty asked, announcing his presence. “It’s been doing that on and off since Thanksgiving.”

Doc spun around at the sound of his voice, clearly startled. He blinked a couple times, then swiveled back to the window. “Look,” he said, throwing one arm out, towards the landscape.

Marty frowned faintly and got up, keeping the blanket wrapped around him. One of the things he really hated about Doc’s place was the lack of temperature control. He had baked for a few days in the early fall, and now was freezing every morning and night, if he wasn’t buried under several layers of blankets. There was a woodstove, but it did very little in the way of warming up the air near his bed -- or anywhere beyond a foot radius of the stove. He envied Doc for moving into a log cabin; no more breaking the crust of ice in the bedside pitcher in the mornings.

The world beyond the windowglass, Marty saw when he reached Doc’s side, was white. Snow was caked and frozen on the panes of glass, dimming the light, but through a few gaps it was clear that it was snowing thickly and quickly. He squinted, trying to see beyond the icy panes, then shrugged.

“Well, at least we can walk to the church.”

Doc shook his head rapidly, causing his hair to stand on end even more. The effect, along with his wide-eyed gaze, made him truly resemble a mad scientist. “No, no, no, no, no! This is terrible! The trains may not be running! I didn’t hear any whistles this morning. I need to find out if they’ve stopped.”

He started for the doors. Marty took a couple steps after him, then yelled when he realized there was no way he would catch up.

“Whoa, wait, Doc! You can’t go out there like that!”

The scientist took five more steps before the teen’s words seemed to be sink in. He slammed to a stop, looked down, then whirled around. “Clothes,” he said. “I need clothes…. Where’s my suit?”

Marty raised his eyebrows. “Your suit? Isn’t it a little early to change into that?”

Doc looked at one of the clocks. “Oh yes, I suppose so. Well, good, then I can change much more rapidly.” He ran over to his wardrobe, yanking open drawers and pulling out a few articles of clothing. Marty watched his friend as he flung off the bathrobe, then tugged on pants, a shirt, and a vest on over the long johns. The overall effect when he finished was sloppy and wrinkled, but at least he probably wouldn’t cause many raised eyebrows if he was seen.

“What’s the big deals if the trains stop running?” Marty wanted to know as his friend pulled on his boots.

“Clara’s brother is due in on the eight-fifty-three locomotive, from Reno,” Doc explained quickly. “As her parents already cannot be there, the absence of her brother would be sorely missed.”

That explained Doc’s panicked state a little better. Marty watched as he finished putting on his boots, then an overcoat and hat, and finally fled the barn. The teen wasn’t about to follow him. He had better ways to spend his time than trudging through cold snow and wind.

Marty wandered over to the woodstove, threw a few pieces of wood inside, then dragged one of the armchairs nearby. After a few minutes he could feel a little heat emerge from the metal stove, but it was still far too chilly to really be comfortable. He toyed with the idea of going back to bed -- it was early enough and, for once, Doc wouldn’t be hammering on things and working -- but the relative peace around him now probably wouldn’t last too long.

The wedding was supposed to happen at two P.M. Clara wouldn’t be around at all until she and Doc met at the head of the church. This would mean that Marty would have to -- pretty much on his own -- keep the scientist occupied and calm before the ceremony. He hadn’t really worried about it all that much until now -- but if Doc was this wired first thing in the morning, it would probably not bode well for the rest of the day.

Gotta keep busy…for him and for me, Marty thought, frowning as he hugged the quilt tighter around him. After the wedding, there would be a small reception in the Palace Saloon. Chester was providing the space while a variety of townspeople who were attending the wedding were donating food and drink. After that, Doc and Clara were supposed to spend a night in the hotel, then catch a train to San Francisco for a five day trip. Marty was feeling a little apprehensive about that. He was nervous with the idea of holding down Doc’s business alone for that long -- and by the fact that when his friend and Clara returned, things would be quite different.

There was only one thing getting him through this ordeal -- through life, in general, right now. And that was something Doc had said to him a couple nights before at the lake.

“Do you have any kind of timetable idea, Doc? When will I see home again?”

“It may take a few years, Marty. These things take time.”

“So what will that mean? Won’t people notice that I’m out of synch with everything? Older?”

“We’ll do something to make that a non-issue, to undo it.”

“To undo it,” Marty whispered aloud, almost as if it was a prayer. Once the new time machine was done, Doc would make it so Marty was never back here. He would undo that messy accident. How this was going to happen Marty had no idea. It confused him if he thought about it, and didn’t make a whole lot of sense, actually. It sounded like it could cause a paradox, really -- but this was probably because he wasn’t thinking fourth dimensionally or something of that nature. Doc would definitely know better than he in this area, and Marty was pacified by that, as well as the knowledge that the hell he was experiencing now was not going to be forever. In fact, once things were changed, he’d probably have no memory of this time. That’s what Doc said would happen with Einstein and Jennifer, left behind in that alternate Biff-controled world.

He allowed his mind to drift off into his return home, of seeing Jennifer again, before the chilly air urged him to put on a few layers of clothes. A pair of woolen pants, a flannel shirt, and a sweater all over his long underwear made him a bit more comfortable. He figured he could change into the suit that Seamus McFly was loaning him after lunch.

Doc returned after Marty had managed to brew a pot of hot coffee. There was snow caked on the top of his hat and coat. Apparently this was not a little flurry. In spite of his concern that caffeine was not the best thing for the inventor this morning, Marty poured his friend a cup of coffee and handed it to him once he had removed the hat and jacket.

“What’s the verdict?” he asked.

Doc frowned, unhappy. “The trains stopped running around three A.M.” he said. “I stopped in the telegraph office and found a message waiting for Clara and myself: Christopher Clayton is stuck in Reno.”

Marty winced. “Uh oh.”

“There’s more,” Doc said, a bit grimly. “The weather’s supposed to get worse, not better. By tomorrow, we may have three feet of snow on the ground.”

Six inches was much more common as an extreme depth with Hill Valley. Marty was skeptical of that report. “How can people even remotely predict the weather now?” he asked.

“Telegraph messages from other towns who are getting the storm front before us,” Doc said. “There’s little forewarning -- which is why we didn’t know of this yesterday. Damn!”

“Clara doesn’t know yet?” Marty asked.

“No…. I don’t think so. But I’m forbidden to see her; you, however, aren’t. She’s staying in the Palace right now. Can you go over there and let her know the latest news?”

Marty wasn’t enthusiastic about being the bearer of ill tidings. Especially to a bride-to-be on her wedding day. “Am I really the best person for the job?” he asked, trying to stall a bit.

“Short of myself, yes. Please, Marty?”

And that was how, twenty minutes later, Marty found himself standing before Clara’s hotel room door, wondering how he had let Doc talk him into this. The mystery wasn’t that difficult to solve -- it was the inventor’s wedding day, and Marty was his best man. It was an obligation he needed to fulfill. But he wasn’t sure if rousing Clara at eight A.M. on the day she was supposed to get married was something that really needed to be done.

He knocked on the door after a minute or two of indecision. Her question as to the identity of the visitor was given so quickly that it was clear she was already awake.

“It’s Marty,” he said through the wood. “Doc sent me over to talk to you. Can I come in?”

The doorknob rattled a moment later, was pulled open, and Clara stood before him. She was wearing a robe, fastened tightly by a sash around her waist. Her hair was hanging loose down her back. Marty hadn’t seen her like that before and it took him aback for a moment; she looked young, not much older than him, though he knew via Doc that her current age was thirty.

“Marty,” she said, sounding concerned. “Is something wrong? Is Emmett all right?”

“He’s fine,” Marty said. “And he’s not having second thoughts or anything -- don’t worry. Have you looked outside yet today?”

Clara looked towards the window. “It’s snowing,” she said, sounding a bit concerned.

Marty nodded. “Hard,” he said. “Doc checked it out -- the trains stopped running. Your brother’s stuck in Reno.”

The schoolteacher raised a hand to her throat. “Oh dear,” she said, sounding upset. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, his train got stuck there. He sent you and Doc a telegram. It’s supposed to keep snowing, and they said we could get three feet by tomorrow.”

Clara bit her lower lip, upset. “Oh dear,” she said again, sounding more distraught.

“I’m sorry for the downer news,” Marty said, starting to turn around. “Doc figured you’d want to know, and since he can’t come here himself to see you, I got the job.”

“Does he want to cancel the wedding?” Clara asked softly.

Marty turned back to give her his full attention. Yep, she was definitely upset; she almost looked like she was going to cry. Her eyes had a funny, shiny look that usually prelude tears. He squirmed a bit, not entirely comfortable; he didn’t want to deal with any hysteria.

“No,” he said firmly. “Not at all. Doc’s crazy about you.”

Clara blinked quickly. “Everything seems to be going so terribly wrong now,” she murmured, lowering her head to stare at the floor. “My father’s illness…Chris’ delay…the weather…. Perhaps they’re all signs telling us not to proceed.”

The teen didn’t bother to conceal his snort of skepticism. “No. Sh-- stuff happens. It doesn’t mean anything, and I wouldn’t read into it. Doc isn’t.” I think.

Clara sniffed, raising her head. A tear was trickling down her cheek and she reached up and wiped it quickly away. She turned abruptly away from the door and Marty, heading for her bed. The teen stepped inside, current propriety be damned, and closed the door behind them on the off chance anyone was lurking in the hallway, eavesdropping. “Look, Clara, this is just rotten luck. Murphy’s law. That kind of thing. Don’t think that it’s some sign from above that you and Doc shouldn’t get married.”

Clara sat down on the edge of the mussed bedding, using a corner of the sheet to wipe at her eyes. “But nothing seems to be going right.”

“No, not everything,” Marty said. “You can’t control the weather. That’s what’s hosing everything up today. And your dad getting sick was also something you couldn’t predict. Could be worse. You’re not sick; Doc’s not sick. There’s no huge natural disaster. The church didn’t burn down or anything. And it’s probably better you stayed in the hotel last night, so you didn’t get stuck at your cabin.”

Clara listened to the words, sniffing softly. Marty went on, suddenly nervous.

“Don’t break off the wedding, Clara. It’d kill Doc. If you really love him, marry him today. Is it really that important who’s there and who isn’t? It’s just a day.”

An odd look fluttered across Clara’s face, and he regretted his words right away. “It’s just a day.” Right. Not to women. Even Jennifer, who had struck him as levelheaded and practical most of the time, had gone a little psycho with the slightest mention of marriage in the future. Marty expected Clara to bite his head off with that insensitive remark. He opened his mouth to apologize, but she got a word in first.

“You’re right, Marty. It is just one day -- and all that matters is that Emmett and I are together. It would be nice if my family could be here to share in it” -- she sighed softly, wistfully -- “but things could indeed be much worse.” Clara looked at him, her eyes red but a slight smile on her face. “Thank you.”

Marty returned the smile, tentatively. “Look, Clara, just to let you know…. I am glad that you and Doc are getting married,” he said, feeling this needed to be said after his behavior the last few months. “The way he is around you…I’ve never seen him this happy before. It’s a different Doc, but probably a better Doc, too.”

Clara blinked, her eyes looking like they were welling up once more. “Why, thank you, Marty,” she said. “I’m glad you seem to be feeling better about…everything. Emmett was terribly concerned about you; so was I.”

Marty shifted, uncomfortable, looking at the scarred floorboards. “Yeah, well…. It’s been hard, you know, being stuck here. I know I’ve been a jerk. Sorry about that.”

Clara looked at him with some sympathy. “I know you’ve been through a lot,” she said, putting a hand on his arm. “Emmett tells me you were the first to use his time machine -- and that you helped save his life…twice! That is part of the reason why you’re here now.”

“Yeah, I guess, more or less….”

“Emmett cares for you, Marty. You’re one of his best friends, from what I understand. I don’t see that changing from our marriage…do you?”

Marty wavered between honesty and fibbing. “Well….”

“Oh, it’s true,” Clara said, nodding. “I’m so very glad he has someone like you around, and when we finally have a larger place to live, I’d be honored if you stayed with us. The livery stable is no place to live, no matter what Emmett might think.”

Marty managed a smile. “Yeah, well, he used to live in a garage -- the stable is probably a step up.” The smile faded when he remembered something else. “Are they gonna let you keep your job?”

Clara lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I haven’t heard,” she said. “I suppose the committee thinks they have more time to discuss it with classes out until after the holidays.” She changed the subject as she stood up. “Tell Emmett that I’m saddened my family won’t be there, but I will still be quite happy to see him in the church at two.”

Marty’s smile this time was out of sheer relief. He hadn’t, until that moment, realized how much it would bother him if Clara called it off or postponed the wedding. “I’ll do that.”

Doc woke early the day after his wedding. For a moment, before he opened his eyes, he couldn’t remember why he felt so good, so contented and carefree. But when he opened his eyes, and saw the face lying inches away on the pillow, it all came back to him in a wonderful rush.

He, Emmett Brown, was now a married man! Great Scott!

He watched Clara’s face as she continued to sleep, her long dark hair spread loosely across the pillow. She looked so beautiful like that -- almost like a child. His mind lazily recapped the events of the previous day, and he smiled. If only there were more photos, or even video, of the wedding and the reception afterwards! It saddened him a little to know that there were only a handful of pictures he would have to remind him about the special day -- and, someday, when he returned to the future, he would not be able to show them to anyone.

I wonder if Clara truly understands what she’s in for with me? he mused, only the faintest smidgen of anxiety nibbling at him with the thought. She had made it abundantly clear the day before that she was going to stay with him “for better or for worse,” as the vows went. That included, she reminded him last night when they were alone, “In all times, be they here or otherwise.”

Doc quietly got out of bed, careful to not disturb his new bride. He walked over to the window and pulled back an edge of the curtain for a look outside, wondering if it was still snowing. He squinted at the sight that lay beyond -- mounts of white on the ground below, but the clouds above were breaking up. The storm appeared to be over.

I wonder if the trains are running again?

They had a hotel booked in San Francisco that evening, and tickets for a train that was to leave that afternoon. If the lines were still shut down, however, that would throw a bit of a wrench into the plans. The day before, Doc had hardly cared, but now that the jitters from his wedding day were past, he was eager for a little romantic vacation.

His curiosity -- and the chill in the air -- prompted him to quietly get dressed. He felt torn at the idea of leaving Clara; Doc didn’t like the idea of her waking up alone the morning after their wedding, but he also didn’t want to disturb her rest. He finally compromised, taking some stationary that was provided in a small desk and writing a brief note explaining where he was going. He left it on his pillow, gave her a soft kiss on her exposed cheek, then eased the door open, stepped into the hallway -- and almost ran into Marty.

In spite of the joy and excitement the day before, Doc had felt a little concerned about him at the reception. He didn’t look as if he felt very well, and before retiring to his room in the hotel with Clara, the inventor had peeked into the room where Chester had put the teen earlier. Marty had been asleep -- and, even in that state, looked vaguely distressed. Doc had let him be, reluctant to rouse him only to say good night, though he wondered if he would regret that later.

Marty jumped a little, clearly startled by Doc’s sudden appearance in the dim hallway. He looked dazed, no more than half awake, and his clothes -- the same ones he had been wearing the day before, for the wedding -- were rumpled up, as if he had spent the night in them. Which, the scientist surmised, was probably the case.

“Good morning,” Doc said, smiling as he closed the door at his back. “Did you sleep through the whole night, too?”

The teen blinked a few times. “Huh? Uh, yeah. I was right there….” He indicated the partially ajar door a couple feet away, a room which was to the right of Doc’s own. “Was that one yours?” He looked past the inventor to the closed door.

“Uh huh. Keep your voice down; Clara is still sleeping.”

Marty glanced at Doc a moment, frowning faintly, his brow furrowed in concentration -- then his eyes widened and his cheeks suddenly flooded with color. He looked away quickly, then. Doc didn’t understand what hat prompted the reaction, but he had more pressing things on his mind.

“I’m going to see if the trains have resumed running,” he said. “If Clara and I can’t use our tickets this evening, I need to come up with an alternate plan.”

“Okay,” Marty said, his attention drawn away, towards the railing that allowed one a bird’s eye view into the saloon below. “Did you need me to do anything?”

“Could you stop by the stable? The horses are going to need feed this morning, and fresh water.”

“Sure. Let me know about the trains, okay?”

Doc assured him he would, then went on his way. He was stopped a few times on his way out of the saloon, townspeople congratulating him on his new marital status. The inventor felt strangely like a celebrity for a few moments.

His good mood continued when he reached the train station, and the conductor there assured him that the lines would be reopened by the following morning. “I don’t see any problems honoring your tickets then,” the conductor said. “You might want to send a wire San Francisco and let them know about your delay. They know that we’ve got storms and the trains had stopped running.”

Doc thanked him for the advice, then took him upon it and went to the telegraph office. There was a small line, but at the sight of him, the few men and women stepped aside and allowed him to go to the front, giving him little knowing smiles and their congratulations. Doc didn’t think things could possibly get any better -- but then he returned to the hotel and found a complimentary breakfast waiting for him in his room, along with a glowing Clara.

“Good morning, husband,” she said, sitting at the small table near the window, clad in a her robe. “Look what they brought up for us.”

Doc closed the door behind him and removed his hat, taking in the tray of food that was perched on the table. Pancakes, bacon, toast, fried potatoes, and a pot of coffee. There was more than enough for two people. “They’re treating us far too kindly,” he said.

“Oh, I think it’s sweet. This is a wonderful town; I can see why you love it so.”

Doc puckered his lips a little as he took off his overcoat and had a seat across from Clara. “At times, yes. I like the town much more now, in many ways. People are nicer here.”

Clara blinked. “People in the future are rude?”

“No, not all.” Doc hesitated a moment before continuing. “My reputation in my time wasn’t the best, and for years -- decades -- the people of Hill Valley were only too happy to spread stories and exaggerations about me. If we were living there now, I can guarantee you that the only people who would’ve attended our wedding would be Marty and Jennifer. Whereas here…there’s not a soul that knows about that time in my life, and even if they did, I’m not sure they would care.”

“I don’t think they would,” Clara said decisively, pouring two mugs of tea. “But I don’t see how anyone could think you strange in your own time.”

“I don’t think you’re entirely impartial,” Doc said ruefully. He took a couple pancakes and put them on the tin plate that had been provided. “The experiments I conducted certainly didn’t aid in my credibility. The time machine was my biggest breakthrough, the one thing I created that worked as it was supposed to without blowing up or setting something on fire.”

“And you’re going to build a new one?” Clara asked, though her tone phrased the question as more of a statement.

“I have to,” Doc said. “Marty needs to be returned home -- and I do, too. We aren’t supposed to be here during this time, and neither are you.”

The slip was accidental. Doc wished immediately he could retract the last part of that sentence, or otherwise erase it from existence. His new wife immediately caught the words. “Neither am I?” she echoed. “Whatever do you mean?”

This was not how he wanted to tell her, or even when. “Never mind,” he said, taking her hand from across the table and giving it a squeeze. “It’s not important.”

Clara frowned, gently removing her hand from the inventor’s. “What did you mean by that, Emmett?”

“As I said, it’s not important, not worthy of any attention.”

“Then why don’t you tell me, anyway, and allow me to be a judge of that?”

Doc looked at her, took note of the tilt of her jaw, the sharpness in her gaze, and the lips that were pressed firmly together. She was not going to let the comment slide. Damn. Doc took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then reached out to take her hands again. He wanted to do this as gently as possible, having no idea how Clara would take the news.

“Do you remember how we met?” he asked.

“Of course,” Clara said. “I’ll never forget that day as long as I live.”

In spite of the anticipation of sharing some rather sober news, Doc smiled at his own memory of that day. Everything for him had changed the moment he looked into those dark eyes. After a moment, he caught himself and schooled his expression into something more appropriate for the forthcoming words.

“What do you think may have happened to you if I hadn’t been there?” he asked softly.

“Well, I would have been in trouble,” Clara said slowly.

“Big trouble,” Doc agreed, his voice gentle. “In the history before we traveled back in time, you went over the edge of the ravine and were killed. In memory, the ravine’s name was changed from Shonash to Clayton Ravine. I remember things this way, and so does Marty.”

Clara nodded once, though her face had paled at the words. “But I didn’t go over the ravine’s edge,” she said.

“No, you didn’t, because I was there to rescue you. However, if I had never invented the time machine, or were stranded in 1885, I wouldn’t be present to be there and help you. Do you understand?”

Again, Clara nodded. “So I was supposed to die there,” she said softly.

“No,” Doc disagreed, wanting to make it abundantly clear to her that she should not think that way. “Your death in that version of history was nothing more than a terrible accident, one possible way things could have unfolded. It was not set in stone. If it had been, nothing I did could have changed it.”

“Then what does it mean?”

“What it means, essentially, is that you’re not supposed to still be here in Hill Valley in 1885. The Hill Valley where I grew up, and where Marty grew up, was set in the same version of history where you died too soon in the ravine. It’s possible that your interactions with a person or persons here, after Friday, September 4th, 1885, could change that history, and cause a multitude of other changes that could somehow effect my own history, or that of the time machine’s creation. It sounds complicated, perhaps even a little farfetched, but it’s something that’s been keeping me up at night.”

Clara withdrew her hand from Doc’s. “What is it you’re trying to say, Emmett?”

Doc’s tone remained calm and gentle. “All this means, really, is that you belong in another time -- like me. If you come back to the future, we no longer need to worry about the matter of your living affecting anyone or anything else. The future isn’t written yet, and can change without any problems for time travelers or the universe as a whole.”

Clara frowned, leaning back in her chair. Hoping to make her feel a little better -- learning about one’s death, even if it was no longer a fact, could ruin anyone’s day -- Doc added, “You know, it’s almost a good thing that you met that fate before I came back here. I couldn’t have married you otherwise. No matter what. It could have changed too much history.”

Clara wrapped her arms across her chest, as if chilled. “Does that mean, then, if you didn’t fall in love with me after the rescue, you would have tried to push me off the edge of the ravine to set history right?”

The inventor shook his head so hard that his hair stood on end. “Absolutely not! I’ll admit that possibility occurred to me for a second’s thought,” he added before he could stop himself, “but I could never, in any circumstances, commit cold blooded murder. No, I may have tried to persuade you to leave Hill Valley, but I never would have tried to hurt you like that!”

Clara nodded, looking calmer after her husband finished speaking. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” she asked.

“I didn’t feel it was important. And I knew that it would hurt you. Who wants to hear about a death that no longer exists?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Clara murmured. “I was never supposed to live past early September?”

Once again, Doc shook his head adamantly. “No, no, no. That was one possible future that didn’t come to pass. It may have happened at some point, but it doesn’t need to happen to right the world. Human beings aren’t put on earth with a set number of hours to live. I think anyone who believes that is being ridiculous. People make their own futures, good and bad. No one is locked into a particular fate unless they themselves choose to allow it.”

Clara turned her head towards the window and the snowy world that lay beyond the panes. “But the best thing that could happen would be for me to no longer be here?”

“The best thing would be for none of us to be here -- not you, myself, or Marty. That will happen eventually, I can assure you. Once I finish the time machine, we can return to 1985.”

“Won’t that cause new problems? Who will I tell people I am?”

For the first time, Doc realized that she would need an actual identity there -- birth certification, a social security number, documentation of some form of education. But those could be fabricated easily enough, through certain channels. He wouldn’t lose too much sleep over it. “Your real name, of course. Enough time will have passed that no one will think it strange. The bigger hurdle may be explaining to people how a woman as kind and beautiful as you decided to marry a crackpot like me.”

“Oh, Emmett, really…. I don’t understand why people dislike you there so much. What did you ever do to them?”

“Nothing,” Doc said. He added, after a moment, “Well, maybe the matter of my refusing to conform to their ideals is what I did. You’re an educator; surely you’ve seen such things in the classroom, where one child is singled out by his peers because he isn’t quite like the others?”

Clara’s nod came reluctantly. “Yes, I suppose I have.” She picked up her mug of coffee and took a sip from it. Doc watched her for a moment, searching for any sign of distress about the news he had just shared. FInding none that was obvious, he changed the subject to something more pleasant. “The trains should be running again by tomorrow. I checked with the station. We’ll be just a day late, but we can still visit San Francisco. We’ll just have to spend another night here.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad. Have you seen Marty today?”

“I saw him in the hall when I left. Did he visit you?” It seemed uncharacteristic of his friend.

Clara shook her head. “We should try to find him later and let him know about the adjustment to the travel plans,” she said. “I think it may also help him feel less…well, as if he’s been abandoned by you.”

Doc grimaced at his oversight. He should’ve asked Marty to come with him to the train station earlier. “You’re right,” he said. “After we finish breakfast, we can do just that.”

On Christmas eve, a week after Doc and Clara left on their honeymoon and three days after they had safely returned, Marty sat on the couch in the schoolteacher’s cabin. A few feet away, Doc was struggling to straighten the six foot pine that he and Marty had chopped down earlier in the afternoon.

“A little to the left, Doc,” Marty said. The scientist started to comply. “Wait, I meant right. Sorry.”

Doc glanced at him from where he lay on the floor, flat on his stomach. He looked a little irritated. Perhaps that was due to the pine branches that kept tangling in his hair. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

Doc made the adjustment at the base of the tree. “How’s that?”

Marty got up from the couch and eyed the tree from a different angle. “Great.”

The scientist backed out from under the lower branches of the tree and pulled himself up to his feet. He circled the tree as best he could with it backed into a corner. “Hmmm,” he muttered. “It still looks a little crooked….”

“Oh, Emmett, it’s fine,” Clara said, bustling in from the kitchen. She had an odd assortment of items on a tray: a couple spools of thread, a pair of scissors, a bowl of small red berries, and a bowl of actual popped popcorn. Marty’s eyes widened at the sight of it. He hadn’t seen popcorn since he left home. His mouth started watering a little at the sight.

“When did you make that?” he asked.

“When you and Emmett were getting the tree,” Clara said, setting the tray down on the small table at the end of the couch. “I bought the kernels in San Francisco.”

“Great.” Marty reached for the bowl, but the schoolteacher picked it up and held it just out of his reach.

“This isn’t for eating,” she chided. “I did set aside a little for a snack tomorrow, but these are to be threaded for tree garlands.”

“I can do that,” Marty said, already strategizing his move. No one would notice if he took a few bites for himself.

“Let him do it, Clara,” Doc said before his wife was given any chance to protest. “You can help me decorate the tree.”

Clara handed him the bowl and quickly explained what he should do. String the thread and needle through the popped kernels and red berries. It wasn’t rocket science. After threading the needle, Clara turned the project over to him and helped her husband with the box of decorations that had arrived yesterday from her family in New Jersey. Marty watched them work together once he fell into the rhythm of his job, pricking his fingers once or twice in distraction. He never thought he’d see Doc decorating a Christmas tree -- or, rather, Doc being directed on how to decorate a Christmas tree. Clara seemed to have some very definitive ideas on where things should go.

“Place this one here, Emmett. It catches the light much better. And these baubles should go right here….”

Doc seemed a bit taken aback, but followed the directions accordingly. He paused when he picked up a small foil ornament from the mess of yellowed newspapers that had been used to pad the more breakable decorations. It wasn’t nearly as fancy or elaborate of some of the other things that had come from the box. “What’s this?” he said.

Clara leaned away from where she was securing a small wooden nutcracker and looked at what her husband held in the palm of his hand. “Oh, I made that,” she said. “It was a project in school when I was no more than eight or nine.” A faint smile touched her face as she reached over and took it from Doc’s hand. “How sweet of them to send it here. Papa always put it near the top of the tree.”

Doc smiled as he glanced at the old ornament, then his wife’s face. “Then we’ll do the same,” he said, giving her a quick kiss as he took it from her hand and set it on the uppermost bough of the tree.

Marty felt a dull ache in the pit of his stomach as he watched them carry on. He didn’t want to be here, not for Christmas. Living through a Thanksgiving away from his family had been bad enough. He was accustomed to large family get togethers, usually in the home of his maternal grandparents or one of his aunts and uncles. Since his father, George, had been an only child, Grandma Sylvia and Grandpa Arthur would usually join in the Baines’ extended family festivities. Christmas and Thanksgiving meant being fussed over by rarely seen relatives. It was about hanging out with cousins with whom you normally never socialized. It was about large dinners including old family dishes and boring conversations about how much so-and-so had grown up or changed since the previous year.

It wasn’t hanging out with only two other people in the nineteenth century.

No matter how he looked at it, Marty felt he was getting the rawest end of the deal. Clara wasn’t with her family this year but she was at least with the love of her life and in her own time. Doc wasn’t in his time but he never had had anyone to spend the holidays with before, aside from Einstein. Overall, he was probably having the best Christmas ever this year.

It was funny, though. Marty had always dreaded the holiday get-togethers with his family. Usually his mom would end up drunk by the time dinner was served and George would have to endure the thinly veiled jabs at his lack of a career and professional success. This year, however, would have been different. His parents weren’t the same people anymore. Marty was curious to see how much that would change other things -- like his aunts, uncles, and grandparents. Even if this hadn’t been so, however, he still would have yearned for a good ol’ dysfunctional family holiday meal. It was familiar to him; it was home. While this place very much wasn’t, not even after four months.

Marty felt a sharp, pricking pain in his finger as he accidentally stabbed himself with the needle again. He glanced at his fingertip and saw a drop of red ooze to the surface. The teen popped his finger in his mouth and sucked hard on it, feeling unreasonably like crying. Get over it, McFly, Marty told himself firmly. You’re stuck here for now; it could be a lot worse.

Doc and Clara were oblivious to his inner turmoil, busily hanging ornaments on the tree. The inventor glanced over at his friend as he slid some of the packaging out of the way with his foot, “How is your project coming?” he asked.

I could ask you the same thing, Marty thought, frowning a little as his mind turned towards the time machine plans. As far as he knew, Doc hadn’t worked on it once since his marriage. Of course, it wasn’t as if he had had the time. The day after he had returned from San Francisco, he had been busy catching up on business at the blacksmith shop -- business that had all but ground to a halt while he had been away. Marty had felt a little bad about that; the townspeople seemed to think that he had the skills in that area simply because he was an assistant to his friend. They had been confused when he turned them away and told them to come back later. Maybe he’d have to actually make an attempt to learn how to do things on his own. The idea made him feel a little sick, though. He wondered why.

“Marty?” Doc stepped away from the tree, looking at him with concern. “Are you all right?”

The teen blinked, his mind snapping back to the present again. “Oh, yeah, fine,” he said. “This garland, or whatever you call it, is fine.”

Doc gave him an odd look, but Clara summoned his attention before he could do anything more. “Emmett, can you set this up there? I can’t quite reach it myself, and I’ve got to check on supper.”

“Of course.” Doc returned to the tree, taking the object in question -- a small wooden angel -- from Clara’s hand. She hurried out of the room, giving Marty a smile as she passed him.

Doc set the ornament near the top of the tree, then took a step back and looked at his friend again. “How are you doing, Marty?” he asked.

“Well, I keep stabbing myself with this stupid needle….”

The inventor smiled quickly. “That’s not what I meant. I know this has got to be hard for you, having to spend Christmas with Clara and I -- and not with your family.”

Once again, Doc was sharper than Marty had given him credit for. The teen sighed as he picked up another piece of popcorn and stabbed the needle through it. “Yeah, it bites,” he said. “But thanks for having me over. I don’t think I could’ve dealt with the barn tonight.”

Doc had invited Marty to stay at the cabin for the next two nights. Marty had resisted at first with the belief that he’d be intruding on the newlyweds too soon after their marriage, but the scientist had insisted with several good arguments. Once he was sure that Doc wasn’t going to feel put out by a two day visit, Marty hadn’t had any problem accepting. He hadn’t thought that things could get worse in 1885, but living in the drafty, leaky livery stable by himself was definitely making things grimmer by a tenfold.

“It’s our pleasure. I’m sorry the facilities aren’t more comfortable.”

Doc had brought along Marty’s cot when he had picked him up in town early that afternoon. Marty was just going to bunk on that in the living room. He thought it was much better than the couch he was sitting on, or even the armchair. Furniture in this time was too hard and too small for his liking, little more than thinly padded benches or chairs.

“This place is a hell of a lot better than the barn, believe me,” Marty assured him. “I don’t care if things are a little crammed. I’m just happy to not be freezing for once.” Or surrounded by only the horses for company.

“I’m sorry about that,” Doc said, his tone apologetic. “I think thus far this winter has been harsher than the one last year.” He paused a moment, his gaze suddenly distant. “Do you realize, Marty, I’ve been here for fifty-one weeks now? A week from now, and I’ll be counting down to just five more hours and thirty-eight minutes until the first anniversary of my arrival here.”

“So you’re not forgetting the exact date you got here or anything.”

The faintly sarcastic bite to Marty’s words weren’t picked up -- or at least acknowledged -- by the scientist. “It would be difficult to do so when the date and minute of your arrival happens to be a noteworthy holiday. It seems terribly appropriate in some ways that I arrived on New Years Day.”

Marty didn’t want to think about the holiday still a week away. It seemed like a lousy joke that the “new year” would in fact be one that was quite long ago to him. “Right,” he muttered. “What’s your resolution going to be? To get us back to the future?”

“That will happen eventually,” Doc said quietly, almost to himself. “I had in mind something more along the lines of a permanent residence. Clara’s teaching contract will expire in June, and I don’t think the school board will renew it. They’re making enough of an accommodation for her now, seeing as she’s married. You know that she technically broke her contract by marrying me.”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that before. So you’ll be the only breadwinner, then? Can you afford a house, Doc?” Marty had no idea what a place went for in this time.

“In a few more months, yes, I’ll have to,” Doc said. “We don’t have much of a choice in the matter. I won’t be purchasing anything elaborate. The biggest desired amenity will be isolation from the town, so I can conduct experiments without any of the neighbors being aware.”

Marty snorted softly. “Somehow I don’t think that’ll be much of a problem. Go a mile and you’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“Perhaps, but I’d like to purchase a house that has already been built. It would be too time consuming to construct one from the ground up, not to mention expensive. My only concern is that purchasing a building that has been priorly owned could change history. Unfortunately, I can’t see a way to avoid it.”

Marty was glad that Doc seemed to understand that and he wasn’t going to have to argue him out of misguided notions involving the altering of history. He wasn’t up to it tonight. “Is there any place you got in mind?” he asked.

“I haven’t begun to look yet,” Doc said. “When the time is right, I will do so. And then you’ll live with us. Clara is right, you know -- that stable is really not fit for a human dwelling. I put up with it simply because I had no other choice.”

The idea of living with Doc and Clara was still a bit strange to him. “I don’t want to bother you guys,” Marty said softly, looking down at the bowls in his lap.

“Nonsense. It’s no bother. We’ll make sure you have your own room. I know you’re used to that sort of thing.”

That would be nice, Marty had to admit. A space of his own -- never mind that he kind of had that now in the barn. Of course, it wasn’t his place -- it was Doc’s. The inventor hadn’t removed any personal artifacts from the living space of the stable, save for articles of clothing. It wasn’t as if there was any place to put it in the tiny cabin.

But it wasn’t as if Marty had anything of his own now, either. He had the clothes that Doc supplied, the photo of both of them with the clock from the town festival, and the assortment of toiletries that came with being alive and well-groomed in this time. But beyond that, he really had no personal belongings. Just the odd sheets of paper he was collecting now with new songs scribbled on them. Without any sort of instrument to use, that was pretty much an exercise in futility.

Yeah, talk about irony. Now that I have my own place, with no one complaining if I practice late at night, I don’t have an instrument!

Marty wondered if he should bring that up to his friend. Doc had to know where there were instruments to be had. Hill Valley didn’t have any in the general store, that was for sure. “You know, Doc, I haven’t asked for much while I’ve been here,” he began.

The inventor, who had turned back to the Christmas tree, suddenly turned back around. He narrowed his eyes a moment at the teen. “Yes?” he said cautiously.

“Well, there’s something I’ve been wanting since I got here, pretty much. I haven’t seen any in Hill Valley, but maybe you can order ‘em from somewhere around here.”

“What are you trying to lead up to, Marty?”

Marty stabbed one of the berries with the needle. “A guitar, Doc. I need something to keep me from getting rusty -- it’s driving me nuts not having anything to play.”

Doc suddenly turned back to the tree. “I see,” he said after a moment. “Well, I haven’t seen any myself. I could ask around, I suppose. With shipping the way it is now, you know it will take some months to arrive here -- if we can find something fairly inexpensive.”

Marty’s heart sank a little. He thought Doc would be a little more encouraging with that one luxury he was asking for. Especially on Christmas eve. “Fine,” he murmured, flinging a berry back into the bowl to vent his frustration. “That’s fine.”

Clara returned from the kitchen before Doc could say anything else, bringing with her an array of delicious scents. “Supper is ready,” she announced from the doorway. “We can finish the decorations afterwards.”

Doc set down what was in his hand, then headed for the other room. Marty pushed aside the bowls and the string of popcorn and berries and went after him with a heavier heart. Unbidden, memories of holidays past once more assaulted him. The big family meals. The scratched up Christmas records. The unending reruns of It’s a Wonderful Life or A Christmas Carol on the TV set. He couldn’t have cared less about the materialistic aspects about the holiday this year. Just being there to hang out with his family, in all it’s flawed glory, would be enough.

“’Through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow,’” he muttered under his breath as he took a seat at the small kitchen table.

“What was that?” Clara asked, somehow managing to catch his near whisper.

Marty hesitated a moment. “It’s from a Christmas carol,” he said. “’Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ -- that’s the name of the song,” he added quickly. “Do you know it?”

“No, I can’t say I do,” Clara said. “How does it go?”

Although Marty enjoyed singing and performing, doing so at the dinner table was not something he was particularly enthusiastic to do. “Uh, maybe later,” he said, hoping she’d forget. “I guess it hasn’t been written yet, huh?”

“No,” Doc said, surprising the teen. “It didn’t come out until the 1940’s, I believe. Many of the Christmas songs that we’re accustomed to were creations of the twentieth century,” he added to Marty.

The idea that those holiday songs, which were such staples to that time of year and holiday, were not yet in existence simply depressed the teen further. It reminded him how alien this world was. He accepted the plate Clara handed to him, filled with things that had simmered on the stove most of the day, and concentrated on the simple act of eating. Maybe if he pretended this was just another night, that it wasn’t a huge holiday he associated strongly with his family, he’d be okay.

The sky was still dark when Doc woke up. For a groggy moment he entertained the notion of rolling over and going back to sleep. Then he remembered -- this wasn’t just any morning. It was Christmas Day. His first holiday with his wife.

Doc sat up quickly, his eyes darting towards the the alarm clock on the bedside table. Unable to read the time from that distance, he picked it up and held the face close to his eyes. After a moment of intense squinting, he was finally able to make out the position of the hands. It was just after seven in the morning. It wasn’t too early to get up, and he feared if he waited any later, the opportunity of surprise would be lost.

The inventor scooted to the edge of the bed, doing his best to move as quietly and slowly as he could, lest he rouse Clara. He had just slipped his legs out from under the blankets and set his feet on the too-cold floorboards, when he was stopped.

“What time is it, Emmett?”

Doc froze a moment at the sleepy sound of his spouse’s voice. He turned his head in her direction, seeing little more than the shadow of her head against the white linen of the pillowcase. “Early,” he murmured. “The sun hasn’t risen yet. Go back to sleep.”

“And let you cook this morning?” He could clearly hear the amusement in her voice and imagined, rather than saw, the smile on her lips. “I think Marty would be disappointed.”

“Perhaps,” Doc agreed. “But let me at least start the coffee before you get up. There are a few things I’d like to take care of first by myself.”

Clara didn’t put up any argument. Doc knew she was aware of the small box of things he had collected for the holiday. Packages he had primarily purchased on their honeymoon trip to San Francisco, some alone, and some with her aid, all wrapped in the same plain brown paper packaging. The items all fit neatly in a couple boxes in a corner of the room, tucked behind the door when it would be opened so it was all but hidden from casual view.

One item in particular, though, was too large for such easy concealment, and it was stowed safely under the bed, wrapped in a couple horse blankets from the livery stable. Clara knew that particular object was what her husband was especially referring towards. When she spoke again, her voice contained that same warmth and tenderness that told Doc she was smiling.

“Certainly, Emmett,” she said. “I’ll wait until I smell the coffee brewing before I get up. But not a moment more.”

Doc leaned over and gave her a quick kiss. “Thank you,” he said. “That should be no longer than half an hour.”

The inventor lit the candle he kept next to the bedside clock and carried it with him towards the door. Rather than remove the gifts from their hiding places, he opened the bedroom door as quietly as he could to look into the other room. Shadows clung to the walls, making it difficult to see much in one glance. Doc took a few steps into the room, moving as quietly as he could, his eyes aimed in the direction of the fireplace and where, the night before, Marty had set up his bed.

The light from his single candle reached the cot after a moment -- and showed him that it was empty, the blankets thrown aside. Doc wasn’t expecting that; he stopped mid stride and frowned. He raised the candle higher, stretching his arm out to scatter the light as far as he could. A careful look around the room showed him that he was alone.

Where is Marty? he wondered -- and then he thought he knew. If he had to answer the call of nature, he would have had to go outside.

There wasn’t a more perfect opportunity, Doc realized. He lit one of the lamps in the room with the length of candle, then headed back to the bedroom. It took him just a few minutes to collect all the packages from their respective hiding places and move them into the other room, placing them under the Christmas tree. He smiled as he stepped back, admiring the effect, wishing vaguely that electric Christmas lights existed now. (The alternative -- small candles -- was far too much of a fire hazard for the inventor to consider. He had already burned down one home in his life; he didn’t want to make it two for two.)

They’ll be pleased, he thought, thinking of his wife and Marty. He was particularly concerned with Marty this holiday. The teen was used to the overabundance of commercialism with the holiday, not the simpler pleasures of this time. There was also the very large change of spending the day far from home and his family. Doc knew that was bothering him a lot and couldn’t stop the faint prickles of guilt that he had something to do with it. He could only hope the attempts he had made at making the holiday at least a pleasant one would ease up the homesickness his friend was no doubt suffering from.

Doc looked at the time and was a little surprised to see ten minutes had passed since he had first entered the main room. Yet Marty had still not returned. How strange. If he had made a run to the outhouse on the property, he should have returned by now.

Concerned, but not yet worried, Doc stepped over to the cot and the bedding that was askew on the small bed. He leaned over and placed his palm first on the pillow, then on the tangled collection of blankets near the foot. It was completely cold. Marty, it would appear, had been gone for a while.

Doc glanced in the direction of the bedroom, wondering if he should rouse Clara, then decided to look around the rest of the property. No need to jump to erroneous conclusions.

He made his first stop the kitchen, deciding that it would be a good idea to get the coffee started and stoke the stove for the breakfast preparations. Doc pushed open the door all the way, allowing as much light as he could spill into the room from the main room. As he turned his head towards the stove, however, the scientist noticed he could see far better than he should before sunrise. His eyes were drawn to the lamp burning on the kitchen table and a frown settled on his lips as he wondered who had been foolish enough to leave a light untended all night.

Then he saw that he wasn’t alone, and the light wasn’t wholly untended. Marty was sitting at the table -- though sitting wasn’t quite the right term. The teen was slumped forward across the wooden tabletop, his head cradled in the crook of his elbow. He appeared to be sleeping, not reacting to the faint sounds of Doc’s arrival.

The scientist was confused by the sight. Why would Marty exchange a perfectly comfortable bed for a hard chair and table? But as he took a step forward, he noticed the loose papers that were spread across the table. The teen still had a small length of pencil clutched in his right hand. Doc glanced at the ones closest in proximity to his friend, inches away from Marty’s slightly parted lips. His hand half-concealed the stream of sloppy, handwritten words from the inventor’s quick glance.

el the pain

ough of the strain

go away from here

too clear

Marty sniffed softly in his sleep, the noise startling Doc from his reading. He abruptly averted his eyes and took a step back, feeling guilty by seeing what he did. He shouldn’t be looking at Marty’s personal thoughts -- or song lyrics, as it appeared to be. If his friend wanted him to see it, he would show him on his own.

Doc turned away from the table, glad that Marty wasn’t in any sort of harm, but faintly troubled by the dark mood of the writing he had seen. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised in the least, and in fact be glad that his friend was at least getting out such things on paper instead of drinking binges at the Palace Saloon. The faint nibble of guilt at putting Marty in his current out -of-time position surfaced again.

It was impossible to move quietly in kitchens of this time period, particular where a cast iron stove was concerned. Doc opened the door as quietly as he could and settled the pieces of wood inside from the bucket nearby. When he closed the door, however, there was an unavoidable clattering noise of metal on metal. He winced a little at the sound, then turned around. Marty had raised his head and was blinking, bleary-eyed. His eyes focused on Doc after a moment.

“Good morning,” Doc said. “Sorry to wake you.”

The teen blinked at him a couple more times, then sighed and rubbed his eyes with his hands. “What time?” Doc heard him mutter faintly.

“About a quarter to eight. I was going to start the coffee.”

“Oh. Great.” Marty settled his head back down on the table and closed his eyes.

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable lying down?” Doc asked dryly.

“S’warmer in here,” Marty murmured.

The inventor continued to talk to him as he searched for the tin of coffee grounds. “It’s Christmas morning,” he said. “Aren’t you eager to see what Santa brought?”

Marty’s blue eyes opened enough to squint at Doc. “I’m not seven, Doc.”

“Be that as it may, you’re never too old to believe,” Doc said, smiling as he contemplated the packages in the other room.

Marty snorted softly, his views on that coming across perfectly clear. Doc poured water from the pitcher into the coffee pot and then added some to the empty kettle before setting each on the stove. Clara usually favored tea over coffee. “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised when you go into the other room,” Doc told his friend, taking the chair across from him.

Marty slowly raised his head from the table, his eyes narrowed. “Why? Is there a time machine under the tree?”

Doc felt the smile freeze for a moment on his face. “No,” he said. “Some things simply won’t fit.”

Marty stared at him a beat more, then lowered his head to the table again. “Then I’m not interested,” he said, adding, “No offense, Doc, but the sooner this day is over, the better as far as I’m concerned.”

“Well, the day must be lived whether you’re looking forward to it or not. I promise it won’t be all bad, Marty.”

“Mmm, right.”

Since the teen clearly wasn’t in the mood for conversation, Doc got up from the table and headed into the other room. He nearly ran right into Clara, who was no more than a step away from the swinging door of the kitchen. A slight gasp escaped her lips from the near collision.

“Sorry,” Doc said immediately.

“It’s all right,” Clara said, recovering swiftly. She pulled her long sweater tighter around the flannel nightgown she wore. “Where’s Marty? Is he awake already?”

“More or less. He’s in the kitchen.” Doc frowned faintly at his wife. “I thought you were going to stay in bed until the coffee was ready?”

“Oh, don’t be silly. I’m used to early mornings. Lying in bed while others are up and about is not something I was taught to do.”

Doc knew that her upbringing had been considerably different from his own -- the time periods notwithstanding -- but he still felt she deserved the occasional late start to the day. “You don’t trust my cooking skills, do you?” he said. “Admit it.”

Clara smiled at the teasing. “I trust them just fine,” she said, pausing to give him a kiss. “But this is not simply any morning. Besides, we have a houseguest, and although I know Marty is like a member of the family to you, he is not the same to me. He deserves more of a to-do for his visit, particularly since he has no one to fuss over him much of the time.”

Doc felt a slight twitch of guilt at his wife’s words, though he knew Clara meant no harm by them. She was simply stating a very obvious fact. “All right,” he conceded. “I suppose that’s valid reasoning, Mrs. Brown.”

Clara giggled at the use of her married name. She had confessed a certain delight and awe at hearing it the evening after their wedding. The inventor wondered how long it would be exotic to her before it became a matter of course. “Thank you, Dr. Brown,” she said, slipping past him to the kitchen beyond. Doc thought about following her for a moment, then recalled how tiny that kitchen was when there were three bodies in it. He continued deeper into the main room, walking over to the fireplace to re-light the all-but-dead fire.

Marty joined him a few minutes later, looking slightly petered. He flopped down in one of the armchairs, his hands carrying the papers that prior had been spread across the dining table. “Clara kicked me out,” he said, sounding a little annoyed. “Something about needing all that space to cook breakfast.”

“It’s a valid point,” Doc agreed, fanning the tiny flame he had just lit in hopes of it catching all the wood. “The facilities here aren’t particularly spacious.”

“No kidding.” Marty yawned widely, then looked at the clock above the fireplace and grimaced. “It’s still too early….”

“Don’t you normally rise at this time of the day?”

“Not if I can help it.”

The inventor rose up from his crouch before the hearth, the fire having caught, and glanced at his friend. The teen looked tired, moreso than on a typical morning. “Are you not sleeping well again?” He was aware of Marty’s earlier problems in that area little more than a month before.

“Yeah, not really.”

“Any particular reason why?” Doc asked.

Marty lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “It’s creepy being in that stable alone at night,” he said. “And it’s freezing most of the time.”

The scientist was surprised by some of that for a moment. Then he realized that, although he was used to living alone -- and in unconventional homes, no less -- Marty was not. “Do you feel unsafe there?” he asked. “I can assure you that you’re safer there than you would be in 1985.”

“As long as Buford Tannen doesn’t bust out of prison,” Marty muttered.

Doc let the comment go. “Why were you having trouble sleeping last night?” he pressed on. “I didn’t think it was as cold in the cabin as it was in the stable.”

“It’s not,” Marty confirmed, his eyes slipping over to the rising flames in the fireplace. “I just… there’s a lot on my mind.”

Doc recalled the matter that had plagued his friend all fall. He hadn’t been around the last week or two to notice if Marty was talking in his sleep again. “Are you worrying about getting home again?” he asked.

“Worrying isn’t quite the term,” Marty said, propping his feet up on the ottoman and leaning back.

“Then it’s Clara…?” the inventor guessed, lowering his voice lest his spouse overhear.

Marty sighed deeply. “No, not exactly. Look, if you gotta know, I’ve just been thinking about how different life is going to be when you have kids.”

Doc blinked hard. “Kids?” he said, immediately alarmed. “Great Scott, we’re not having any kids! Where did you get such a ridiculous idea?”

Marty gave him a long, steady look. “It’s the facts of life, Doc. You get married, you have kids. And maybe this is a little personal, but there’s not much you can to do stop that from happening, right? Here and now?”

The inventor felt his face warm as he absorbed Marty’s question. Discussing almost the very same subject with his friend just a few weeks earlier hadn’t had nearly the same effect. How curious. “Well, uh, of course there are. The methods may be more primitive, but they do exist. We will not conceive, Marty.”

“Sure.” Marty’s skepticism was clear. “And Clara is willing about this -- even if the so-called birth control works?”

“Of course. She is aware of the danger a child could pose to the space-time continuum. Not to mention her own health and well-being. Prenatal care now, especially for women is in their thirties, such as Clara, is terribly primitive, dangerous, and almost nonexistent. Having a child in this time and place is too risky on too many levels. Perhaps someday, when we return to the future, it may be possible. But it won’t happen before then, I can assure you.”

Although the inventor believed this fully, and his conviction was clear in his voice (to his ears, anyway), Marty continued to look uncertain. “Unless one of you is infertile, or you’re planning to live like monks or whatever while you’re here, I don’t think you can tell me it won’t happen for sure. Even birth control in 1985 isn’t totally effective. One of my brother’s friends got his girlfriend pregnant a couple years ago, even though she was on the Pill.”

Doc sighed and leaned against the wall beside the fireplace. “We have no intention of conceiving a baby,” he said. “We’re being as careful as we can. What more do you want, Marty? A signed contract in blood?”

The teen suddenly looked embarrassed. “Sorry, Doc,” he said. “I guess I’m just feeling a little paranoid. A baby could really screw things up for us all.”

“More than you may think,” Doc said softly. The dangers of bringing into existence a person who would be born into a time where neither their mother or father belonged made the scientist’s pulse skip. Great Scott, the paradoxes that could create were horrific to contemplate!

He cleared his throat, shaking the feeling off. There was no reason to worry about that, not at all. “Look under the tree,” the scientist said, changing the subject to something more pleasant. “Do you notice anything different from last night?”

Marty glanced over and squinted. The room was still dim. Outside the sky was only now growing lighter by degrees as the sun rose. “Some packages,” he said. “What’d you do, Doc?”

The inventor couldn’t resist a smile. “It’s Christmas,” he said. “I know it’s not much, nothing like you’re used to having back home, but I did what I could. Didn’t you wonder about the boxes we brought from San Francisco?”

“I just figured Clara got a lot of dresses,” Marty said. “Am I supposed to open stuff now?”

“Let’s wait a few minutes for Clara,” Doc said. “She helped me with some of the purchases, and I think she’d like to see this.”

The wait ended up extended a good twenty minutes. Clara wanted to have breakfast baking in the oven and on the stove before joining the others. By the time she finally emerged from the kitchen, balancing a tray of steaming mugs, Marty was starting to doze off in the chair and Doc was pacing and fidgeting with a nervous anticipation.

The teen opened his eyes at the sound of the schoolteacher’s arrival. “Is that coffee?” he asked around a yawn.

“Yes,” Clara said as she set the tray down. “Help yourself.” She took a moment to dart over to the kitchen door and prop it open -- “I need to keep an eye on the cooking,” she explained -- then returned to sit down on the small couch.

“All right, Emmett,” she finally said, picking up her mug from the tray. “You needn’t delay any longer.”

Doc began to distribute the gifts, both to his wife and Marty. Many were practical in nature, given the time period and lack of electricity -- a pair of new boots for Marty or a set of quills and ink for Clara. Some were more extravagant for the times, such as the hat Doc had found for his wife in a shop on their honeymoon, and the box of taffies and hard candies he gave Marty.

But there was one gift for his young friend that Doc wanted to save for last. Well, technically, it was one gift in two parts….

After the half dozen or so packages from him had been opened, Doc caught Clara’s eye meaningfully, then reached behind the tree. “This is from Clara, Marty,” he said, bringing out the small square package.

Marty looked up from the socks he was halfheartedly examining. He had thanked Doc for each of his gifts, but a note of enthusiasm had been lacking. Doc wasn’t offended; he knew that to any kid from the 1980s, “practical” gifts like clothing or toiletries were quite dull.

“Really?” Marty asked, accepting the package. “Thanks, Clara.”

The schoolteacher smiled, saying nothing. She glanced at her husband for a moment, then returned her gaze to Marty. “I hope you like it,” she said. “Emmett thought you would.”

Marty gave Doc a curious look, then tore open the brown paper wrapping. Inside were three bound, hardcover books, with plain-colored covers. Marty looked at them a moment, lying in his lap, then turned his face towards both Clara and Doc. “Books,” he said, clearly trying to muster some enthusiasm into his voice. “Nice. Thanks, Clara.”

“Open them up, Marty,” Doc suggested, for the teen had made no move to do so.

Marty thumbed through the first novel. Pages and pages of blank, lined paper flashed by. His brow was furrowed in confusion as he looked at Doc. “They’re blank….”

Clara broke in this time to explain. “Of course,” she said. “Emmett tells me you like to write songs. I thought you might enjoy putting your work down in those.”

“Yes,” Doc interjected before Marty could respond. “Books of bound, blank paper -- lined, no less -- is not very common or cheap out here, Marty. And it’s clear you need some way to organize your work.” He indicated the loose pages now stacked on the end table. “You could lose something important carrying it about like that.”

Marty’s expression changed as Clara, then Doc, spoke. He looked first surprised, then embarrassed, and, finally, pleased and grateful.

“Thanks,” he said again, much more sincerely. “That’s a great idea. I’ll definitely get use out of these, Clara.”

The schoolteacher smiled, a twinkle in her eye. “I dare say you will,” she said, glancing over at her husband. “Emmett, why don’t you give him your last gift?”

Marty gave the scientist his full attention, obviously intrigued by the fanfare surrounding this last gift. “What did you do, Doc?” he asked.

Doc didn’t answer right away, carefully maneuvering the blanket-swaddled gift out from behind the tree. “All in good time, Marty.” He carefully carried the gift across the room and handed it to his friend. “Here. I need the wrappings back after you finish, or Newton and Archemedes may be unhappy.”

“No problem,” Marty agreed, preoccupied with untying the twine that was holding the blankets in place. Doc sat next to Clara on the couch as the teen loosened the ropes, unwrapped the blankets -- and revealed a beautiful guitar.

Marty gasped at the sight, bolting up from where he had been half slumped against the back of the chair. “Doc! But you said it’d take weeks to get one of these last night!”

Doc rolled his eyes at the comment. “Did you expect me to tell you the truth last night and ruin the surprise?” he asked drolly. “I found that in a music shop in San Francisco. The proprietor assured me it was of the finest quality.”

Marty didn’t say anything, his head bowed as he touched the strings and examined the instrument’s neck.

“Is that satisfactory for you?” the scientist had to ask, a little confused by his friend’s suddenly quiet reaction. “I know it’s not what you typically use, but we don’t even have electricity yet, let alone electric guitars.

The teen looked up, a genuine grin on his face. “Are you kidding? This is perfect, Doc! Just what I’ve wanted back here. And this guy was right -- this looks like a great acoustic guitar. I can use this in the future, too; people won’t think it’s weird.”

“There are some extra strings there, too,” Doc said, pleased with the obvious happiness with the gift. “They’re tucked in behind the neck.”

Marty searched that part of the instrument and held up the long, thin brown paper package after a moment. “Got it,” he said. “Thanks, Doc -- and, Clara, the books are great!”

Clara smiled at Marty’s enthusiasm, looking a bit taken aback. Doc hadn’t seen his friend look so happy since before the accident in September. It was a refreshing change from the moping, sullen person who had taken his place. “Might you play us something this evening, after church?” she asked. “I’d love to hear one of your songs, or some of those Christmas ones you know from your time.”

“Definitely,” Marty said. “I think I know a few Christmas tunes. But I’m way outta practice. I’ll have to get started right away.” He plucked a couple of the strings, testing the sound, then began to fuss with the screws to tune up the instrument. Clara looked at her husband and gave him a pleased smile, patting his leg.

“It was a wonderful idea for a gift, Emmett,” she murmured into his ear. “He loves it.”

“Good,” Doc said, just as quietly. “Marty needs one thing to enjoy back here.”

Clara squeezed his leg warmly, then stood. “I think breakfast may be just about ready,” she said. “But before we eat, Marty, I think it’s time we give Emmett your gift.”

Marty looked up from tuning the guitar, blinking a couple times. “Huh?”

Clara clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You gave me the gift to hold for safekeeping, remember?” She walked over to the writing desk tucked in one corner of the room and reached into one of the cubby holes. When her hand emerged, it was clutching a small square box, no larger than the palm of her hand.

“I did?” Marty asked. Clara gave him a quick look, her face impossible to see from where the inventor stood. “I mean, yeah, I did. I hope you like it, Doc.”

Clara handed her husband the package and sat beside him once more. Doc carefully peeled the paper away to reveal a plain box. He opened the lid and, nestled in some cotton, was a beautiful silver pocket watch. The image of a train was emblazoned on the front, along with a stylized monogram of his initials, ELB. Doc’s mouth fell open at the sight, thoroughly startled by it.

“This is lovely,” he said, carefully picking it up. He looked at Marty, who had been craning his neck curiously in the inventor’s direction, then at Clara, who smiled almost mischievously. “Thank you very much…Marty.”

“Ah, you’re welcome,” Marty said. He shot a quick look at Clara, his brow furrowing a little. The schoolteacher wasn’t looking at him, standing again.

“I’d better take the biscuits out of the oven before they start to burn,” she said. She kissed Doc very quickly before darting to the kitchen. “Merry Christmas, dear.”

A moment later they heard the clattering and banging that told them she was pulling out things from the oven. Doc couldn’t help having a little fun at his friend’s expense, especially since Marty was staring at the watch in Doc’s hand with obvious perplexment. “Where did you find the timepiece?” he said.

Marty looked up. “Where did I find it?” he echoed. “Oh, uh, in a catalog. ‘Scuse me, Doc, I’m gonna go help Clara. She deserves that, with today a holiday and all.”

A moment later, Marty was in the kitchen as well, closing the door behind him so that any conversation was completely cut off from Doc’s ears. The scientist smiled, having a general idea on the reasons behind Marty’s sudden motivation, and got up to look out the window. The sun was just coming out, revealing a wonderful, snowy landscape. The inventor whistled a few bars of “White Christmas,” the tune making him feel a brief pang of nostalgia for his own time. It was different without the songs and the TV programs and the crash commercialism. Yet those same aspects, as irritating as they may have been, were rooted in family traditions of his own with the holiday.

For a brief moment, Doc felt homesick. The emotion would catch him off guard on occasion, less so now that he had Clara and Marty around him. Even after fifty-one weeks, this time was still not quite as comfortable as home in the twentieth century. Perhaps, though, that was good. If he was too comfortable, it would be difficult to leave, and leaving was one thing he would absolutely need to do someday. For not only the sake of history but for his own sanity. Worrying constantly about changing history was not particularly good at reducing one’s stress level.

“Emmett! Breakfast is served!”

Doc blinked at the sound of his wife’s voice, calling from the kitchen. He turned around with a sigh, then shifted his mind back to the present. His wife and his friend were waiting for him, and he owed both a happy face. Summoning a smile on his face -- which wasn’t too difficult, given the circumstances of the morning -- he headed for the kitchen.