"History... is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake." -- James Joyce


Saturday, September 19, 1885
3:51 A.M.
Hill Valley, California

Marty McFly opened his eyes as the sound of thunder crackled through the air. His heart was already racing as he sat up, thoroughly disoriented for a moment. Thick darkness surrounded him, broken only by the darker shadows of objects and furniture. The thunder rumbled and echoed through the air, not quite fading entirely before a new bolt lit up his surroundings for a moment -- and solved some of the puzzle for Marty as to his current whereabouts.

“Shit,” he murmured, rubbing his forehead. His skin felt damp and clammy; the air around him was sticky and warm. Small wonder that there was a storm going on now. It had been unusually hot and muggy all week; something like this had to be inevitable.

The thunder from the latest bolt reached his eardrums a moment later, shaking the ground underneath him. Marty got up and headed to one of the open windows across the room, bumping into furniture more than once. It still amazed him how positively dark it could get in a place like this. Of course, when streetlights weren’t around -- hell, electric lights were still years away, at least in Hill Valley -- what did he expect?

Lightning once more lit up the landscape as Marty reached the window. The seventeen-year-old let out a low whistle, seeing more spectacular bolts streaking across the far horizon, too distant to be heard. He wasn’t at the window more than a minute before he heard a sort of roar begin, and felt a misty, cooling breeze on his face.

Christ, it’s pouring!

Indeed, in the span of ten seconds the air went from dry to saturated, rain pounding so hard on the roof that the sound almost drowned out the thunder. Marty stood at the window for a minute, dazed, before he realized he’d better close all the open windows.

“Doc?” he called out, certain his friend had to be awake from all the racket. “Hey, Doc, can you get a light?”

There was no response from the scientist. Marty swore softly under his breath, annoyed, then fumbled his way back to his cot, recalling that there was an oil lamp and box of matches in that vicinity. Lightning was kind enough to flash a couple times to give him a clearer idea on his immediate surroundings, though the subsequent cannon-like echoes of thunder almost made it not worth it.

A few minutes more of feeling his way around with the matches, and Marty had one of the lamps lit. Already growing more adapt with the current technology, he turned the wick as far up as it could go, trying to squeeze out as much illumination as possible, and held it up to check on Doc.

But the large double bed across the room was empty. The bedding was mussed, however, the blankets tossed aside as if Doc had been there only moments before, and then left quite suddenly.

Where the hell--

The thought remained incomplete as Doc suddenly burst into the barn, pulling with him two of his horses -- Newton and Archemedes. Gaileo was already in his stall, nickering uneasily. Newton and Archie were more than a little skittish, tossing their heads and snorting, trying to break free of their reins. “Marty,” Doc barked, spotting the teen immediately. “Shut the windows, will you? I’ve got to get the horses in their stalls.”

“Uh, okay....” Marty set the lamp down and hurried around the livery stable, slamming shut all open windows in a fruitless effort to keep things dry inside. Fruitless in that the ceiling above had about a zillion cracks, and he could both hear and feel the rainwater dripping inside already.

“Ever think about replacing your roof, Doc?” he called out.

The scientist merely grunted in response. From the sounds of it, he was having a bit of a struggle with getting the horses in their indoor homes. Once all the windows were closed -- just in time, since the wind had picked up and was now merrily blowing the sheets of rain inside -- Marty wandered over to see if he could be of any help. He kind of doubted it. He could ride a horse, but that was about it; he lacked understanding of the animals, and they seemed to know this. Marty and the animals had reached a somewhat uneasy truce -- they didn’t try to buck him off when he rode, and generally followed his direction -- but if the horses were ever in distress or excited, Doc was the one who could calm them down and handle it without getting trampled to death.

“Need help there?” he asked after a moment, halting several feet away.

“I’ve got it under control,” Doc said, sounding distracted.

Indeed, a couple minutes later he had both animals safely in their stalls. Just in time. He had hardly latched Newton in before another blast of lighting and thunder sent the animal whinnying uneasily. Doc sighed, giving the horse a friendly pat on the nose before turning around and finally closing the main doors, still hanging ajar, against the storm. Marty watched as he turned and walked back to the wooden floor, his nightshirt streaked with rainwater from the start of the deluge -- and maybe the multiple leaks in the ceiling above, which offered about as much protection from the elements as a sieve.

“What are we supposed to do about this?” he had to ask his friend, gesturing to the gaps and holes above.

“I reinforced the ceiling above the bed last winter,” Doc said. “Move your cot there and you should remain fairly dry.”

Marty frowned, folding his arms across his chest as Doc walked past him, heading for the so-called drier part of the barn. “Is this how you spent the entire winter last year? Soaking every time it rained?”

“I had a great many more things on my mind at that time,” Doc said, opening his wardrobe and rummaging around inside. “Re-roofing a place that had been all but abandoned by the previous owner was not my first priority.”

“It would’ve been mine,” Marty muttered, moving out of the way of a persistent drip -- only to be hit by another that happened to slide down the back of his neck, into the collar of the long underwear he wore for PJs. He just couldn’t quite bring himself to use a nightshirt like Doc. They were a bit too girlie and frilly for his tastes, never mind they were made expressly for men now. Even on hot nights like these, which forced him to roll back the long sleeves and legs of the cotton underwear, he resisted the lighter attire. Marty guessed there were worse places to be than the old west, fashion-wise. He hated to think how he would’ve survived if he had to wear powdered wigs and lace, like people did in the 1700s, or tights, like the middle ages.

Doc paused in his rummaging to turn and look at Marty. He looked grumpy, and the teen couldn’t blame him, really. If he’d had to charge outside in this mess to drag in horses and get drenched in the process, he would be more than a little pissy himself. Being woken up to do it all probably didn’t help matters much, either. “If you’re wet, move your bed and change clothes,” he said. “It’s just rainwater. Unlike the rain at home, this is fairly pure and devoid of any tainting chemicals whatsoever.”

“Oh, lucky us,” Marty said under his breath. He stomped over to where his cot was, picked it up, and moved it into the protected vicinity, trying to ignore the cascade of drops coming down through the overhead gaps. In spite of his admittedly late efforts, the cot was pretty damp by the time he finished the job, having already recieved a good soaking.

“Perfect,” Marty murmured, annoyed, as he pulled the blankets off the wood-and-fabric frame. He let them drop into an untidy heap to the floor, then looked at Doc, who was shaking out a fresh nightshirt from the closet. “Where are the spare blankets?”

“Those were the spare blankets,” Doc said. “If you let them sit there like that, they’ll never dry properly.”

Marty made a face, trying very hard not to whine. “Then what am I supposed to sleep on, now?”

Doc pointed to the pale pink couch nearby. “I think it’s dry over there,” he said.

Marty grabbed his (damp) pillow off the cot and strode over there, simmering a little at all this inconvenience. Fortunately for Doc, the inventor was correct in that the area was dry. Still, Marty was feeling more than a little soggy himself as he lay on the cushions and stared up at the dim ceiling, scowling faintly at the world in general. Although he had actually been sleeping -- for a change -- when the storm had arrived, he was now more than wide awake. It shouldn’t have surprised him in the least, considering the storm and his currently wet state.

But even if those factors had been removed, he still would have found sleep difficult to achieve. Ever since Doc had told him that he was pretty much stuck here until a new time machine could be built, he had been having bouts of insomnia. Long after Doc would retire -- and that was saying something, since the scientist was possessed with a seemingly boundless supply of energy that allowed him to rise near dawn and go to bed quite late more nights than not -- Marty would still be lying in his bed, staring up at the dark ceiling, wishing himself to be anywhere but here. He wasn’t in denial -- he knew he was pretty screwed -- but he was finding it hard to deal with the circumstances life had thrown at him and move forward.

Even if he wanted to pretend that the current reality wasn’t happening to him, seeing the DeLorean had been the clincher. About a week and a half ago Doc had finally gone out to the wreckage site to take it home, bringing Marty with him. The headaches from the concussion the teen had sustained in the accident were finally coming less frequently, and he had wanted a chance to see the place where his life had derailed with the train. Part of him, he had to admit, was hoping maybe it would jog his memory, which still had a very large blank spot from the moment he had left town with Doc to hijack the train, until the moment he woke more than a day later. Unfortunately, that didn’t change at all when they had arrived with the wagon to tow the car back. He didn’t have a twinge of recollection, not even the faintest sensation of deja vu. Instead, Marty was aghast when he saw the condition of the time machine.

“Jesus,” he said, walking around the perimeter of the car. “The train practically gutted it!”

“Yes,” Doc had agreed, with absolutely no argument. “You’re lucky you were thrown free, and that the car wasn’t crushed at the front. I think you can gather why fixing this one up to return home is pretty much a lost cause.” He handed Marty the set of car keys and nodded to the vehicle. “Why don’t you open it up and have a look?”

Marty really didn’t want to do that -- he knew it would depress him -- but he accepted the chore. Inside, the time circuits and flux capacitor were both missing, gaping holes and loose wires marking their former locations. (Doc had removed them as soon as he could, while Marty had still been unconscious from the accident.) Junk that had been securely mounted in the car before now hung loosely. Behind the seats was a mixture of broken electronics, shards of glass, the clothes of his from the future, and the ever-resilient hoverboard, which still apparently worked. The ceiling of the car was buckled and bent; Marty was amazed the doors could open, still.

“Why did it go off the tracks?” he wanted to know, emerging from the car.

Doc had been a few feet away, scouting the ground for parts no doubt. He looked up at the question and shrugged. “I’m not sure,” he said. “The tracks appear to be straight and tight, but it could be something as simple as a rock at the wrong place at the wrong time. Or the wheels of the DeLorean were not grooved properly. Or the burst of speed was too much for a steam locomotive.”

Marty didn’t like the lack of an answer. It made him feel slightly ill. Because if Doc didn’t know why things had gone wrong, something like this could easily happen again -- even if they would not be repeating the same experiment.

It had taken the better part of the day to get the car towed back to Doc’s place, and stowed in an empty horse stall under some blankets. Doc still didn’t seem too sure about what he was going to do with the remains, but Marty knew he’d figure something out.

He’d better figure something out on how we’re gonna get home! he thought, frowning as another clap of thunder disturbed the air. The lamplight disappeared a moment later, and he heard the bedsprings shift. Doc had apparently finished changing and was fortunate enough to have both a dry bed and the ability to attempt sleep.

Marty sighed and shifted, the couch lumpy and uncomfortable -- and realized then that, on top of everything else, he had to use the bathroom. Or, in 1885-speak, the outhouse, privy, what have you. It was located outside, naturally, perhaps two dozen feet from the back of the building. Which would be extremely uncomfortable to navigate in the current weather; he would come back soaked to the core.

Marty closed his eyes, grimacing. Reason #5 why this time period sucks, he thought. No indoor restrooms.

It was simply one of many, many things he hated here. Every day brought a new annoyance or inconvenience to his attention. Having to go outside every time you needed to use the bathroom was definitely in the top ten. Others included the lack of clean, clear water -- everything here came from wells, and was tinged some dirt-colored shade; the lack of electricity; the lack of transportation that wasn’t a horse or a train. And then there was lack of washing machines and dishwashers. Here, everything relating to cleaning had to be done by hand, which made it both time consuming and yielded at-times questionable results. Just earlier in the week, Doc had recruited Clara for her help in teaching Marty how to launder his clothes with just soap and a metallic washing board.

“It’s not as difficult as you might think,” the schoolteacher explained cheerfully as she knelt before the tub of water, a shirt of Marty’s in one hand, and the bar of soap in the other. “Simply soak the garment, brace it against the washboard as you scrub it vigorously with the soap--” She demonstrated, taking almost a minute to do the chore. “--Rinse it, wring it out, and then hang to dry.”

Marty had tried, but laundry was never his strong suit. His mother had banned him from doing the chore at home, after he had tried it once and tinted all of his whites a sickly pink color. By the time he finished washing the few articles he owned, his arms ached all the way into his shoulders, and his fingers were scaled from the hot water and stinging from the strong chemicals in the soap. He had also soaked the clothes on his back in the process, creating the need to change because he was doing the wash. He didn’t enjoy the irony.

Doc, Marty had noticed with more than a little envy, seemed to have no problem washing his own clothes, and even seemed to be working on the world’s first washing machine. The teen wished him well on that project, knowing that he would benefit equally from it.

Bathing, in general, was also problematic. Doc had rigged a kind of way to heat up water, but the result wasn’t easy to control; sometimes it would be icy, sometimes it would be scalding. The water pressure was also pretty shoddy with the showerhead the inventor had created, making the concept of a quick shower a dream. At home, Marty could be showered and changed in about ten minutes. Here, it took ten minutes to fill the tub, probably ten minutes to clean up, and then maybe ten minutes to drain the sucker and get dressed again. And the clothes here weren’t as comfortable as the ones back home, especially on hot days. There were more layers with just the underwear alone.

He guessed he should be glad Doc even had a bath, though; the bath house down the street was testament that many homes were without. And Marty knew he definitely preferred Doc’s private tub to one that was in full view of a public street and manned by attendants.

Shaving, too, was something of a chore -- and a dangerous one at that. Marty wasn’t the world’s most hairiest person -- back home he really only needed to shave maybe every other day, if that. But it was something he did need to do at some point, since he really wasn’t into the idea of a beard or mustache. Electric razors were, of course, a convenience of the future. And disposable razors with nice, plastic safety blades were not around yet either. The only thing available now were large straight razors, which required some deft maneuvering, shaving cream, and a mirror. Doc had tried to show him how to shave during his first full week following the accident, and Marty had practically slit his throat by mistake. Even now, about a week later, his face had a number of small nicks and cuts on them, which didn’t appreciate having the blade dragged over them every couple days. Or the lather that they had now; the first brand that he had used had given him a red, itchy rash.

Marty closed his eyes now, trying to ignore the pressure in his bladder. He really, really didn’t want to go out in the storm -- but the sound of the rain wasn’t helping matters for him, either. It was never a good idea to have to listen to water dripping and gushing when you felt like this....

“Doc?” he called out a moment later, sure that the inventor still had to be awake. The storm was still more than a little noisy.

“What is it?”

The reply came quickly enough that Marty knew his guess had been accurate. He sat up, turning his head to look in the direction of Doc’s voice.

“Do you have an umbrella or anything like that? A rain slicker?”

The bedsprings squeaked, giving Marty the impression that the inventor had sat up as well. “You are not going outside in this weather,” Doc said flatly.

“You did,” Marty said.

“I had to get the horses inside from the pasture! Nothing can possibly be as important as that to risk getting struck by lightning and completely drenched.”

Marty hissed a sigh through his teeth. “I gotta take a leak, Doc. What do you suggest I do?”

There was a pause, and the sound of fumbling. A moment later the lamp was lit again. “You’ll have to do what most people did now,” Doc said, climbing out of bed. Before Marty could ask what that was, the inventor ducked down, reaching under the bed. There was the sound of something weighty being dragged across the floorboards, then Doc was standing again, clutching an object that looked almost like an oversized coffee mug -- one the size of a small mixing bowl.

“It’s a chamber pot,” Doc said, answering the question before it could be asked.

“You mean... you mean like a bedpan?” With the inventor’s nod, Marty shook his head hard. “Hell, no, I’m using one of those! I’d rather take my chances outside!”

“You’re not going outside tonight,” Doc said, once more, in the same no nonsense tone as the first time. “That storm is one of the worst I’ve seen -- and I’ve seen some pretty bad ones in my time,” he added, as if Marty didn’t know.

Almost to underscore the point, there was a spectacular burst of light from outside, and the sound of simultaneous thunder. For a moment Marty could actually feel his hair stand on end. The horses in their stalls stomped their feet and snorted, sensing the same disturbance in the atmosphere. When the light had faded, but the thunder roared on, Doc walked over to the window and peered out, frowning in concern.

“That was a close one,” he muttered. “I think it struck near the train station.”

Marty didn’t care if it had struck the clocktower seventy years early. “Doc, why don’t you have a real toilet?” he asked. “I mean, you built a fridge, but you never found time to get indoor plumbing?”

Doc answered him without turning around, raising his voice to be heard over the still-present thunderclap. “The first flush toilets don’t make their way into some of the more wealthier homes of Hill Valley until the next decade, and then are hooked into septic systems. A city sewer system for the town isn’t created until the twentieth century.”

“So? How hard can that be to make?”

The inventor finally turned to look at him as the thunder reluctantly died away. “It’s more difficult than you might think, and plumbing was never my area of interest. I managed to get the bath in here, figured out a way to get some hot water, and not exhaust myself pumping water into the building, or draining it out of the building. I’ve had other things to work on besides digging a septic system by hand, and trying to find or make a flush toilet -- like learning how to be a blacksmith, and attempting to repair a time machine. You should feel fortunate there’s an indoor bath here; that’s a luxury few, if any, have in this town right now.”

“At this point, I think I’d rather just have a flush toilet....”

Doc walked over to him and held out the chamber pot by the handle. “This is your only option right now,” he said. “Unless you want to wait out the storm.”

Which, frankly, was not an option for Marty. He swallowed hard, more than a little uncomfortable. Doc seemed to read his mind and managed a faint smile of sympathy. “Go to the empty stall over there,” he said. “That should provide you adequate privacy. You can leave it there, and then empty it in the outhouse tomorrow morning.”

Marty sighed as he got to his feet and reluctantly accepted the pot from Doc. It was made of porcelain, and quite weighty. “This bites,” he said, most sincerely.

“It could be worse,” the inventor said.

“Not after spending your whole life in the future,” was Marty’s dark reply. He stalked away, following the inventor’s suggestion about taking care of things in the empty stall, the one housing the DeLorean’s sad remains. Once in there, and safely concealed from view in the shadows, he eyed the pot a moment, not quite sure how to go about using it. The sides were high, and kind of curved in and narrowed a little before curving out again. Like a really wide vase, almost; the mouth of it was about six inches wide.

I don’t even wanna know if this has been used before -- by Doc or anyone else....

Marty really had never considered himself a paranoid, germ-phobic person, obsessed with cleanliness and sanitary conditions. But compared to back home, there was so much here that was just plain disgusting -- things he saw every single day. It was enough that he found it difficult to believe that anyone had managed to live through to adulthood. No one washed their hands after using the primitive non-flush toilets; most people seemed to bathe once a week, if that; there was always shit in the street from the horses; refrigeration and preparation of food was both sketchy and unusual.... It was a list that could go on and on.

God, hopefully Doc and I can avoid coming down with any major disease or serious injury here; for all I know, they'll leech us!

It took Marty a few minutes before he emerged from the stall again, having had to contend with a bit of experimentation in the best way to use the past’s equivalent of a bedpan. When he had finished, he left the no-longer-empty pot behind in a corner. He half expected Doc to be in bed again, but the scientist was still on his feet, looking out the back window, his hands clasped behind him. He didn’t seem to hear Marty until the teen stopped at his side and called his name.

“Doc?”

The scientist jumped a little, blinking rapidly as he turned. It was clear his mind had been far away. “Yes, Marty... I take it you’ve finished your, ah, chore?”

“Yeah; I left the pot back there like you said.” He paused, studying the inventor shrewdly. “What’s wrong? Are you worried about the storm?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Doc glanced outside as a flash lit the night up again. “I hope Clara is all right.”

Clara! Marty almost gagged. When Doc wasn’t working in blacksmithing, or trying to help his younger friend to adjust to these heinous times, he was almost constantly with the schoolteacher. On one hand, it was great he had found someone that he was so compatible with, and was clearly as crazy about him as he was over her. But on the other hand -- the more important hand, as far as Marty was concerned -- she was a big, giant distraction. Aside from vague promises, the teen hadn’t noticed any progress being made on a new time machine. Granted, it hadn’t quite been two weeks since the accident, but Single Doc would’ve been well into it. Dating Doc... wasn’t.

Aside from the distraction factor, there was also the matter that Clara really didn’t belong here. Marty’s memories from the past were still quite vivid, and he still thought of Shonash Ravine as Clayton Ravine, named, of course, for Clara’s demise. But Doc had saved her life. And since Doc wasn’t supposed to be in this time either, Marty was sure that had to mean problems later down the line. The inventor, normally so paranoid and overanalytical about the tiniest changes to history, didn’t seemed to care about this at all, lending himself to very potential hypocrisy; it was okay for Doc to change things with time travel, and experience personal gain from those changes, but not Marty?

And finally, though he would never admit it to Doc in a million years, Marty knew he was envious of his friend’s romantic life. Jennifer was a hundred years out of reach, and God knew how long it would be before he saw her again. Every time he saw Doc and Clara together, exchanging sly glances and holding hands or whatnot, he felt shut out, ignored, like the proverbial third wheel.

But, beyond all those things, however, he really didn’t have much of a problem with Clara Clayton.

A pity those little things were so weighty.

“I wonder if I should go out there,” Doc went on, not noticing the frown on Marty’s face that was quickly darkening to a scowl. “Just to check on her--”

“Hell, no!” Marty said immediately. “I just peed in what looked like a large vase because you said it was too dangerous to walk to the outhouse. That should mean riding a few miles is definitely out!”

Doc narrowed his eyes at Marty, the gaze calculating. Then he glanced outside again and nodded once -- reluctantly. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. I should wait until daylight, at least.”

“You should wait until the storm is over, too,” Marty said. “Don’t give me any of this double standard shit, Doc.”

Doc did have the gall to look a bit chagrined by the teen’s words. “Yes, you’re right.” He looked over to one of the clocks nearby as thunder rolled by. “The sun should rise in another hour or two. It’s possible the storm will abate by then.”

“Goody,” Marty muttered. Aside from Doc’s little restriction about going outside in the storm, and the rain still gushing through the gaps in the ceiling above, the teen didn’t mind the weather so much. Frankly, it was the most exciting thing happening in town since he’d gotten stuck here. And if it kept Doc away from his lady love, so much the better. “But even if it’s still going on, you’re not running off over there. She’s fine, Doc. She can take care of herself.”

“She’s also isolated,” Doc said. “I don’t doubt Clara’s resourcefulness in the least, but seeing as there are no telephones or ways of communication out there, and the closest neighbors are a mile away--”

“People are used to that now and lived though those little inconveniences, remember? That’s what you always tell me about this whole way of life now, every time I bitch and moan.” Marty took a deep breath, hearing the harsh edge in his voice and not liking it. But, man, if Doc was gonna ditch him to ride a couple miles in this storm, after forbidding him to walk a couple dozen feet outside.... “Let her be, Doc. You don’t want her to get in trouble if you go over there and get stuck.”

The reputation card was about the only one that Marty could play to get Doc to behave sometimes -- and, ironically, the scientist knew the dos and don’ts of etiquette here much better that the teen. Of all the differences between 1885 and 1985, Doc’s pet peeve currently seemed to be the restrictions that single women had on their behavior with members of the opposite sex. No one in 1985 would give a damn if Doc visited a young schoolteacher in the middle of the night; maybe some of the town gossips would talk, but that would be it. Here, however, not only would tongues waggle, but it could cause Clara to lose her job for reasons of improper conduct. Teachers here apparently had to be perfect saints, in and out of the classroom; there was no barrier between the public and personal life.

Doc sighed at Marty’s reminder, frowning. “Ridiculous, these rules now. It’s not as if Clara or I have salacious intentions....”

“But you know that’s the way it is now.” And, not for the first time, Marty was kind of glad. “Clara’ll be fine, Doc. Stop worrying about her so much.”

“I can’t help it,” Doc said, looking out the window once more, in the general direction of the schoolteacher’s home. “I never thought I could care for another human being as much as I care for Clara now. Rare is the moment when she is not on my mind.”

Marty snorted softly. “No kidding,” he muttered. Doc started to turn his head back to the teen, no doubt catching that. “How much progress have you got done on a new time machine, anyway?” he added quickly.

“Nothing beyond the very earliest stages of brainstorming,” the inventor said, not sounding the least bit remorseful. “But I haven’t had much time at all these last few weeks to sit down and think about it.”

Marty had to admit the truth to that excuse. Even if Clara hadn’t been around eating up the inventor’s spare moments, Doc seemed to be a key person in Hill Valley’s society at the moment. There was the blacksmithing, of course, which kept him busy pretty much from sunup to sundown. And then there was all the work one had to do now to keep themselves clean, fed, and healthy. Getting food, for instance, was not as easy as going to a supermarket with the prepackaged, premade, or completely prepared things. Everything had to be made from scratch here, with rather primitive tools at that.

“Well,” Marty said, “what if I helped you out or something during the day? Maybe that could give you more time to work on the time machine plans.”

So far, Doc had pretty much kept him away from assisting him with the blacksmithing duties. His excuse had been that Marty needed the time to recover completely from his concussion -- and that he didn’t know how to use the equipment or whatnot. Marty hadn’t pressed the issue, having little interest in wanting to learn how to make hammers, nails, horseshoes, and fix wagons. But now, if his help allowed the scientist to gain more time behind the drawing board....

The inventor was quiet for a while -- long enough for lighting and thunder to come around more than once in the pause. “Perhaps,” he finally said. “Yes, perhaps so. Many blacksmiths do have assistants, after all, and you might feel better having something to do here.”

“If it gives you more time to work on a way to get us home, definitely,” Marty agreed.

Doc studied him a moment. “It’s hard physical labor,” he warned.

“So?”

“The work can be dirty and grueling.”

“What isn’t about this time?”

Doc stared at him silently, his face half in shadow. “All right,” he said. “Then I guess we’ll start with your training on Monday.”

“Good,” Marty said. “And that means you can start working on plans for a new time machine that same day.”

Lightning flashed, turning Doc’s smile into more of a grimace. “We can hope.” He turned around abruptly and headed back to his bed, leaving Marty standing where he was, feeling faintly confused and abandoned.

“You better do a lot more than hope,” he murmured under his breath before heading back to the couch.

* * *

By the time Marty woke up Saturday morning -- after not falling asleep until sometime near dawn, when the thunder and lightning finally began to fade out -- the inventor was already gone, leaving behind a note that explained he had gone to check on Clara. The teen had crumpled it up in his fist and tossed it into the hearth two seconds after reading it.

Doc didn’t return until after dinner, which had forced Marty to make do with what he could scrounge up for a meal. He was fairly inept at using the resources here to make anything more strenuous than canned food or coffee. So a meal of beans, jerky, and coffee did little to improve his state of mind when Doc finally waltzed in, a proverbial spring in his step. He was always in a great mood when he came back from hanging out with Clara, which seemed to balance out the foul mood of Marty in the same circumstance.

“Thanks for ditching me all day, Doc,” Marty said as soon as the inventor came in.

Doc blinked, like someone waking from a dream. “Huh?” he asked. “Ditching you?”

“Well, what else would you call it? People kept coming here looking for you. You can’t run off all day like this!”

“Well... I had no intention of spending an entire day away,” Doc said, sounding apologetic as he took off his hat. “I simply lost track of time.”

“You always lose track of time when you’re with her,” Marty muttered, narrowing his eyes.

The scientist didn’t seem to notice the edge in his friend’s voice. “I’m sorry, Marty. I’ll try to be more aware of the hours next time.”

That ended up being a bit of a fib; “next time” ended up being the next day.

Sundays were not really Marty’s favorite day of the week, mostly because Doc made him go to church. He hadn’t been forced to go to church since he was a kid; sometime in his early teen years his mother had given up getting her three kids prodded out of bed, neatly dressed, and forced to the church across town. His father had not the spine to protest Lorraine’s decision. Or at least this was the way it was Before the Change, and those memories were still the ones he had in his head.

But apparently now everyone went to church, and it was considered extremely sinful or heathen-like to skip it. Marty was skeptical in the extreme that Doc had ever set foot in the church before Clara’s arrival to town, but since the schoolteacher had to go, the blacksmith who was going out with her definitely had to make an appearance in escorting her. And, subsequently, Marty, under protest.

After the services ended late morning, Doc took off to help Clara plan a science lesson for later in the week. He said he would be gone a couple hours, but once more the sun was setting before he returned -- and Marty had spent yet another day isolated by himself, in spite of a few invites from the townspeople for Sunday dinners at their homes. (Doc made him turn them all down, fearful that an acceptance of an invitation could spell disaster for history and the space-time continuum.) Thus, he was steaming when Doc got back, though once more the scientist was completely oblivious to his mood.

“It took you all day to plan a stupid lesson?” Marty asked incredulously the minute a smiling Doc strolled through the door.

“Lesson?” Doc echoed. “Oh, yes, that. No, we finished that up mid-afternoon.”

“Then why the hell were you gone until now?” Marty demanded. “Lose track of time again?”

Doc frowned, looking slightly taken aback by the teen’s tone. “Marty, are you all right?”

That was kind of a ridiculous question. “What do you think? How would you feel if you’d been abandoned all weekend?”

The inventor’s brow furrowed into additional lines. “Abandoned? I’m afraid I don’t understand....”

Marty snorted softly, turning away from Doc. “Forget it,” he muttered.

The scientist was quiet for a moment. “What’s wrong, Marty? Are you still upset about the current circumstances?”

That question was even more outlandish than the last. “What makes you think I’m still upset about being stuck in these wonderful times?” he asked, thickly sarcastic.

“You don’t need to take your disappointment out on me,” Doc said, his voice gentle but firm. “I’m in the same boat as you are, and I’m trying everything within my powers to get us home eventually.”

“Oh yeah, you’re definitely going gangbusters on that! I haven’t seen you do one damn thing at all.”

In response, Doc strode over to the wardrobe in his bedroom area, pulled open one of the heavy oak drawers, and lifted a stack of papers out about six inches high. He set it down on the bed and looked at Marty with something akin to annoyance, spreading his hands to indicate the papers. “All this is from January second, 1885 on,” he said. “The notes, the diagrams, the formulas that I attempted or rejected when trying to repair the DeLorean. And even a few for a possibly brand new time machine when I realized that the car was doomed.”

Marty glanced at the stack, curious and surprised, then at Doc’s face. Yep, he was definitely irritated. “Don’t think for a moment that I haven’t done a thing to get us back home,” Doc said firmly. “It’s what I spent every spare waking moment on during the last nine months.”

“What about the last nine days, Doc?” Marty asked. “All I see you doing now is spending all your spare waking hours with Clara. How the hell is that gonna get us home?”

Doc closed his eyes a moment and took a breath. When he spoke, he sounded almost hurt. “Do you dislike Clara, Marty?”

Marty didn’t answer that question immediately, taking a moment to weigh his feelings. “I just want to go home, Doc,” he said -- which was the truth. But not necessarily an answer to the scientist’s query. “Before my thirtieth birthday, you know. And when I see you spending all this time with her -- with Clara -- it makes me think... shit, do you even care if you ever leave here?”

“Of course I care,” Doc said. “But I also care about Clara. I know it must be strange for you to fathom, but I have found someone that I love, Marty. And who loves me in return. Me, Emmett Brown, the town crackpot. I never, ever thought I could have that. I stopped hoping and looking a very long time ago. I think if you really get to know Clara, you’ll see what a special person she is.”

Marty pursed his lips together, silently disagreeing with that statement. “Whatever,” he said dismissively. “You never want me around anyway when she’s here.”

“That’s not true. Whatever gave you that impression?”

“You never invite me along when you go off to see her. I can’t believe you guys are running off alone together like that every day, either. Isn’t it, what, a sin to go off unescorted with a single woman? Especially the town’s schoolteacher?”

Doc sighed. “I never thought you would have the slightest interest in our activities,” he said.

“Well, why don’t you try asking instead of assuming?”

Doc narrowed his eyes, clearly skeptical. “So, am I to understand that if I asked you if you wanted to come out tomorrow night with us, you would want to go?”

“Yeah, I would,” Marty said, meeting his gaze and folding his arms across his chest. He waited for Doc to say something to that, and when the inventor didn’t, the teen added, “What were you going to do, anyway?”

Doc eyed him a moment. “There’s a meteor shower scheduled to pass through tomorrow night, late,” he said. “Clara and I were going to observe it for a couple hours. But it peaks at one in the morning.”

“So?” Marty asked, shrugging. “Sounds interesting. I want to come.”

Based on the look Doc gave him at the comment, Marty got the impression he was about to challenge his friend on that matter. But instead the inventor sighed. “All right. I suppose if you’re with us it would keep the town gossips from making too much of it.”

And, Marty realized, maybe it could be good for him to keep Doc and Clara from indulging in anything beyond looking at the sky. He smiled suddenly, getting an idea. “Yeah,” he agreed, both to Doc’s comment and his own idea. “It’ll be a good thing.”

Monday, September 21, 1885
6:44 A.M.

Emmett Brown was very careful to keep his promise to Marty from the wee hours of Saturday morning. If the teen wanted to learn the ropes on blacksmithing, and put himself to use in the shop, then he would get exactly what he wanted. But Doc was not looking forward to the process of adjustment that Marty was going to have. It had taken him weeks before he had moved past the soreness, the severe exhaustion, and the common mistakes that had peppered his every day at the job. Marty was a few decades younger, granted, but Doc had been rejuvenated in the future. It would probably give the teen about the same experience in the end; he may have skateboarded and walked many places, but Doc was betting his upper body strength was the same place his own was before he moved to the old west.

As usual, Doc rose early in the day, just after the sun slipped over the horizon. He got dressed, washed up, and began to prepare breakfast before he attempted to wake Marty. Aside from the very first week after Marty had arrived, when things needed to be done to ready the time machine for it’s departure, Doc hadn’t bothered to wake his friend before he did so on his own. Sleeping late was all but impossible anyway, as Marty would complain more than once. The close proximity to the main street of town -- and the nature of the blacksmithing business conducted within -- generated a lot of noise that anyone would be hard pressed to ignore and sleep through. Usually within a minute after Doc would start hammering, Marty would be awake and offer his typical complaint about the lack of peace and quiet.

Beginning today, however, those days were over -- if Marty was serious about being an assistant in the business. Doc headed over to the corner of the room he had cleaned out for the teen’s space, drew back one of the curtains that Marty had hung to give himself some privacy, then leaned over the cot and shook the lump burrowed under the blankets. “Marty? Time to get up.”

The lump grunted, but made no move to rise. Doc shook him harder. “C’mon, Marty. The coffee is already brewed, and we’ve got a lot of work to do today.”

Marty groaned, removing his head from the padded protection of the quilt and squinting up at Doc with a look that told him he’d better be joking. Doc smiled cheerfully at him. “Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man--”

“Cranky as hell,” Marty broke in. He yawned widely. “S’too early, Doc....”

“It’s almost seven A.M. Most of the world is awake, now. With the lack of electric lights, workdays follow the daylight hours, not the numbers on a clock.”

“Lousy,” Marty said, falling back onto the pillow and closing his eyes.

“Be that as it may, it’s the way it is presently. And if you want to be trained in an apprenticeship to blacksmithing, you need to get up now.”

Marty sighed deeply, but complied. He said little until he consumed some of the coffee, however, which was probably just as well. There was so much information to share that a constant barrage of questions would only slow things down.

Marty, Doc knew from past experience, was a quick learner when he wanted to be. And he seemed to be genuinely interested in the craft of smithing -- or perhaps he was just happy to have something to do. Having a lot of idle time to brood was never a good thing, and the inventor realized that he should have done this much sooner. It would be good for Marty, allowing him something constructive to work on, and it would give Doc perhaps a bit more leisure time to work on possible time machines that he could construct from present-day materials.

Around five, Doc started to shut things down for the day. Business almost always slowed to a halt around that time as families gathered home for the night. Marty followed Doc’s directions in putting the tools and equipment away for the night while the inventor got supper together. His cooking skills were adequate, but he had little time for real creativity with meals considering the current limitations on cooking supplies and devices. Marty drifted over when he had finished putting things away, looked at the stovetop, and curled his lip.

“Beans again? Jeez, Doc....”

“They’re healthy for you -- not to mention quick and easy to cook.”

“No kidding; every time you’ve been out with Clara I’ve had to make ‘em myself. Ugh.” He drifted over to the couch nearby and dropped back into it. Doc glanced over at him, as he stirred one of the pots. (Beans, bread, and some soup that Clara had prepared and given to him the day before were to be that night’s big meal.) Marty looked thoroughly spent from the day’s activities, but the inventor knew that tomorrow would probably be worse. He still remembered how sore he had been the first few days, before his body had adjusted.

“You might be a bit sore tomorrow,” he mentioned to Marty while it was on his mind.

“I’m already sore now,” Marty muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. He let his head drop to the back of the couch and peered at Doc through half closed eyes. “What time’s this meteor shower tonight?”

Doc had almost forgotten about that -- or forgotten that Marty wanted to go. “It peaks at one A.M.,” he said. “Clara was going to come here later this evening, and we were planning to depart around eleven for the ravine.”

Marty raised his head to look at his friend. “The ravine? You mean the same one Clara should’ve been at the bottom of?” Doc nodded, and the teen frowned. “Isn’t that kinda creepy?”

“No, because she didn’t go over the side.”

Marty continued to stare at him. “Does she know about that, Doc? About what would’ve happened to her if you weren’t there?”

“Even a fool could gather what would have happened if I had not been there, and Clara is anything but a fool.”

“But does she really know, Doc? I mean, it’s one thing to know that something like that probably would’ve happened, but knowing for sure has gotta be a whole different experience.”

Yes, it is, Doc thought, frowning as he recalled the sight of his own tombstone in 1955. The abstract conceptions of your own death -- somewhere distant, in a future time far off from the present, hopefully -- were easy to live with because, ultimately, everyone died. No one was immortal, and even a time machine couldn’t buy you that, though you might be able to get close. Seeing a date carved, literally, into stone, though, was something else entirely. Even if that particular date was now past, and he was still very much alive, the memory alone made him shiver.

“No,” the scientist said in answer to Marty’s question. “I never told her what happened to her in the original history. Why should I? It’s past.”

“I doubt she’d wanna go anywhere near the ravine if she knew,” Marty said.

“Well, nothing will happen to her tonight. We’ll stay away from the edge, and the celestial view should be spectacular. The food should be ready in a few minutes; can you get the dishes and utensils?”

It was a deliberate change of subject, and it seemed to work... for a few minutes. But when the food was dished out and the two of them were sitting at the small dining table eating, Marty brought it up again -- in a slightly different way.

“Doc?”

“Hmmm?”

“Do you remember a couple weeks ago... the morning after the town festival?”

Great Scott, did he remember? How could he forget that morning, the night following his very first kiss with Clara! Doc smiled at the mere memory. “Of course,” he said. “What about it?”

Marty set down the piece of bread in his hand and gave Doc his full attention. “What did you mean about that accident in the future?”

Doc stopped chewing for a second, surprised Marty had remembered -- and rather disheartened that he had. He swallowed the food in his mouth and took a drink of water before he answered. “No one should know too much about their future, Marty,” he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

“And right now it looks like I’m stuck here for some of my future,” Marty said. “What was it that you almost told me? I want to know.”

“Why? It’s quite possible it won’t come to pass now.”

“So what? Come on, Doc. I’ve given you a heads up when you’re gonna meet big trouble in the future. Why can’t you do the same for me?”

Doc thought about those points for a moment, then sighed and rested his hands on the tabletop, resigning himself to the inevitable. “All right. But I’m only sharing this with you because I don’t think it will come to pass anymore. And, frankly, I would prefer for you to forget this by the time you eventually go home. The decision to avert this accident should come from you, and not because of a ‘tip’ from me.”

Marty looked ill at ease suddenly, tapping his finger against his glass of water. “Okay, Doc. Shoot: What happens to me in the future?”

“When I went to 2015 originally--” He stressed the word as much as he could. “--I found that your life had... not quite turned out the way you wanted it to. At the time I thought maybe I could better things by using your help to keep your kids out of trouble. We succeeded with that, as far as I know, but that wasn’t the cause of the problems at all. You can’t cure cancer by just cutting out the tumor; you have to go to the root of the disease.”

Marty made a face. “What a great analogy....”

Doc ignored that. “I did some research in the future about your life -- before I even saw you or your family in the future. One of the more troubling things I discovered -- the most troubling thing, I should say -- was this: On Sunday, October 27th, 1985, at approximately 11:30 A.M., you were in an automobile accident with Jennifer.”

Marty blanched. “Oh my God,” he breathed. “Was she okay?”

“She had a slight concussion, and a few cuts and bruises, but she was fine. You, on the other hand, not only sustained a concussion, but you broke your right hand quite badly. It had to have some surgery and pins had to be put into it. Even with physical therapy -- which, apparently, you didn’t follow through with -- your hand never regained the same agility it once had. You weren’t even eighteen, Marty, but any career in music that you had -- performing it, anyway -- was gone.”

Marty stared at him, still quite pale, then lifted his right hand up and examined it. He flexed his fingers out, balled them into a fist, then wiggled them around in the air. “Just like that?” he asked dully.

“Yes -- because of an accident that could have easily been prevented. You were drag racing with a classmate, and struck a Rolls-Royce. It was your fault, the accident, and the driver sued. Your father’s budding career as a novelist made you -- and him -- a tempting target. The case dragged through the courts for a few months before a settlement was reached. Your family -- and Jennifer, God bless her -- stuck by you the entire time. But you were never the same after that.”

“Well, of course not! Doc, if I couldn’t do music--”

Doc raised his hand, causing Marty to sputter to a stop. “You wanted to hear this, Marty; as I said a moment ago, it may never come to pass now. You shouldn’t get so upset, since this event has not yet occurred; it can be changed.”

Marty didn’t seem to care. “So you were just gonna let me go home? Let me have that lousy future without giving me one hint? Thanks a lot, Doc!”

The inventor sighed to himself, not surprised in the least by his friend’s reaction. He had expected this from the moment he first heard the details, first from newspapers, and then from the older version of Marty who he had finally visited on October 28, 2015 -- mere days after his kids got into the mess that destroyed the already-shaky remains of the McFly marriage.

“I tried to fix it,” he said. “Believe me, I didn’t want your life to turn out like that any more than you did. But I had an error in judgment at the time, and it wasn’t until I was stranded back here these last several months that I had the time to reflect on those couple weeks. Saving your children from imprisonment wasn’t the cause of your unhappiness in the future, or the dissolution of your marriage. I didn’t go to the root of the problem -- but the root of the problem wasn’t your hitting a Rolls-Royce, either.”

“Yeah? Then what the hell was it?”

“Your temper,” Doc said softly.

Marty let out a breath, slumping back in his chair, the wind having been taken out of his sails with the announcement. “My temper?” he echoed softly.

“You got into that drag race in the first place because someone called you a name, goaded you into it. And you felt you had to prove something to them. It was a ridiculously petty reason to destroy your future -- and Jennifer’s.”

“But I... I won’t let that happen anymore, Doc. I turned down Buford, remember?”

Doc nodded once, smiling faintly. “Yes, of course. And perhaps that accident has -- or will -- be avoided in the future. But now I’d like you to forget everything about what I’ve just said. Because if you avoid this car accident now, simply because you know about it ahead of time, who’s to say there won’t be something just like it in the future -- with far worse results? Your temper was the cause of the accident, Marty, and controlling it is the key to avoiding scenarios like that.”

Marty looked a little spooked, nodding once. He didn’t eat much more, and Doc was regretting the news he had shared already. He hoped to God this wouldn’t make things worse for the teen down the line. Marty had enough problems already to grapple with.

* * *

After dinner, the full weight of the day’s events really hit Marty. His shoulders were already feeling stiff and achy from using the heavy hammer that was required in shaping metal, his head ached from the smell of the woodsmoke he’d had to breathe all day -- and he was completely and totally wiped out. Doc seemed to notice his state of mind as he cleared the table of the dinner dishes, and Marty simply remained sitting where he was, zoning out a little.

“You sure you want to come out tonight?” the inventor asked, dumping the dishes in the sink with a clatter.

Marty blinked once, focusing his eyes on Doc. “Yeah,” he said firmly. “A meteor shower sounds kind of cool. Beats hanging around here.”

“Are you sure?” Doc asked, persistent in that question. “Tomorrow is going to be another long day, and you look like you can use all the rest you can get tonight.”

Marty sighed, annoyed, and pushed his chair back. “I’m sure,” he said, standing. “If you can handle it, I can. I don’t see you lecturing Clara about how tired she’ll be tomorrow teaching school.”

Doc didn’t say anything to that, turning back to fill the sink basin with water and soap. Marty sighed again and drifted over to the armchair nearby, flopping back into it and propping his feet up on the ottoman. The arms of the chair were a little creepy in his opinion -- carved dog’s heads. He had to wonder at Doc’s taste sometimes.

He’s acting weird, Marty decided, studying his friend from behind. The night before he had been almost too agreeable about the teen tagging along on the stargazing expedition. Now he seemed to sense that his friend had other motives. Or maybe, Marty realized, he was being paranoid. There was no reason for Doc to think that Marty wasn’t just genuinely interested in seeing a meteor shower.

Except he really wasn’t.

Marty went over the plan in his head one more time. It was quite simple, actually, and required no elaborate choreography or whatnot. He simply was going to try to keep Doc and Clara physically apart, even if he had to sit between the both of them. There was a part of him -- a small part -- that told him he was acting ridiculous and immature, that this would do nothing to solve his problems. But another part of him felt better doing something, rather then simply sit to the side and watch his friend and the schoolteacher bind closer and closer together. Because if that happened, then at some point they would probably....

Oh, don’t think about it! Doc wouldn’t be that stupid to marry someone from another time... would he?

Marty rubbed the side of his head, throbbing under the headache. He didn’t want to even imagine that as a faint possibility. The idea made him feel cold all over. Doc couldn’t -- wouldn’t -- do something like that... would he?

Jeez, McFly, get a grip. Doc’s only been seeing Clara a few weeks. You’re acting like they’re already engaged and waiting for the wedding. A few weeks is nothing.

No; it wasn’t nothing when Marty had never seen Doc remotely interested in a woman before. Or ever dating, period. This was definitely, absolutely, something. He almost brought up the subject then -- but he was too exhausted and not looking forward to the news if it was bad.

He was so tired, in fact, that, sometime during Doc’s dish washing and his own muddled thoughts, he fell asleep in the armchair, completely spent from the day’s activities.

There were dreams -- snatches of them, at any rate, almost more like thoughts without any cohesive storyline to them. He saw flashes of Jennifer’s face, her smile -- but each time he tried to reach out and touch her, she would fade away. Then he saw Doc and Clara standing in wedding attire, Doc on bended knee as he tried to fit a ring onto the schoolteacher’s finger. Marty, again, kept trying to interfere, to tell Doc he was making a huge mistake, but he seemed unable to provoke any sort of reaction from his friend; Doc was completely oblivious to him, or else ignoring him.

And then, eventually, the voices drifted in, sounding a million miles away at first.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I, Emmett?”

It was Clara, no doubt.

“No, no, of course not. Right on time as always.” Marty made a face in his sleep, not appreciating the tender note in Doc’s voice as he responded. Perhaps the couple kissed, then; there was a pause. “You’re dressed warmly?”

“Yes, and -- oh.” Clara’s voice suddenly dipped down even further. “I’m sorry, I had no idea he was sleeping.”

“It’s all right,” Doc said, though he, too, was suddenly speaking softer. Marty wanted to interrupt them and tell them to not bother; he could hear every word they were saying. But he seemed temporarily paralyzed, his limbs feeling like lead. “He’s been like that since after dinner. I’m starting to train him in helping out with the shop, and it can be an exhausting process.”

“Oh. Shall we go, then?”

Wait. Something wasn’t right. I’m... supposed to go... with them, Marty realized with some difficulty.

But they were leaving now -- without him! Panicked, he fought hard, trying to break the paralysis and open his eyes. It took him a minute before he succeeded. He found himself staring down at the floorboards. He raised his head -- wincing at the pain shooting through the back of his neck -- and glimpsed Doc leading Clara through the door.

“Wait!” he croaked.

Doc and Clara both stopped and turned around. Marty thought he saw disappointment in Doc’s eyes for a second -- but it was gone so quickly he was left thinking he imagined it. The teen got to his feet as quickly as he could, stumbling a little over a blanket that had been draped over him, by Doc, no doubt. “Wait,” he said again, clearing his throat. “You were gonna leave without me?”

Clara looked at Doc in surprise, this clearly being news to her. “You were sleeping,” Doc said, not sounding the least bit apologetic. “I didn’t think you would want to be wakened.”

Marty frowned at him as much as he could, feeling as partially awake as he did. “I thought that was obvious,” he said.

Doc stared at him a moment, his mouth twisted into a kind of puckered frown of his own. “Well, if you want to come, dress warmly; we’re going now.”

The teen wasted little time in finding his coat and hat. By the time he joined Doc and Clara on the buckboard wagon outside -- loaded with horse blankets and a telescope -- he was awake enough to feel a bit miffed by Doc’s oversight. Clara and the scientist were already sitting together -- close -- on the seat, leaving Marty with no option but the bumpy back.

His mood began to darken.

The ride out to the ravine took half an hour. The couple at the front conversed so softly that Marty wasn’t able to pick up more than the general murmur of their voices. Things weren’t supposed to go this way at all -- and it didn’t help matters that he still felt half asleep, and more than a little sore from the paces Doc had put him through during the day.

When the ravine was reached, Doc had Marty help him in getting the blankets out and spread on the ground while Clara set up her telescope. The couple then settled on the ground next to the scope -- and Marty seized his opportunity to slip between the two of them.

“Can you really see anything through that?” he asked as they both leaned back, away from him, indicating the telescope a few inches away.

“Yes,” Doc said. “But you can see more without it right now.”

Marty was curious, nonetheless, and put his eye to the lens. He saw a chunk of the night sky, the stars magnified, but nothing more. Then he raised his head and looked up at the sky -- and saw what Doc meant. In the five seconds he stared, he saw one or two flicks of light, like shooting stars.

“Wow,” he said, genuinely impressed. The starlight was so bright he had to squint.

“Yes, it’s quite spectacular,” Clara agreed. She looked at Marty next to her and smiled politely. Doc, on the other hand, was looking at his friend with something akin to suspicious irritation. Marty ignored the look, turning his attention to the schoolteacher. “How did you enjoy the work today?” she asked him.

“It was... lots of exercise,” Marty said, not entirely sure how to respond to that. “It’s not like anything back home.”

“Actually, there are jobs quite similar to blacksmithing in the future,” Doc said. “But they’re generally more blue collar than white collar in nature.”

“Do they still have blacksmiths in the future?” Clara asked, tilting her head enough to peer at the scientist on the other side of Marty.

“Yes, but I don’t think anyone can make a living off it anymore. It’s a dying trade. Car mechanics -- those who work on the automobiles that are as common as horses and carriages -- are much more prevalent and have taken the mainstream place of the ‘smiths.”

Clara smiled, scooting closer to the right, towards Doc -- and bumped right into Marty, who was in the direct path. She immediately apologized, inching back. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“No problem,” Marty said. He leaned back on his arms, glancing up at the dazzling night sky again. Oddly, he felt better now, even as Doc looked more perturbed. There was no way the older couple could indulge in hanky panky or words of sweet nothings when he was right smack between them. “So what do you know about this meteor shower, Doc?”

Doc stared at him. Marty could clearly tell he wanted the teen to move so he could sit next to his girlfriend, but Marty ignored it, raising his eyebrows as he waited for his answer. “The meteor shower?” the inventor repeated slowly, as if he wasn’t sure he had heard right.

“Yeah. Does it have a name? How’d you know it would be showing tonight?”

Doc took the bait -- he launched into a small lecture about the origins of the shower, how it was semiannual, and that they were allowed a fantastic view that didn’t require any magnification devices. Clara nodded at the information, taking it in like a sponge, while Marty almost nodded off, fighting fiercely against the grogginess from his long nap and the day’s grueling activities. He snapped out of it when Doc’s voice finally came to a stop and the chirping of the last of the summer crickets could be heard.

“That’s fascinating, Emmett,” Clara said when he finished, smiling at him over Marty’s head. Doc returned the smile and reached out to take her hand -- across the teen’s lap. Marty couldn’t help but speak up to break the mood, definitely uncomfortable by that.

“Hey, uh... so... Clara, how is teaching going?”

Clara let go of Doc’s hand, withdrawing hers to her lap. “Oh, fine,” she said, sounding a bit distracted. “The children seem to be enjoying the science lessons this week,” she added, to Doc. “They’re looking forward to the trip on Friday to the lake.”

“I am, too,” Doc said.

Marty swung his head to look at Clara, then Doc. “Trip to the lake?” he asked. “But don’t you have to work on Friday?”

“Yes, for part of the day, but I’m taking the afternoon off to help Clara with her field trip.”

Here was yet another opportunity for Marty to intervene -- and, as rude as it may have been, he decided to go for it. “Well,” he added, turning his head to address the teacher, “if you need an extra hand, I could help, too. If Doc’s not going to be working, there’s nothing I can really do in the shop.”

Doc cleared his throat. “Actually--”

“Oh, that would be wonderful, Marty,” Clara said before the inventor could finish. “But are you sure?”

“Oh, yeah,” Marty said, grinning at her. “It’s no problem.” He took a quick glance over at Doc and saw the inventor frowning again.

“Well, your help would definitely be appreciated,” Clara said. “Especially since we will be so close to the shoreline. I would hate to think what might happen if any of the younger students fell into the water.” She shivered, then pulled one of the woolen blankets up over her skirts. “What time is it now, Emmett?”

Doc pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. “Ten minutes after midnight,” he said. “We’ve got about fifty minutes before the shower should achieve its peak -- and if you watch, you will see a steady number of streaks increasing.”

Clara removed her hat and lay back on the blankets covering the earth. Doc followed suit, leaving Marty the sole sitter -- and he quickly followed the couple to the ground, partially to make sure they couldn’t do anything literally behind his back, but mostly because it was a lot easier looking up at the sky if you were lying flat on your back.

“Wow,” Clara said softly from the left, sounding awed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a sky before. It’s so clear.”

“Yes,” Doc said from the right. “It’s rare that I’ve had the opportunity, too, with the problem of air and light pollution in the future. When I was a boy I could see much more from Hill Valley with the naked eye -- but not quite this much. It’s astounding -- one of the perks for a time like this.”

Marty yawned as he listened to the scientist, staring up at the sky above. It was pretty spectacular; he could see the Milky Way with no trouble at all, as well as a plethora of other constellations. The view made him sad, though. He and Jennifer went out last summer to stargaze together a couple times, and they were supposed to go to the lake the weekend he had gotten bungled up in Doc’s time machine mess.

“We could just throw a couple of sleeping bags in the back and lie out underneath the stars,” he whispered, recalling his comment to Jennifer from what felt like a million years ago.

“What was that?” Doc asked, turning his head to look at him.

“Nothing,” Marty said, not wanting to share at the moment with Clara three inches away. He pulled up the blanket hovering around his knees to his chest, suddenly chilled all over.

Oh my God. We’re so far from home. How are we ever gonna get back?

The realization was nothing new, but every time it really hit Marty he felt sick -- and depressed. It didn’t help he was sandwiched between a couple. Doc had Clara to turn to for comfort. But he had no one; his girlfriend was a hundred years out of touch.

Shit.

“Doc?” he murmured, turning his head towards his friend’s profile.

“Hmmm?”

“You’re not gonna leave me alone here, are you?”

“Of course not -- there are wild animals that roam about.”

“No, I mean....” Marty paused and lowered his voice to a whisper, a fruitless attempt to shield the words from Clara. “I mean here, in this time.”

Doc turned on his side and gave him his full attention. “No, I wouldn’t do that,” he said, quite firmly. “What on earth brought that on?”

Marty shrugged, glancing up at the sky above their heads. “I dunno,” he mumbled.

The scientist stared at him a moment. “Marty--”

“Forget it, Doc,” he said softly. When it didn’t look like Doc was going to forget it, Marty pointed up. “Wow, look at that one.”

He hadn’t seen anything -- at that moment, anyway -- but the ploy worked. Doc looked up -- and a few streaks of purplish lights conveniently drew his attention away from Marty. “Very nice,” the inventor muttered, settling back on the ground.

Lying on the ground in the dark, staring up at the stars, wasn’t exactly the most stimulating thing in the world. It was giving Marty far too much time to think about how much he missed home -- it would always hit him unexpectedly like this -- and realize how tired he was. Keeping his eyes open for the increasing number of light streaks -- which, while interesting, weren’t as fascinating to him as it clearly was for Doc and Clara, based on their soft exclamations and comments -- was getting difficult. And although he was physically between them, it didn’t seem to make much of a difference in their interactions. They couldn’t touch each other, but were having no problems talking about things like Jules Verne, the future, and astronomy, making no move to include Marty in the conversation. He had been forgotten. He felt that cold chill of fear nibbling at his heart, even as his eyelids grew heavier.

This was a stupid idea, he realized, yawning. But what if Doc and Clara really do get married at some point? Oh man....

Marty opened his dropping eyelids wide and blinked a couple times, focusing his gaze back on the sky again -- and made a silent wish as he saw a flash of red-orange light pass overhead.

Please, don’t let that happen, he thought, allowing his eyes to close. Don’t let them get married -- and don’t let me be stuck back here alone!

* * *

“Oh, look at that! It’s a shame there aren’t more people out enjoying this tonight.”

Clara Clayton smiled at Emmett’s words. “Is this event not yet wildly known?”

“Oh, no, it’s been documented by now. But I’m not sure how many people in Hill Valley would be aware of it -- or even care.”

“Well, it’s possible there are others out viewing it, but from a different perspective than we are. But it’s awfully late, too. Has the shower peaked yet?”

Clara heard Emmett shift as he pulled out his watch. “Just about. Ten more minutes.”

The schoolteacher looked up once more at the sky, the streaks of light coming quite frequently now. They were located just above the handle of the big dipper, and in a variety of colors -- white, purple, reds and oranges. She had seen meteor showers before, as her father had been a man of science -- it was he who had taught her the basics of astronomy when she was eleven -- but this was something else entirely. The sky was simply so clear, and the land so open and uncluttered. It was so different from where she grew up in New Jersey.

Clara smiled as she thought about the last few weeks. Her family had given up on her a long time ago when it came to the idea of her being courted. She was too quirky, too unusual for most men to pay her any mind. Her looks were nothing special. And her refusal to not hide her intelligence was frowned upon by even the most tolerant men in her hometown of Kinsrow. Clara supposed she had given up as well, resigning herself to a future as a spinster schoolteacher. She had come out west to find tolerance at her social status, not a man, and a fresh start away from those who had watched her grow from birth.

And yet here she was -- as giddy as the proverbial schoolgirl over Emmett Brown, the town blacksmith. It didn’t matter to her that their was a gap of thirty plus years separating them; he certainly didn’t act like someone in their sixth decade of life. He was everything she dared to dream -- kind, intelligent, passionate, stable, handsome -- and he appreciated the talents in her that others thought strange. She couldn’t believe she had found something -- and someone -- so special.

She opened her mouth to say something to him -- and that’s when she felt something touch her shoulder. “Emmett?” she murmured, puzzled.

“What is it?” Emmett asked -- sounding as if he hadn’t moved an inch.

Confused, Clara looked to her right and saw Marty’s head resting on his shoulder. “Oh,” she said softly, not sure of what to do.

Emmett heard her exclamation and sat up. He looked over, saw the situation -- and, unexpectedly, smiled. Before Clara could move an inch, he put a finger to his lips. “Don’t worry, he’s simply asleep,” he murmured softly.

“Well, then what should I do?” Clara asked in a whisper, holding as still as she could.

Emmett stared at his friend a moment, then shrugged. “Sit up,” he said. I don’t think he’ll notice or mind.”

Clara did just that, slowly easing out from under Marty’s head. Once sitting, she turned to look behind her. Marty was still lying down, his face now half buried on the blanket spread over the ground, his mouth hanging open. He seemed unaware of the half facedown sprawl of his body, clearly still asleep.

Clara looked at Emmett again. He continued to seem bemused. “Why don’t we leave him here?” he said softly. “I don’t think he’ll miss us a bit.”

She studied him, tilting her head to one side, confused. “Is that particularly safe?”

“We can stay within sight,” Emmett said. He helped Clara to her feet, then knelt down to tuck some of the blankets around Marty. The night air was chilly, and Clara pulled her coat tightly around her, buttoning it up. By the time she had completed the task, Emmett had finished covering up his friend and collected a couple blankets from the ground. They walked over to the back of the wagon a couple dozen feet away.

“Shall we?” he asked, stopping and nodding to the buckboard.

“Certainly,” Clara agreed. Emmett spread a blanket on the back of the wagon, helped her up, then sat down beside her. He tucked the other blanket around their legs. They sat and stared out at the dark pool of blackness that was the ravine, the flashes of light easily visible in a glance up.

“Marty will be disappointed he missed this,” Clara remarked, glancing at the clump of blankets marking where he rested.

“Maybe,” Emmett said. “I don’t think he was all that interested in the event, though.”

“He has no interest in astronomy?”

“Not particularly. Oh, I think he finds things like eclipses, meteor showers, and comets somewhat interesting -- most young people do -- but I find it difficult to believe he was fascinated enough to drag himself out here at this hour of the night to watch this.” Emmett waved a hand towards the path of streaking celestial lights. “He’s been acting oddly the last several weeks,” he added, more thoughtfully.

“Ever since he arrived back here?” Clara asked. When Emmett nodded she smiled. “Well, I daresay that’s to be expected. How long did it take you to adjust to life here when you arrived?”

The scientist was quiet for a moment. “Several weeks,” he finally admitted. “I know that Marty’s having some difficulty with the adjustment. That could be a persistent problem....”

Clara took his hand and gave it a squeeze, happy she could now touch him as they spoke. “How does he feel about me?” she asked gently.

“Actually, that was one reason he came out tonight... I think,” Emmett said. “He wanted to get to know you better.”

“Really?” The news surprised the schoolteacher. “It almost seemed more to me like he was --” Clara suddenly stopped mid-sentence, thinking better of what she was about to say.

Too late. “Like he was what?” Emmett asked.

She hesitated a minute before finishing her sentence. “Well, escorting us, I suppose. Not that I mind at all,” she added hastily, in case he got the wrong idea. “I find it rather sweet. It’s plain to see he cares about you, Emmett.”

“Escorting us?” Emmett repeated. He blinked. “Well, yes, he did mention something about that, how it would cause less of a stir in town if people wanted to talk. I do agree with him there. But in some ways it seems he wanted to... well, get between us. Literally.”

Clara recalled how he had deftly slipped between them earlier to look through the telescope. She smiled gently, amused. “Well, perhaps. It wouldn’t surprise at all me if he was feeling threatened right now,” she added.

“Threatened? What do you mean?”

“Isn’t it obvious, Emmett?” When he continued to look at her blankly, she elaborated. “You and Marty have had a close friendship, haven’t you?”

“Well, yes, for a few years. But why would he feel threatened?”

Clara didn’t answer that immediately, leading up to her answer so slowly she was sure Emmett would guess on his own. “You told me that you haven’t been with a woman before, correct? Not for--”

“Thirty years, no, not really,” Emmett said. His eyes widened a bit as understanding finally dawned. “Great Scott -- are you saying that Marty feels threatened by you?” Clara nodded as he sputtered. “But -- I -- you -- he -- it’s completely different, those relationships!”

“Yes, but I’ve seen children in my class react in just the same way when someone new comes along. Their best friend is suddenly spending time playing with a newcomer, and they get upset. Certain human behaviors are common regardless of age. Right now, Emmett, you’re the only familiar person to Marty. I would be surprised if he wasn’t reacting to our courtship in any way. Now, granted, I don’t know him as well as you do, but that’s also given me a perspective you may not have.”

Emmett considered her words a moment, nodding to himself. “Yes, it would make sense. I have to admit I felt a certain abandonment when he first began to date Jennifer last year. Huh.” He rubbed a finger down his chin and glanced over where Marty lay. “That suddenly explains many things.”

“I’m sure that’s why he wanted to come with us on the trip this Friday, too,” Clara added.

“I thought it might’ve been because he didn’t want to be left behind at the shop....”

“Well, I wouldn’t doubt it could be that, too.”

Emmett shook his head, looking at her. “How on earth did you know all this?”

“I’m a schoolteacher; a certain degree of knowledge on human behavior is absolutely necessary in the profession.” She smiled at him and looked up at the night sky, catching a few more streaks of light from the shower.

“Well, then -- how do you suggest I fix this?”

Clara turned to look him in the eye, feeling herself soften all over again under his gaze. “I suppose you should just talk to him about it,” she said.

Emmett nodded, slipping an arm around her shoulders. “Thank you,” he said kissing her gently.

“Is that all the thanks I get?” Clara teased, pulling him closer.

Emmett grinned, then kissed her again.

* * *

A half hour after the shower peaked, Doc and Clara made their way back to the area where Marty was. While Clara collected the blankets they had brought out with them, and dismantled her telescope, Doc took on the task of waking up his friend. Marty was sleeping hard, and it took more than a little prodding before he was sitting up, his eyes half open. He watched Doc without saying a word, looking completely baffled, as the scientist folded up the blankets that had been covering him.

“What time ‘zit?” he mumbled finally.

“I would guess it’s between one thirty and one forty A.M.,” Doc said.

Marty clutched his coat around him as he stood up, staggering a little. “And what time do we have to get up tomorrow?”

“No later than seven, for you.”

“Perfect,” Marty muttered.

They were off a few minutes later, Clara seated besides Doc on the buckboard’s seat while Marty rode in the back of the wagon. Although the schoolteacher had met Doc at his place for the evening’s events -- she had had dinner at one of her students’ homes in town that evening -- the scientist was not about to let his beloved walk two miles home in the dark. He escorted her to the door for a private good night while Marty climbed into the front seat.

“I hope tomorrow won’t be too trying for you after tonight,” he said softly.

“Nonsense,” Clara said. “I would much rather have had this evening with you than a few hours of extra sleep.” She gave him a warm kiss. “Good night, Emmett.”

Doc smiled, giving her hand a squeeze before she slipped free. “Good night, Clara.”

He waited until she had gone safely inside and the glow of her lamp was visible through the curtains before he returned to the wagon. Marty was nodding off where he sat, jerking to life as Doc climbed back into the seat. The seventeen-year-old didn’t say a word, but his sigh spoke volumes, bringing the inventor back to some semblance of reality.

Could Clara be right? Is Marty really jealous of her? he wondered, glancing sidelong at his friend. He had asked that very question earlier, but Marty had denied all. Or had he? Doc replayed that brief conversation for a moment, realizing that he couldn’t remember any sort of answer one way or another. Hmmmm.

It would take at least half an hour to drive back home. Maybe this was the perfect opportunity to have that talk Clara had suggested.

“Marty?”

“Huh?”

“How do you feel about Clara?”

The teen turned his head to stare at him. “How do I feel about Clara?” he echoed.

“Yes. Do you like her?”

Marty yawned. “She’s a peach, Doc,” he said, leaning back and resting his elbows on the seatback.

That sounded almost too dismissive to Doc. “That doesn’t tell me very much.”

Marty sighed. “What do you want me to say? It’s the middle of the night and I’m only half awake.”

Doc frowned, the expression not noticed by his friend. “You wanted to come out here tonight,” he said. “I warned you it would be late.”

“Yeah, I know,” Marty said, a defensive note to his voice.

Doc waited for his friend to say more, but Marty had apparently finished his piece. “Were you really interested in helping Clara out on the school field trip this week?”

“Sure,” Marty said without hesitation. He yawned again. “If you’re going, I’m going. What the hell else am I supposed to do back here? You don’t let me ever spend time with anyone else.”

“Neither of us should be spending much time with anyone from this period,” Doc said automatically. “It could have grave consequences on the future.”

“So how are you writing off spending all that time with Clara?” Marty asked, a little sharply. “Or does she not count ‘cause she was supposed to die?”

The words brought more than a little guilt to Doc. “Marty!”

The teen was unapologetic. “Well, it’s true. You’ve become a total hypocrite since we got stuck here. It’s okay for you to go off with Clara on all these dates, getting closer and closer to her, but if I ever wanted to have dinner with anyone in town, it’s ‘No, that could screw up history.’”

“But, Marty--”

“Did it ever occur to you that I’m going through hell right now, Doc? It’s bad enough I won’t see my family, my friends, or Jennifer for God knows how long. It’s bad enough I have to live in a time that’s 83 years before I was even born, and put up with all this primitive bullshit. But seeing just you and Clara -- and no one else -- is driving me nuts. Maybe I’d like to get out once in a while.”

This conversation was not at all going the way Doc had anticipated. “Marty, you know that’s dangerous.”

Marty sighed again, the sound angry and frustrated. “Why is palling around with Clara not dangerous?” he asked. “Ever think about how much that’s changing history, huh? You saved her life, Doc.”

“I know I did,” Doc said softly. “And I don’t regret it for a moment. When we return to the future, Clara will need to come with us, Marty.”

“Really?” Marty asked drolly. “So I guess this means you expect her to be around in your life for a while. Unless you’ve already got a time machine ready to go.”

Doc narrowed his eyes, taking his eyes off the dark road to glance at the teen. Marty’s arms were folded across his chest and he was staring down, scowling. “I can’t built a time machine overnight,” the inventor said softly, deciding to change the subject. “It will take several years, almost certainly.”

“Oh goody,” Marty said -- and those were his last words the rest of the drive. He obviously didn’t want to talk, and Doc was starting to feel tired himself, the guilt about his interactions with and in Clara’s life hitting him all over again. He didn’t like to reflect about her fate -- the future could be changed, after all, and right now what was once past was now present.

Marty went inside as soon as they reached the livery stable, but Doc didn’t follow him for a few minutes, needing to unhitch the horses and put them in the pasture for the night. By the time he finished that task, and gave the animals both some oats as compensation for a late night out, he’d had some time to reflect on the teen’s words earlier and decided to share a few of his own.

“You know, Marty,” he began as he headed into the barn again, “I did not save Clara’s life on purpose. I didn’t know that she would become as important to me as she is now when I saw her heading for the cliff. You followed me when I took off after her, I recall; I know that if I hadn’t reached her first, you would have done all you could to save her life.”

There was silence as his response. Doc continued, taking off his coat and hat. “I am quite aware of our precarious presence in the past, and I don’t know what gives you the impression that I’m particularly overjoyed at being here myself. Yes, I had resigned myself to staying here the rest of my natural life, but I only did so because I didn’t want you to have to bother with coming back to get me. I had also thought about staying behind here for Clara, but after further reflection later realized that was a foolish idea. Neither of us belong here; the future we are from was built upon the fact that Clara died.”

Doc paused as he turned around, carrying the horse blankets off to the DeLorean horse stall. “You don’t know how much I worry about her presence here -- particularly as she is a schoolteacher, and a very visible member of the community. Think of all the children she is teaching and will teach -- the influence she may have on them. An influence that was never there before, because the town had to find another teacher, or else postpone the education of Hill Valley’s youth.

“And no, I haven’t told her these fears of mine,” Doc added. “Since she doesn’t know that we’re from a future where she died almost a month ago, I see no need in upsetting her.” The inventor scratched his head as he turned around, frowning at the weight of the worries. “I want to get back to the future as much as I know you want to. But I’m not abandoning Clara, Marty. You have to remember -- she knows about the time machine, too. Besides -- I love her.”

He certainly expected Marty to say something in reaction to that, especially if Clara’s theory on the source of his behavior was right, but silence continued to meet him. Doc’s eyes scanned the dim interior of the barn; the only thing providing light in the barn was a lamp he had lit and brought in with him from the outside. He walked deeper into the room, towards the elevated home area, searching for his friend. He had seen Marty go in; was it possible he might’ve gone out the back door to use the facilities, and he had been alone all this time?

Doc stopped after a moment when he reached Marty’s corner of the room and looked down, a slanted half-smile on his face. The teen had flung himself down on his stomach on his cot, his head thrown to one side, one arm hanging over the edge. He was still fully dressed; even his hat was on, half hiding his face. Doc reached down and gently removed it, but Marty didn’t notice. He was asleep again, breathing so slowly and deeply he was almost snoring, completely oblivious, no doubt, to the inventor’s long spiel.

Doc sighed, setting the hat on a table nearby. He suddenly felt exhausted beyond belief -- and a look at the time only made him feel even more so. He’d be fortunate to have a couple hours of sleep, tops. For a moment he let himself remember, longingly, his life in 1985, the job he had of doing odd repairs about town and working on his inventions. The only responsibility he’d really had was to Einstein, his dog. Life had been easier then, certainly.

But he was happier now, in this time.

The scientist bent down and tugged one of the cot’s blankets over Marty. The teen mumbled something incoherent, then lapsed back into his Darth Vader-like respiration. Doc headed over to his own bed, picking up the lamp to take with him. One of the earlier comments came back to him, then, as he started to unbutton his shirt.

“When we return to the future, Clara will need to come with us, Marty.”

“Really? So I guess this means you expect her to be around in your life for a while....”

“Yes,” Doc whispered aloud. “I do.”

But that would have to mean-- Why, if he wanted that, he would have to--

Doc shook his head, his responsibility to time fighting fiercely with the more humanistic side of him. No. He couldn’t. He shouldn’t.

I just won’t think about that anymore tonight, he decided firmly, deliberately banishing the thoughts from his mind. It was too soon, regardless. He hadn’t even known Clara a month, yet.

But I already know I want to spend the rest of my life with her.

Friday, September 25, 1885
10:23 A.M.

Earlier in the week, when Marty had agreed to help Doc chaperone Clara’s students on a field trip to the lake, he had been under the impression that the activity was of the afternoon variety. Or at least something that would happen between sunrise to sunset. Not overnight. Not at all.

But someone -- Doc or Clara or both -- hadn’t been entirely forthcoming with the details. Marty didn’t know it was an overnight excursion until Friday morning, when Doc put him to the task of rounding up some camping gear that was scattered about the livery stable. Then the truth came out. Marty hadn’t believed his ears for a moment, then he just stared at Doc, annoyed. The inventor didn’t seem to notice the teen’s irritation or surprise until Marty spoke up -- “Since when is this a camp out?” -- and then he was less than understanding.

“I thought you were aware of that,” Doc said, packing together some beef jerky and coffee.

“No,” Marty said flatly. “I wasn’t.”

Doc glanced over at him, noticing the tone in his friend’s voice. “You don’t need to go if you’re feeling that negatively about it. Besides, it’s just for one night.”

Marty fought a brief inner battle about the matter. Even though the day was just several hours into the morning, he was already exhausted -- the grueling labor of working in a blacksmithing shop, coupled with the ungodly early rising hours, made this feel like the week from hell that would never end. Doc assured him that it would get easier over time, having noticed his struggles, but the comment fell on deaf ears. Marty knew he could’ve given in and perhaps taken it a bit easier -- Doc wasn’t forcing him to work -- but he knew the more he helped out, the more time the inventor could have to work on a new time machine. In theory. He didn’t want to give Doc any excuses for not getting it done.

So the last thing he wanted or felt like doing was getting roped into a camp out on the lake, supervising a dozen or so school-aged kids.

But the stubborn, prideful part of Marty was determined to not back out of his commitment -- plus, someone needed to be there to make sure Doc and Clara wouldn’t get even closer on this little outing. Maybe the students of Hill Valley would help in that respect, but Marty wouldn’t be able to rest unless he could be in a position to interfere if it needed to be done. Even in 1985 the lake was a pretty place and offered numerous, secluded spots for a romantic reindevoux.

It also was a place teeming with memories for him, and associations with Jennifer. He was not looking forward to seeing it. Marty could only hope that, sometime in the last hundred years or so, it had changed to look a lot different.

“No,” Marty said to Doc, yanking a couple blankets from a chest nearby. “I’m still in.”

The teen half expected further confrontation, but the scientist offered no argument or protest to the decision.

Around noon, Doc closed down the shop, hitched up two of the horses to the buckboard wagon (where the supplies were loaded), and they headed out to Clara’s cabin next to the school house. Clara was outside when they arrived, reading to a group of about fifteen kids of various ages under the shade of a tree. She stood at their approach, and by the time Doc stopped the vehicle every child was standing and staring at them, silent. They seemed exceptionally well behaved, even shy, and Marty wondered if this was some weird product of these times -- kids actually being seen and not heard, that sort of thing -- when one of the boys near the front murmured, “You’re Clint Eastwood!”

Marty still couldn’t help starting a bit at the sound of his name, not entirely used to hearing it addressed to him. If anyone else had ever noticed his occasional reaction they had not commented. He smiled faintly at the boy as he climbed down from the buckboard seat. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

Marty almost immediately found himself encircled by most of the kids, staring at him with looks of pure fascination and excitement on their faces. “Tell us about the showdown!” one of them begged.

“Yeah, tell us how ya got Mad Dog Tannen in jail!”

“What about when you used that stove door? How’d ya come up with that?”

“Were you scared lots then? My Pa said you didn’t even break a sweat!”

And on. The voices blended together, the mixture almost immediately giving Marty a headache. He threw a look at Doc, but the inventor had already joined Clara’s side and was smiling warmly at her, the rest of the world temporarily forgotten. Damn.

After a few minutes of trying to answer the questions being shouted out, Marty’s helpless looks were finally noticed by Clara, who rounded the students up to give them a quick overview of what the next day would entail. Marty listened with half an ear, helping Doc load the students’ belongings into the back of the wagon. They hadn’t even left yet and already he was wondering what the hell he had gotten himself roped into.

“Don’t worry,” Doc murmured to him, perhaps catching sight of the vaguely panicked look on his friend’s face. “The kids will settle down once we get on our way. All you need to do is make sure they don’t wander off and get lost, or get into the water. Any teaching will be done by myself or Clara.”

“Good,” Marty muttered. “’Cause if you think I know anything about plant biology or whatever, you’ve got another thing coming.”

In the future, the journey to the lake took about a half hour by car. Here, relying on horses, wagons, and foot traffic, it took the better part of the day. By the time they got in sight of the cool blue of the water, Marty’s patience had worn thinner than a guitar pick. The students were either whining or nagging him with questions, his feet ached from hiking most of the distance, and he was already sorely wishing he was back in the smithing shop. He may have been isolated there, but it was quiet and he could probably catch up on the rest he had lacked that week.

As it was late afternoon when they reached the campsite, Doc and Clara were eager to begin the lesson that they took the kids out there for. So Marty remained behind to set things up -- which was only slightly better than chaperoning in that he got some peace. Unfortunately, his skills at erecting tents and campfires was pretty limited. He’d camped before, but that stuff was easier to put up, then -- and usually someone else was around to help out.

Marty’s mood got blacker during the couple hours he was alone near the shore of the lake, though by the time the students returned, he had managed to get the two tents up, and some wood collected for a fire. He half expected a thank you from Doc or Clara, but the two of them were too busy talking about something in low voices, bringing up the rear of the students.

And then the kids latched onto him again. They wanted stories after dinner, tales of death defiance and adventure -- especially about outwitting the outlaw Tannen. Marty didn’t want to talk about it -- he was too tired and too cranky -- but there wasn’t anything else to do. He managed to get through one of them -- and then the sun had set enough for an impromptu astronomy lesson on the shore of the lake. With about fifteen schoolkids running around, the teen figured he didn’t need to accompany them to distract Doc and Clara and to learn about something that, honestly, he’d gotten his fill of earlier in the week during the meteor shower. He remained at the campsite, sitting close to the fire -- the temperature began to plummet once the sun went down, due to the close proximity of the water -- watching the flames and thinking of home. And of Jennifer. And of the trip to the lake that never was.

It really didn’t improve his mood much.

When it came time to turn in, the students were split up based on their sex, of course. Clara stayed with the five girls in one tent, while Marty and Doc supervised the greater number of boys -- some spilling into the other tent, some spending the night out under the stars, near the campfire. Marty volunteered for outdoor duty -- partially because he wasn’t sure how great his handiwork at assembling the tents had gone, and if it collapsed, he didn’t want to deal with it. Even with the hard ground and the whispers between some of the kids, it didn’t take him long to fall asleep, being so worn down from the long day.

Marty woke before dawn, however, without the faintest idea on how much time had passed -- or even what time it was. He blinked a few times after opening his eyes, raising his head enough to take in the fire -- reduced to scarlet and golden embers -- and the dim circle of light it cast. The kids seemed to be sleeping, motionless bundles under blankets, and the sky above was still dark and filled with stars. He settled back down, looking up at the sky -- and that’s when he heard something nearby. A rustling of leaves -- and the soft murmur of someone’s voice.

Marty sat up, too surprised to really be scared. Damn kids, he thought, surprised that any of them were ballsy enough to wander off at this time of night. The oldest student was fourteen, and he didn’t seem to have a girlfriend in the crowd. Plus, there was the very real danger of wild animals out and about. The students knew that better than he did -- though meeting that bear minutes after his arrival to 1885 was definitely something that had made an impression.

Maybe it’s not one of the students, Marty thought, suddenly uneasy. He untangled himself from the blankets and got to his feet, picking up a branch from the firewood pile. Just in case.

He could move quietly when he wanted to, and this was one of those times. The noises continued. He ducked out of the feeble light of the dying fire, found the path that led to the waterside, and crept along it.

A moment later he almost ran right into someone. Two someones, to be exact. Startled, Marty jumped back, off the path -- and toppled right over a bush, his improvised weapon sailing out of his hand. He heard a couple gasps from the other people, then they materialized at his side. “What are you -- Marty?”

Marty struggled to sit up, sharp branches and twigs poking at him in a variety of tender places. He recognized the voice immediately and scowled, irritated at both himself and-- “Doc, what the hell are you doing?”

He felt hands grab him by the arms and haul him up to his feet. When he was properly upright again, he saw Doc to his left -- and Clara on his right. Marty glanced between the two -- who looked both startled and guilty, as if they had been caught doing something they shouldn’t -- and snorted softly. “I should’ve known....”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Clara said immediately. “Emmett heard me leave and came after me.”

“I wanted to make sure nothing happened to her,” Doc added, with barely a pause after the schoolteacher’s words.

Marty’s deepening frown proclaimed his skepticism on that loud and clear. “Right,” he drawled.

Clara looked even more nervous. “I should go back to the campsite,” she said softly. “We can’t leave the children unsupervised.”

“Yes, quite so,” Doc agreed. He watched her for a moment as she turned and headed down the path, then looked at Marty. “It’s not what you think,” he said in a low voice.

“Sure it isn’t,” Marty muttered, annoyed by his friend’s hypocrisy. “For someone not trying to ruin her rep, you’re definitely going to great lengths to spend every second alone and unsupervised.”

“Marty, Clara was telling the truth,” Doc said softly. “I heard a noise when she was leaving and came out to investigate. We were only away for a few minutes.”

“Uh-huh, sure.”

Marty started to turn around to slink back to bed, but Doc grabbed his arm, preventing his departure. “You don’t believe me.”

Marty stared at the inventor’s face a moment, half hidden in the shadows. “No, I don’t,” he said bluntly.

“Why on earth would you think I would lie about that?”

“Well, sleeping with a woman if you’re not married to her is probably frowned upon now, right?”

Marty started to turn around again, feeling strangely satisfied by the shocked expression he had provoked on Doc’s face. The scientist yanked him to a stop a second later. “What on earth would give you the impression that we’re doing that?” Doc hissed, sounding both horrified and angry.

Marty was quick to cite reasons. “You guys are always going off alone together -- at night,” he added. “And there was that first night of the town festival where you never came home. You seemed pret-ty happy when you showed up later that morning....”

“Absolutely nothing happened,” Doc said, his voice quiet and utterly serious. “We stayed up all night talking. And subsequent encounters have been just as innocent. Great Scott, Marty -- Clara and I haven’t been seeing each other a month yet! And in this time... proper women don’t do that. Especially schoolteachers! I cannot believe that you would even think that!”

“Well if I’m thinking it, you can be damn sure someone else is, too,” Marty said. “You’re doing a shitty job of keeping her reputation squeaky clean.”

Doc froze. “Have you heard rumors in town?” he asked, his voice sounding odd.

Marty hadn’t heard a word, but he saw no need to assure Doc about it. “Maybe,” he said cryptically. “You gotta stop spending so much time with her like you are. You’re acting like a couple of kids -- in a bad way.”

Doc was quiet a minute, his face impossible to read. The shadows were much too numerous. “Marty, are you jealous of Clara?”

Marty blinked at the question, completely caught off guard. He couldn’t be that transparent, could he? “What? No! What the hell makes you say that?”

“Well, you’re acting awfully odd about this matter....”

Marty sighed hard, frustrated. “I’m just trying to protect you, Doc -- and her,” he said, only half honest, his words coming out clipped. “You keep saying how stuff’s different now, that people are gonna talk, but you just keep setting things up to make people think the wrong thing. If you aren’t sleeping with Clara, then you should stop making it look like you are.”

Doc winced. “Stop saying that,” he said. “That’s not only untrue, that’s very private and personal information. I would never accuse you of participating in such intimate activities with Jennifer.”

“I could care less if you did,” Marty said. “And if you’re asking, the answer is no, that hasn’t happened between us.”

Another pause. When Doc spoke, he sounded surprised. “Well, that’s probably a wise decision. You’re both young, there’s plenty of time for that....”

Marty gritted his teeth, annoyed that Doc had completely missed the point. “That’s why we were going to the lake that weekend,” he said, crossing his arms.

“Oh.” Then: “Oh! And you never did make that trip, did you?”

“No -- you showing up to grab Jen and I and push us into the DeLorean kinda derailed it.”

“Well.... Well, perhaps it was for the best, under the current circumstances.”

Marty glared at Doc, having very different thoughts about that matter, but the inventor didn’t notice his gaze. The shadows had a hand in that again. “Clara and I enjoy time in each other’s company,” Doc went on. “But we’re both grown adults. There is a time and a place for a more intimate relationship, and it’s certainly not right now. In fact, the only proper thing to do if we wanted to do that in this more conservative time period would be to marry.”

Marty froze. The M word -- Doc had said it! He swallowed hard, then managed a shrug, as if he could not care less. “Well, great, then. Good for you. Can I go now?”

It took Doc a minute before he released his grip on the teen’s arm. “I suppose we should get back,” he said softly. “The sun will be up in a couple hours.”

Marty turned around and headed back for the campsite, not bothering to wait for Doc. The inventor’s words of a moment ago still lingered in his head: “There is a time and a place for a more intimate relationship, and it’s certainly not right now. In fact, the only proper thing to do if we wanted to do that in this more conservative time period would be to marry.”

He felt cold all over. Doc can’t do that, Marty told himself firmly. It’d change too much history, and he knows it... right?

He wasn’t very convinced by that argument anymore. Doc was doing a lot of things now that weren’t in the best interest of history.

Marty remained awake the rest of that night, too bothered by the concept that seemed more likely with each passing day. He watched the sky grown brighter by degrees, wishing more than anything at the moment that he was back home with Jennifer beside him. Or that she could be there with him now, to share the beauty of the lake.

Friday, October 2, 1885
7:12 P.M.

The idea had been nibbling at Doc for a couple weeks. But it finally crystalized into one of tangible possibility and acceptance a week after the field trip. Later, he could pinpoint the moment the decision was made, his mind set.

He and Clara had met for what had essentially become a weekly ritual -- dinner together on Friday evening, concluding the end of yet another work week. It was an opportunity for both to decompress a bit from the stress of earning a living, particularly Clara. With classes only a couple weeks along, there was plenty that was still new and provoking adjustment for her. She had gone from teaching in a private academy in the east to a public one-room frontier schoolhouse.

Hill Valley wasn’t developed enough yet to offer a true restaurant experience, but on Friday and Saturday evenings, the boarding house on the main street allowed anyone who wanted a homemade meal at a reasonable price to come by. Doc had dined there alone more than once during his solo months in 1885 -- he had actually taken a room in the boarding house during his first month in the past, while scouting for places to live -- and had taken Clara there by mid-September. The last couple weeks, however, they had spent their weekly dinner “date” at Clara’s residence.

After the conversation he had had with Marty at the lake, though, Doc was considerably more paranoid, and aware that such a scenario was a great risk. Great Scott! If people thought he and Clara were carrying on as man and wife now... and she being the school teacher.... Doc was not going to be responsible for soiling her reputation, as well as the possible loss of her job. It was probably wise to keep their time together as public as possible from here on out.

“It’s been quite interesting seeing the differences between the academy and here,” Clara said as they waited for their meal. “The children are bright, for the most part, but so many of them seem uninterested in their education.”

The inventor couldn’t suppress a chuckle at her earnestness. “That’s one thing that never changes,” he said, recalling Marty’s opinion on school over the years.

“Really? The students back east seemed much more attentive in that regard.” Clara frowned, worried. “You don’t think it’s my approach to teaching that is creating their disinterest, do you?”

“No,” Doc said immediately. “You’re a wonderful educator. Some students will simply be bored no matter what. Believe me. I saw more than one kid -- ah, sorry, student -- doze off in my classroom, or flunk out because they didn’t bother to study or do the work. And these were university students. You can only do so much.”

Clara looked only faintly appeased by this revelation. “It’s the boys in the class who give me the most trouble,” she admitted. “Perhaps that’s the difference -- I taught only girls in New Jersey at the academy.”

“That may be so,” Doc agreed. “Another difference may be that you taught in a private school before. Not a public one.”

Clara nodded. Their plates arrived then, filled with fresh fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and corn on the cob. “Here y’go, Mr. Brown, Miss Clayton,” the landlady, Julia Bovary, said. She was a stout red-haired woman in her middle age, with a chatty and cheerful demeanor. She was the primary operator of the boarding home; her husband, Jacob, was the town barber and spent his days in the shop running that business. “I haven’t seen you here for a c’ple weeks, now.”

“Yes, well, Miss Clayton wanted to treat me to some of her fine culinary skills,” Doc said lightly.

Mrs. Bovary smiled. “Ah, and did it fare well?”

“Quite so, but we missed your meals here,” the inventor said, fibbing just a smidge about the latter. “Besides, this way Miss Clayton need not trouble herself with the dishes or cleaning up.”

Mrs. Bovary smiled at the couple. “He’s a keeper, Miss Clayton,” she said to the teacher. “Ain’t often you find a man so concerned with such little things as that.”

Clara nodded, reaching across the tabletop to pat Doc’s hand. “I agree,” she said with her own warm smile directed to the scientist.

“So when are you going to make it official, then?” Mrs. Bovary asked, looking at Doc. “Pardon my frankness, but you’re not gettin’ any younger -- and a couple so smitten as y’all belong together.”

Doc felt the smile on his face tense up. He was painfully aware of Clara’s eyes on him, studying him with a quiet intensity. “Well. uh--”

“We are together right now, Mrs. Bovary,” Clara said, cutting off Doc’s attempt of an answer. “And do realize that Emmett has been courting me scarcely a month.” Indeed, the anniversary of their first date, at the town festival, was just days away.

“Perhaps, but as I said before, you both are fit for the other. I can tell a good match when I see it.” Hearing the sound of her name being called from the direction of the kitchen, the matron excused herself and left them alone.

There was a moment of awkwardness after she left. Clara was the first to break it. “Pay her no mind, Emmett,” she said in a low voice. “She spoke out of turn.”

“Yes, well, in my time we would call that being blunt, or honest,” Doc murmured, his mind still lingering behind on Mrs. Bovary’s words.

“I would call it rude more than anything else,” Clara said softly. “But I knew many women just like her in New Jersey. Always prying into another’s business and affairs.”

Doc had known a great many people like that in the future himself. Everyone who dared to pass on the town crackpot rumors and reputations, feeding that monster for more than three decades, was part of that breed of humanity. Still, while he had been able to shrug away most of what came out of the mouths of people like that, Mrs. Bovary’s words stuck uncomfortably with him.

“So when are you going to make it official...? ...You’re not gettin’ any younger... You both are fit for the other. I can tell a good match when I see it....”

Aware that Clara was staring at him, waiting for him to respond, the inventor forced a slight smile on his face. “There are people like that around no matter where or when you are,” he said. “And though that woman may have her faults, at least baking is not one of them.”

It was his subtle way of changing the subject, and Clara eagerly accepted it. They both began to eat the still-hot meal, but Doc’s enthusiasm at the food was considerably blunted. Clara chatted about school once more, sharing some stories and concerns she had about a few of the students. Doc nodded and made the appropriate sort of comments, but his mind was not entirely there anymore. He was still stuck on those oh-so-innocently uttered words.

It was one thing to think of the concept privately, from a scientifically detached point of view. But hearing it uttered by someone else.... Doc was reminded of the sensation he had felt in his chest when Marty had assumed that he and Clara were getting physically intimate. A tight, constricting pressure that seemed to suction all the breath out of his lungs for a moment. And a surprise that the idea had even remotely occurred to someone else.

But what was this, anyway? This relationship with Clara? Where was it ultimately headed? The feelings that he had for the schoolteacher were not going to go away by any means. Doc knew that he ultimately wanted more than what they had now -- he wasn’t doubting that. They couldn’t date like this indefinitely. In times like these, it was expected that dating, that courtship, would eventually end in marriage.

He felt cold all over at the thought. Not because the idea repulsed him -- it most certainly did not! -- but because it was something so dangerous for him.

The rest of the dinner was a blur for Doc. His mind cycled uncomfortably around the matter broached by the landlady. Clara had to know something was bothering him; after a while she finally ceased her stream of chatter, and when they had paid their bill and Doc was escorting her home, she broached the subject.

“Emmett, it’s plain your mind is far from the here and now.... You aren’t still troubled by what Mrs. Bovary said, are you?”

“No,” Doc lied at once. “Not at all.”

“Well, good. There’s utterly no pressure for you to propose marriage to me. Goodness, we only just met a month ago. And I know about your unusual situation here. I imagine that may present some sort of problem, if you wed someone in your hometown’s past.”

“Yes, those are all valid reasons,” Doc muttered, still troubled.

Clara could tell that her words were of little or no assurance to the scientist. She simply gave his arm a squeeze and, once they reached her home, favored him with a brief kiss. “I have papers that need grading,” she said, “so you may excuse me if I don’t invite you in for a cup of tea.”

Preoccupied, Doc offered no argument. He could feel Clara’s concerned gaze on his back as he turned around and headed back towards town.

Walking in the cool dusk alone did more to settle his mind. Without the distraction of Clara, trying her best to pull him out of his thoughts, he was able to focus on the problem with much more attention. He was blessed, or cursed, with an ability to shut out the entire world when he needed to think hard about something, or was feeling particularly engaged, and this was one of those times. Just what was it that was bothering him so much? It certainly couldn’t be the presumption that Mrs. Bovary had made. It was a natural assumption anyone would probably make about any couple that was in love. How did that childhood rhyme go? First comes love, then comes marriage?

I want to marry Clara, Doc realized halfway to his home. The thought stopped him cold. He took a deep breath and shook his head once, hard. “I can’t,” he murmured aloud. “It’s too risky for the space-time continuum.”

Of course, so was time travel itself -- and that hadn’t exactly stopped him. But marriage was something so permanent, so life changing. It would ensure that he and Clara would be together no matter the circumstances -- or the time period. It was his full intention, provided she was favorable to the idea, to take her back to the future when he and Marty left eventually. She didn’t belong here as much as he did not.

Which should be more of a blessing than a curse in this case, Doc reflected. He didn’t have to worry that by marrying him, Clara would skew history. She hadn’t married anyone in this time before. If anything, it would prevent history from going off by keeping away men who might fall for Clara’s charm and beauty later on, causing them to perhaps overlook the girl that they had been destined to wed and have children with.

In that case, Doc realized, marrying Clara could be more beneficial to the space-time continuum than harmful.

Doc swallowed hard, his heart giving an almost painful squeeze, making it hard to breathe for a moment. He felt as if the bottom had dropped right out from under his boots. Life suddenly seemed so topsy turvy; he could hardly believe what he was considering. He wanted to do it -- no, he was going to do it.

He would propose to Clara.

The only question was, when? And, Great Scott, how did one even go about asking a woman to marry them?

Doc quickened his pace home, suddenly eager to talk to Marty.

Since the trip to the lake, Marty had been rather quiet, almost sulky. He hadn’t been terribly prone to conversation of any sort, impervious to Doc’s various attempts to draw him out. Doc wasn’t sure what was eating at him anymore -- maybe he was still trying to adjust to the physical labors of being an assistant to a blacksmith, or else the current technologies. Fatigue and culture shock could definitely explain his current mood. As could any negative feelings towards Clara, though he had assured Doc that wasn’t the case.

He didn’t expect that Marty would be out of the barn when he returned, and his guess was accurate. The teen was seated at one of the worktables near the back window, a lamp lit and providing a soft illumination to whatever had captured his fascination. Papers, from the look of it. He didn’t look up as Doc came in quietly, not aware of his presence until the inventor spoke.

“What are you looking at?”

Marty jumped ever so slightly, looking up with wide eyes. “Doc,” he blurted out. “What are you doing home already?”

Seeing that he typically did not return until several hours after dark when out with Clara, Doc thought Marty was entitled to the confusion. “Clara had papers to grade,” he said. “What are you reading?”

Marty’s hands suddenly splayed out over the table top, almost as if he was trying to conceal what the papers were from Doc’s view. They froze a moment, then his fingers suddenly relaxed. He looked at the inventor, almost guiltily. “Well, uh... it’s the notes you had for the time machine.”

Doc felt his eyebrows raise. “Those shouldn’t be out,” he admonished as he headed over to the table. “What if someone saw them?”

“No one will,” Marty said. “I only took them out just to look at them now.”

The action surprised Doc. “Why?” he asked, sincerely curious. The sketches and scribbles were almost all technical in nature, calculations, theories or thoughts that had seemed promising, or did seem promising. Marty had never been interested in that sort of thing before, or even educated enough to make remote sense of it.

Marty sighed, resting his chin in his hands as he glanced down at the papers spread about. “I was curious,” he muttered. “I dunno.”

The explanation made little sense to Doc, and he was about to ask him to clarify that a bit when the teen went on. “I’ve been here a month now, you know? A month, now.”

The inventor’s eyes automatically lifted to the calendar set near the window. The page told him it was Friday, October second. “No, you didn’t arrive until September third,” he said.

Marty shook his head. “I got here on September second -- I just didn’t get into town until the next day. You sent me so far out of the way that I was miles from town. I had to spend the night with Seamus and Maggie, remember?”

Now that he thought about it, Doc did recall Marty mentioning something like that. Just as he did remember, a bit more vaguely, setting the destination time himself for Marty’s arrival in 1885. “Oh, that’s right. But what does that have to do with the papers?”

Marty shrugged, “I was bored,” he said. “There’s nothing to do around here, you know. And I was curious to see how far you’d really gotten on this stuff. Maybe there was something I could help you with. But I just... can’t understand any of it. Do you really gotta write everything out in these formulas? It’s like trying to decode Algebra problems!”

Doc smiled, amused. “Well, perhaps that’s a good thing. If anyone happened to see those papers they wouldn’t be able to make heads or tails of it. Those really shouldn’t be out, Marty.”

The teen frowned, folding his arms across his chest. “I wasn’t hurting them, Doc. What harm is it gonna do if I look ‘em over?”

“Considering you understand nothing? Very little. But I’m not worried about you as much as I’m worried about someone else seeing those... or even any damage happening to the papers. That’s ten months of theoretical research right there.”

He reached over and began to collect the papers together. Marty watched him, still frowning, but offered no real protest. “Why don’t you keep those out and work on ‘em?” he asked. “If you’re back this early, and Clara’s got stuff to do, you have the time. Right?”

Doc hesitated a moment, realizing the teen had a good point. But his mind was so scattered at the moment from the decision he had reached that he wasn’t sure working out formulas for a new time machine was the best idea. “Perhaps later,” he said, tucking the papers back into the portfolio where they had come from. “I’d like to talk to you about something Marty. I -- I suppose I could use some advice.”

Marty blinked, the frown segueing into an expression of curiosity. “What’s up, Doc?”

Doc pulled up a chair and had a seat next to Marty. The teen turned to face him, his blue eyes narrowed almost suspiciously. “I made a decision tonight,” he said.

“Uh huh....”

Doc waited a second, then uttered the words aloud for the first time. “I want to ask Clara to marry me.”

Marty blinked again, his mouth falling open a quarter of an inch. “What?” he asked in a half whisper.

“I want to marry Clara.”

Marty’s lips moved silently for a moment, then he found his voice. “Does she know?”

“No, no, I haven’t asked her yet. That’s what I’d like to know: What are the proper customs involved in proposing marriage to a woman? I’ve seen it done before in movies, of course, but I’ve had no personal firsthand experience in the area. Would you have any ideas?”

“Uh... well.... Are you sure this is a good idea, Doc? Wouldn’t this do something like screw up history?”

“It can’t skew anything much more than us simply being here,” Doc said. “And Clara’s not supposed to still be around here now. She never married in the original history -- not anyone. My marrying her wouldn’t change any history in that regard, and in fact it could perhaps ensure that history will change no more than it has already. No man who may be destined for someone else will go after her if she’s a married woman.”

“Okay...” Marty said slowly. “But what if... what if you had kids?”

“No,” Doc said at once, shaking his head. “That’s too risky, I agree. We can take precautions to avoid that -- at least so far as we’re here in the past. Besides, Clara is old enough that I could foresee her pregnancy being risky in this day and age. I wouldn’t trust the doctors now with something like that.”

“What about a place to live? You’re not gonna suggest she move in here, are you?” Marty sounded appalled by the idea.

“No,” Doc said. “She has her own home right now, the cabin next to the school house.”

“Yeah, but can she teach school if she gets married now, Doc? Didn’t you say the rules for that stuff were all different now than they are in the future?”

“I’m not sure,” Doc admitted. “There may be something in her contract that requires her to resign from her position if she marries, but... well, I suppose we can cross that bridge when we come to it. We were desperate for a teacher out here before she came out, so perhaps the school board could be persuaded to let that slide.”

“So if she loses her job because of this, is she gonna move in here?”

Doc took a second to glance around the quarters. It wasn’t a terrible place to live, but he could see how uncomfortable it might be for Clara. There was almost no privacy, and his work and home life slopped over both ways. “No, I suppose I’d have to see about finding a place that is more suitable for a woman. I’ve socked away some money while I’ve been here; I might be able to afford some land and the materials to build a house....”

“What about building a new time machine?” Marty asked immediately. “Won’t that cost money?”

Doc took a breath, held it a moment, then exhaled slowly through his teeth. “It may,” he said. “But I’ll find some way to fund it, Marty. Just because I want to get married doesn’t mean that anything else will change. We still need to leave the past. Clara will have to come with us.”

Marty didn’t say anything to that, his lips tightening together. Something about his reaction troubled Doc. “Marty, how do you feel about Clara? Honestly, now.”

“She’s great, Doc.”

The words were uttered without an ounce of conviction. The inventor stared at his friend a moment, but Marty’s face was suddenly blank, wholly unreadable. “Do you think I’m making a mistake, asking her to marry me?”

“No, go for it. Do what you want.”

Again, that same odd, flat tone. Something wasn’t right. Doc looked hard at Marty, silent, waiting for him to say more. Marty stared back at him a moment, then dropped his eyes to the desktop and the stack of time machine papers.

“Well, all right, then,” Doc finally said, softly.

“When are you gonna ask?” Marty wanted to know, most of his attention seemingly focused on the desktop.

“I’m not sure. Not immediately. I should probably purchase a ring... and I need to figure out how, precisely, to ask the question. Maybe in early November -- November fifth! No, wait, that’s a Thursday. Maybe Friday, the sixth....”

“Are you sure you’re not moving too fast on this?” Marty asked. “You’ve only known her a month.”

Doc smiled faintly. “There was never a more perfect person made for someone like me,” he said. “I’ll admit I was skeptical at that love at first sight concept, but I’ve never felt like this about anyone before. There’s no doubt in my mind about my feelings for Clara, Marty.”

Marty sighed. “Then you better hope she says yes.”

* * *

Several hours later, bent over the time machine notes and scribbles, Marty’s final words on the matter really hit the scientist for the first time.

“Then you better hope she says yes.”

Great Scott! Doc thought, horrified as he considered the comment. Clara could say no! What if she did say no? Why was this only occurring to him now?

Doc tapped the pencil in his hand nervously against the top of the desk. Partially prompted by Marty’s rather nonplussed, unenthusiastic reaction to his decision, the inventor had decided he might as well dedicate some time to looking over his notes on the puzzle of creating a new time machine, maybe scribble down a few new possibilities, thoughts, and ideas that had recently occurred to him. He had been at it for a couple hours; it was closing in on midnight, now. Which was probably why his concentration was beginning to splinter, swinging between the problem of how to generate the 1.21 jiggowatts of power with the technology available here and his decision to ask Clara for her hand in marriage.

Now that Marty’s comment -- which, at the time, Doc hadn’t really latched on to, mostly because the teen had changed the subject immediately after towards the time machine project again -- had returned to haunt him, his concentration on matters of time travel completely shattered. He got to his feet and started to walk around, hands clasped behind his back and a frown settled on his mouth. There was no one to speak his sudden worries and insecurities aloud to, either, unless he felt like holding a one-sided conversation with one of the horses. Marty had turned in around the time Doc had picked up the time travel notes, and was currently huddled under a couple layers of blankets on his cot.

“Could she say no?” Doc murmured aloud. “Is that a valid possibility?”

Of course it was! For every reaction, there was an equal and opposite reaction. For every question answered with a yes, there was the possibility of a no being uttered instead.

Oh, damn it all -- why did Marty have to go ahead and say something like that, put the idea into my head?

Doc paused a moment in his pacing to glare a little at the bundle of Marty. He turned, intending to head over to the window above the desk, but the soft sound of a word stopped him. The inventor couldn’t help jumping, turning back around in the direction that he swore he heard something... or, at least, he thought it was something, a human voice. There was only one possibility if it wasn’t his imagination. But Marty hadn’t moved.

“Marty?” he asked softly, careful not to speak too loudly.

There wasn’t any response. Doc turned back around, chalking it up to wishful thinking on his part, since he wanted someone to talk to right then. But a second later he was forced to reevaluate that theory when he heard the sound again. This time, it was unmistakable.

“No,” he heard Marty say in a low voice, sounding upset. “No, stop....”

For one freakish, irrational moment, Doc had the upsetting idea that, somehow, Marty had read his mind, knew exactly his thoughts. “Marty?” he tried again, confused, stepping over to the cot. He reached down to pull back the quilts, but the teenager chose that moment to move, rolling onto his back and sweeping the blankets aside, sending them almost entirely off the cot.

Doc recoiled a little, startled by the sudden burst of motion. It was dim where the inventor stood -- the sole source of illumination was the lamp on the desktop a dozen feet away -- but Doc could now see Marty’s face well enough to determine that he didn’t yet appear to be awake. His eyes weren’t open, at any rate, and after a couple sighs as he shifted, he grew still once more.

But not entirely quiet.

“No,” he said again, the word uttered slowly but surprisingly clear. “I won’t let that happen.”

The late hour was apparently getting to Doc; only then did he really realize that Marty was talking in his sleep. Interesting; he never knew his friend was prone to such a thing. Curious, Doc tried to play along with him.

“What won’t you let happen?” he asked, leaning forward.

Doc didn’t think he would get an answer for a moment. Marty’s brow furrowed as if he was distressed. “Staying in the past,” he finally murmured.

“Well, I won’t let that happen, either,” Doc said softly.

Marty frowned in his sleep, still looking worried. “But with Clara,” he began, then stopped.

“Yes?” Doc asked, suddenly much more interested.

Marty let out a deep sigh and rolled onto his side, facing the inventor. The tension drained from his face, and he suddenly looked much more peaceful. Doc waited a minute before speaking again. “What about Clara, Marty?”

Marty’s deep, steady breathing was his only answer. Doc tried again. “What about Clara? What is with her?”

Nothing. Doc waited a couple minutes, hoping it was simply a delayed reaction on his friend’s part. But when he asked the question a third time and still there was no response, he realized that Marty wasn’t going to say anything else.

It bothered him a little, he realized as he straightened up and headed back to the desk. It was becoming progressively obvious to him that Marty had some sort of unresolved and unexpressed feelings and ideas about Clara. But he was stubbornly refusing to say a word about it -- even in his sleep! If he would simply say something, tell Doc just what it was that was going on in his head, he would almost certainly feel better, and Doc could do whatever it took to assure him that any fears he harbored were unfounded. Which seemed to relate expressly to their being trapped in this time, if the few words Marty had uttered in his sleep were any indication.

Doc sighed as he sat back down at the time machine. Marty wasn’t as adjusting as well as he had hoped -- but had he sincerely believed that a teen from the 1980s could adapt to the 1880s in less than a month? Particularly someone like Marty, who was so thoroughly ingrained in the times that he was born into that visiting the 1950s had given him some serious culture shock? He had seemed to do all right during those few days while they were readying the DeLorean to return to 1985 -- but Doc knew that the psychology of knowing that something had to be endured temporarily versus permanently (or at least a much longer deal of time) could play with that sense of enjoyment and wonder.

Doc glanced over his shoulder in the direction of Marty, then turned his attention back to the notes. Clara was temporarily forgotten. It was late, he was exhausted, but perhaps he could spare an hour or so more on this project. It was clear that they needed to leave sooner than later.

Monday, October 26, 1885
1:16 A.M.

“Marty?”

The voice was distant, soft. Marty barely perceived it, at least consciously.

But then something shook his shoulder. “Marty, wake up.”

He tried to say something along the lines of “What?”, but the word came out garbled and muffled through his pillow, pressed under his cheek and most of his mouth.

More shaking from above. “Marty?”

Marty raised his head up a quarter inch without opening his eyes, trying to speak again. “What?” he mumbled, still more asleep than awake.

“Open your eyes -- there’s something important you should see.”

Marty cracked his eyes open a slit, too befuddled to think of putting up a fight. Doc was leaning in close, the glow of a lamp turned down low, shining from behind his back. The inventor was holding something small in his hand -- a pocket watch, Marty deduced after a moment.

“The watch?” he asked, not getting it.

Doc shook his head, a smile on his face. “It’s October 26th,” he said. “1:16 A.M. right now. We are five minutes shy of the negative hundred year anniversary of the first successful time travel experiment.”

Marty blinked once, slowly, not entirely understanding. “Huh?”

“One hundred years from now, I sent Einstein into the future one minute,” Doc said, his gaze growing distant as he recalled the event.

Marty groaned softly, letting his head fall back on the pillow. “Great, the moment my life started going downhill.”

“No, it was a moment of great and historical importance for the scientific community,” Doc murmured, not noticing Marty’s negative reaction. “Though I suppose no one else is privy to that knowledge, aside from you, Einie, Clara, and Jennifer.”

“And Biff Tannen,” Marty muttered, closing his eyes again, wanting nothing more than to sleep through the anniversary minute. It wasn’t a celebratory moment for him.

His new life here had fallen into a tedious and predictable pattern lately for Marty. Get up at dawn, then slave over a hot forge all day, helping Doc with any number of little tasks -- shaping metal, shoeing horses, repairing wagons, and so on. Most of Marty’s jobs were in the assistant realm, passing tools, holding things, fetching supplies, that sort of thing. He didn’t really mind, or care; as if he knew much about blacksmithing! It constantly surprised him, however, that Doc knew as much as he did. Marty wondered if he would share in some of the basic knowledge much better after being around ten months himself. But that thought depressed him; he could hardly deal with the fact that he had to be around 1885 another day.

After it got dark out, and Doc closed up shop for the day, the inventor would prepare a basic meal on the stove. Then, driven by boredom, cold (because the weather was definitely in a fall state of mind, and the livery stable had virtually no insulation to speak of), and a physical exhaustion that still caught him off guard, Marty would usually go to bed.

Not that he was sleeping all that well. The insomnia that he had been suffering from in September wasn’t quite present anymore. The running around all day was probably helpful in that regard. But he didn’t ever wake feeling refreshed anymore -- he felt as if he had spent the entire night tossing and turning, running from monsters in his dreams. Whether or not he was indeed having nightmares, he couldn’t say; Marty wasn’t remembering anything about dreams, but he was sure that if he was having any, they weren’t good. When awareness would trickle in after another night, before he even opened his eyes, Marty would feel a sick sort of dread in the pit of his stomach. Almost like whatever rest he had gotten had left a bad aftertaste in his body.

Or maybe it was just the times he was in. He wondered if or when he would ever stop feeling that dull ache of disappointment when he opened his eyes and found himself still stuck in purgatory in the past.

Marty was starting to doze again when Doc spoke up once more, shattering the quiet.

“Marty?”

“Hmmm?”

“How have you been feeling lately?”

The question was thoroughly unexpected. Marty opened his eyes, wondering if maybe he’d fallen asleep and missed something -- the passage of more than a minute or so, a conversation that Doc had started and he hadn’t heard. He stared at the scientist a moment, wondering what brought this on. “Huh? What do you mean?”

Doc frowned faintly. “Essentially what I said.”

Marty was still confused. “You mean how am I feeling physically?” He yawned. “I’m not getting sick -- even if this place is drafty as hell.”

“No, I’m speaking more of your psychological health. You’re still having trouble adjusting?”

Marty snorted, closing his eyes again. “No, I’ve got that under control now,” he said, slightly sarcastic.

Doc was silent a minute. “You seem to be a bit preoccupied lately.”

Marty frowned, not opening his eyes. “I’d rather be home now,” he said. “That’s pretty much it.” He pulled the blankets over his head, hoping that Doc would take the hint and drop the subject. He didn’t, of course.

“Is that all?” he asked. When Marty chose not to answer -- remaining quiet, hoping to prolong it enough so Doc would move on and let him try to get more sleep -- the inventor added, “Are you aware that you’ve been talking in your sleep?”

That got his attention. He pulled the blankets down a few inches, opening his eyes to peer up at the inventor. Marty thought -- or hoped -- that it was a joke, that Doc couldn’t be serious. But he certainly looked like he was. “No,” he said cautiously, suddenly nervous. “What have I been saying?”

“Repetition of the same general words,” Doc said. “’No,’ for example, seems to be a particular favorite. I’ve also heard you murmur things about home, Jennifer, my name a few times... and Clara’s.”

Marty felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise up. For a quick second he had the oddest sense of deja vu, could almost but not quite remember the dreams he’d been having every night. Then it was gone, and he simply felt... exposed. He closed his eyes again, ready to feign another attempt at sleep -- though he suddenly felt sickeningly wide awake. “Oh,” he murmured.

“I know I’ve asked you this before,” Doc began, sounding tentative, “but how do you feel about Clara?”

“Yeah, Doc, you have asked me this before,” Marty agreed, opening his eyes once more, edgy. “Practically every other day. And I told you before what I thought.” He was sick of the question.

Doc gave him a rather intense stare, the kind that seemed to Marty as if he was trying to read his mind. “If you dislike her, I won’t be offended,” he said softly.

Marty sighed, resisting the urge to pull the blankets over his head again. “I don’t hate her, Doc,” he said flatly -- which was the truth.

Doc didn’t say anything to that, waiting. When Marty offered no more, he finally broke the silence.

“I was going to go to Sacramento in a few days,” he said, the topic change coming from nowhere. “Did you want to accompany me?”

Marty was intrigued in spite of himself. “Why are you going out there?”

“I need to find an engagement ring for Clara,” Doc explained, suddenly looking nervous. “The trip would take two days -- it’s a good three hour journey one way.”

And back home it was just an hour or so by car, Marty thought, a fresh wave of homesickness socking him. “Yeah,” he said, “that sounds fun. Clara’s not coming, I guess?”

“No,” Doc confirmed. “She is not.”

Marty was quietly pleased with the news -- and as Doc stood, looking at his watch, he had a stunning realization.

This will probably be the last time me and Doc do something without her around. Because days later, the inventor would propose -- and then, from there on, Doc would be part of a matched set.

Marty’s mouth went dry, though this realization was nothing new. He swallowed hard, then opened his mouth to ask Doc about that, about what would happen to them, to him, then.

“One twenty-one A.M., now.... This is the moment,” he said softly, glancing at the teen.

The words froze shy of Marty’s lips, catching in his throat. This wasn’t a good time, he knew. It was too late, Doc was too preoccupied with other things. He closed his mouth and managed a faint smile for his friend.

“Great,” he said. “Happy future anniversary, I guess. But it’s late, Doc.”

The scientist bobbed his head in a nod a second later. His questions would have to wait -- again. “Yes. Sorry I woke you, Marty. I just thought that, perhaps, you might want to share this moment with me.”

Marty felt faintly sick again when he realized that such moments would soon be shared with Clara, for the most part. “Thanks,” he said softly. He stopped the inventor as he reached over to snuff out the lamp. “And Doc? Next time you hear me saying stuff in my sleep? Can you just wake me up?”

Doc hesitated a moment as he reached for the knob of the wick. “Wake you?” he echoed. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah -- just do it, I don’t care.”

Doc stared at him a moment, his expression giving no clue as to what he was thinking then. “All right,” he finally said. “If you’re certain. Good night, Marty.”

“’Night, Doc.”

He pulled the blankets over his head as Doc took care of the light. Marty didn’t want to think about things anymore, about the shambles of his life, about the extreme changes on the verge. He didn’t even want to ask Doc about the bad things he was thinking about because... because what if they turned out to be true?

Friday, October 30, 1885
7:55 A.M.

The train to Sacramento left Hill Valley at 8 A.M. Marty felt a little funny as he and Doc gave their tickets to the porter and boarded the passenger car. He wasn’t aware that his nerves, or whatever they were, were so obvious until Doc made a comment about it after they took their seats on the wine colored padded benches.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “You look a little pale.”

Marty shrugged, rubbing his forehead. “Is this the same train that we, uh... borrowed a few weeks ago?” He spoke quietly, lest anyone overhear. Not that that would be a problem, since people were chattering and getting settled, still.

“Not the same locomotive engine,” Doc said, also keeping his voice pitched low. “Whether or not there are the same passenger cars, I cannot say. But I do believe it’s a similar route. Clara told me she bought a ticket to San Francisco on the train we did, ah, borrow, and this train will eventually wind up there, traveling due west.” He ran a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it down. It didn’t make any difference. Rain fell in cold misty layers beyond the window glass. Marty was glad they’d stay in a hotel that the night -- the next train to Hill Valley from Sacramento wasn’t until late the following afternoon. He wondered how Doc had managed to avoid coming down with pneumonia or something the previous winter, living in the leaky stable as he had.

“I guess this is the first time I’ve been on one of these things since the accident,” Marty said, looking about the passenger car. Above their heads were shelves of cord to stow luggage. The walls were paneled by a dark wood, and brass gas lamps were fastened every three windows. All the windows had individual shades, which could be closed with a tug of a cord. Marty guessed this was pretty comfortable travel for the times, but he had a feeling that by the time they reached their destination he would be more than happy to depart.

“How fast will we be going?” he asked. Marty recalled, vaguely, speaking to the engineer when he and Doc were investigating ways to get the DeLorean up to eighty-eight. But that had been extreme speeds, looking at whether or not it was even feasible to get a steam train up to that speed. Not normal traveling speeds.

“I think anywhere from forty to forty-five,” Doc said.

That seemed ungodly slow to Marty. “That’s it? Even freeways start at fifty-five....”

“Yes, but automobiles don’t weigh nearly as much as a steam locomotive and train passenger cars,” Doc said softly. “And these vehicles are powered by steam, not gasoline, making it more difficult to achieve a prolonged high speed.”

“But you were going to get the train up to eighty-eight, right? Without gas?” Marty’s memories of that day, September seventh, were hazy at best, completely missing and blank at worst. He couldn’t remember anything, really, after the showdown with Buford Tannen. He thought -- or assumed, maybe -- that Doc had some way to get the train up to that kind of high speed, but....

“Yes,” Doc said. “The presto logs -- remember? I use those in the forge, normally, but those would’ve worked fine if the engine hadn’t derailed.”

If, Marty thought, hating that little word. Outside there was the brief blast of a whistle, and a vibration that the teen felt through the seats. Marty’s heart give a fluttery little skip. He reached out and wrapped his fingers around the armrest next to the wall, tightening them into a strong grip. Doc noticed the maneuver and gave him a brief smile, patting his arm.

“We’ll be fine,” he said, lowering his voice once more. “I imagine that if this train met with an unfortunate end, it would have been reported in the news media.”

“Yeah, but would you even notice something like that?” Marty muttered under his breath, annoyed at himself for being so anxious about the train ride. He wasn’t normally like this. “So since gas isn’t around now, does that mean you gotta use steam in the new machine?”

“That’s the most logical and likely source,” Doc said. “There isn’t much else available now that can provide the amount of energy necessary to achieve that speed.”

They lurched forward without warning, startling Marty, who found himself gripping the armrest all over again. He held his body tense as they car began it’s forward motion, slowly. As they gradually picked up speed, and nothing happened, he exhaled slowly, turning his eyes from the window to look at the inventor next to him. To Doc’s credit, he wasn’t gawking at his friend’s reaction. Instead, he was reading the day’s edition of the Hill Valley Telegraph. Marty had noticed he had bought one of those right before they boarded the train, commenting that the ride would be a long one. The teen hadn’t realized just how long until now -- he mentally calculated their average speed, and the distance that they were from Sacramento and winced. That would be a couple solid hours of traveling.

And that’s if we don’t make any stops....

Which, Marty realized, was probably a foolish fantasy. “Doc, are we going to be stopping a lot?” he asked. “At other towns?”

Doc took a minute to answer. “On the journey out?” he asked, his eyes not leaving the page of the newspaper. “Oh, yes. We won’t reach Sacramento until around noon -- if there are no delays.”

Marty sighed, resting his forehead on the cool windowglass. “Perfect,” he muttered.

* * *

By the time they pulled into the train depot in Sacramento, it was almost 12:30 P.M. Doc was pleasantly surprised that they arrived close to his estimation; he’d expected more delays than simply the stops at all the towns between Hill Valley and their destination. Of course, there were enough stops at small town train stations that Doc found himself, more than once, wondering if they would even arrive in Sacramento before sunset. His sentiments were echoed much more vocally by Marty, who seemed to find it inconceivable that a trip of 70 miles could take so long. The teen shuddered as they finally left the passenger car, stepping out into the cool, foggy air at the train depot.

“Is the return trip going to be as long?” he asked.

“It would be unusual if it wasn’t,” Doc said. “But I warned you....”

Marty lifted his shoulders in a half shrug. They walked into the train station, bustling with a fair amount of activity. Doc had only visited the city once since his arrival in 1885 -- while shopping around for potential parts to repair the busted DeLorean -- and thus he had a fair idea on what to expect, coupled with a general historical knowledge of the area and period. Marty, however, seemed to have no such prior education. When they left the train station and stepped onto the street, he blinked a few times, looking shocked.

“It’s.... What happened to the city?”

Doc glanced up and down the street as they crossed it. He took in the buildings, the unpaved and muddied streets, the horses and carriages, the long dresses and suits, the raised wooden sidewalks. He realized, with a touch of amazement, that things didn’t look very unusual or “wrong” to him. But to Marty, who still saw everything through future-tainted glasses, comparing everything around him to the way they would be in one hundred years....

“It’s 1885,” he said. “Not 1985.”

“I know, I know, but....” Marty was gawking so much he nearly walked right into some fresh horse manure. Doc hastily grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the path. Marty didn’t even notice. “Hill Valley kind of looked like Hill Valley, you know? But I don’t recognize anything here! God, Sacramento is supposed to be a city, but it doesn’t look much different than Hill Valley!”

“That’s not entirely surprising,” Doc said. “Sacramento was just as much a frontier town, established as a result of the gold rush, just like Hill Valley. It may be a bit larger, but technologically speaking, it shouldn’t be much beyond our hometown.” He paused as they reached the raised wooden sidewalk, pulling out his pocket watch with his free hand. “I don’t think it’s too early to find a place to stay the night in this evening,” he said as he checked the time. “Then we can have lunch. How does that sound?”

Marty shrugged, his attention still focused on his immediate surroundings. “Whatever, Doc.”

There was a hotel a couple blocks away. Doc had stayed the night in it last time he had passed through the town, the previous April. As he had hoped, he was able to book two adjoining rooms for the night. After checking in, and dropping off their small bit of luggage, they went down to the restaurant adjacent to the lobby of the hotel. Marty didn’t say much over the meal -- Doc had noticed, in an odd moment here or there, when he wasn’t occupied with a number of other thoughts and concerns, that his friend had been much quieter in the last few weeks. Marty, it would seem, had his own worries and thoughts to occupy him. But as to their content, Doc was in the dark. The teen wasn’t talking -- except in his sleep, on occasion. In spite of the request to wake him up if the phenomenon happened again, Doc hadn’t done so when he heard his friend mumbling more things two nights previous. He didn’t particularly see the point in it, especially since the words didn’t last too long -- a few minutes at most -- and were fairly cryptic.

He made a stab at conversation, though, after their chicken meals were all but consumed. “What do you think of Sacramento?”

A shrug was his response. “I’ve barely seen anything of it. It’s bigger than this strip, right?”

“Well, yes. It’s larger than Hill Valley at this time. You’ll see more of it when we visit the jeweler.”

Marty raised an eyebrow but said nothing in response to that, beyond an “Oh.”

Doc tried again. “Is anything bothering you?”

Marty set down the glass in his hand, half raised to his lips. “No,” he said, sounding a little irritated. “Why do you keep asking me that?”

“Well....” Doc tapped his finger against the tabletop for a moment, wondering if he wanted to pursue this. “There’s a lot of changes happening now, in my life and in yours.”

“Yeah, well, change is life, right?

“I’ll be asking Clara to marry me in a week, Marty,” Doc said softly. “That could cause a tremendous shift in my life.”

“If she says yes,” Marty said. Doc widened his eyes, surprised by the comment more than anything else. The teen hastily spoke up again, misinterpreting the look of shock for worry. “Not that she won’t, I mean,” he said. “Sorry, I’m... maybe I should’ve just stayed behind.”

“No,” Doc said, accepting the apology with a slight nod. “I’d like your help in selecting the ring.”

The teen gave a pained smile, bordering on a grimace. “No offense, but I don’t know anything about jewelry. When I got Jennifer a necklace last summer I had the saleslady do the picking.”

“Perhaps, but a second opinion is a second opinion.”

Marty glanced down at the empty plate, his fingers playing with the bottom of his glass of water. “Do you know how you’re gonna do it yet? Ask the question?”

“We’ll have dinner together on Friday night,” Doc said. “I thought I would ask her after the meal. I’m afraid doing anything flashy or fancy is out of the question right now... and I wouldn’t begin to know how to plot out something like that.”

“Yeah,” Marty said, squinting thoughtfully. “But you’d better make sure you get down on bended knee, at least. She’d probably like that. And I guess getting permission from her parents is out.”

“I imagine so,” Doc said, nerves clutching at his heart once more. “I’m not quite sure how to go about reaching them -- I don’t even think Clara’s mentioned to me their first names.” His nerves escalated into alarm after a moment, recalling that parental permission -- particularly with the paternal side -- had been a key tradition with marriage for years. “Great Scott, do you think that will make a difference in how she responds to the question?”

Marty smiled faintly. “Probably not. Why would she care if her parents approved or not if she really loved you? Just make sure you look good when you ask -- and have some flowers or something.”

Doc was taking all this down, making mental notes for later. “Look good,” he echoed, half to himself. “Perhaps I should investigate the possibility of purchasing a new suit while we’re here. Oh,” he added, sharpening his gaze on Marty. “That reminds me -- you need some clothes for the winter. We’ll have to stop and get some today as well.”

“Won’t that cost a lot of money?”

“Clothes are a necessary expense.”

“Yeah, but isn’t getting married gonna be expensive enough? And don’t you need some money for the... the machine?”

Doc smiled. “Don’t worry about that right now, Marty. Eventually, yes, some financial investment will be necessary, but seeing as things are still on the drawing board, I think we have some time yet.”

After they paid for their meal, they set out for the shopping duties. Doc made his first stop the jeweler. Had he been home, back in 1985, he wouldn’t have had a need to purchase a ring at all. In a safety deposit box at the Bank of America in downtown Hill Valley resided his mother’s wedding band. He had managed to avoid pawning it for money to fund the time machine, mostly because he knew of its importance with his family’s history. It never dawned on him that he would want to use it for his own bride’s finger, particularly at this time in his life.

Doc had taken a hundred dollars with him -- a good portion of his savings -- on the trip, hoping to fund the purchase of the ring, the lodgings, and the clothes Marty needed with it all. He was not entirely sure about the cost of diamond rings at this point in time, and was pleasantly surprised to see that they were priced a bit less than his expectations.

Doc had little eye for what would be pleasing to the fairer sex in this arena -- and recieved virtually no help from Marty, who had the same problem, it would seem -- but the proprietor of the story, a middle-aged man, and his daughter, recently engaged, were more than happy to help. They patiently showed him several stones and settings. Doc finally settled on a small quarter-caret diamond, surrounded by chips of purple amethysts, and set in a ring of white gold. The jeweler took the order, promised the inventor that it would be ready and shipped to Hill Valley on the Wednesday train, then took the payment of forty-five dollars.

Doc felt slightly weak-kneed when they emerged from the shop, nearly ninety minutes after entering. He wasn’t sure if this was because of the cost of the ring or the fact that this was now becoming real to him -- that he, Emmett L. Brown, was really going to ask for the hand of Miss Clara Clayton in a week. Marty seemed to notice his frazzled state of mind, looking concerned after they walked a block and the inventor said nothing.

“Are you having second thoughts now, Doc?” he asked.

“No -- no, not at all.”

“Was it the money? Because that seemed like a deal and a half!”

Marty’s understanding of money and its worth was still tainted from the 1980’s. He had remarked to Doc more than once since his arrival that things were so “cheap” back here -- yet he seemed unable to really understand that the wages one made in their job were equally small. Of course, Doc was handling the finances for the most part, generally only handing over cash to Marty when he sent the teen on errands to pick up supplies. The merchants knew what to charge, and knew his order, thereby leaving Marty out of the loop and unable to make an accidental error in paying far too much for something. But it also meant that this adjustment was one that was taking much more time for the teenager to make.

“No, it wasn’t the money. Not particularly. I think it’s just the reality of this setting in for me, now. That the ring will be one that, I hope, Clara will wear every day of her life that we’re together. I hope she likes it. Do you think she will?”

Marty’s voice was gentle. “I think she’ll love it, Doc.”

Doc smiled, reassured. He stopped when they reached a mercantile shop, where several men’s coats were displayed in the window. And a rather sharp-looking suit. He eyed it a moment, considering -- then, reaching a decision, nodded towards the store. “Let’s go in there -- you need some warm clothes, and I think I’ll get a new suit after all....”

Friday, November 6, 1885
6:06 P.M.

Marty felt nervous as he watched Doc fix his tie in the mirror, readying the finishing touches for his date with Clara. This was The Night, the big one which would almost certainly conclude with the couple engaged. The ring had arrived on time on Wednesday, in perfect shape. Doc had successfully purchased a new suit in Sacramento. (Along with several changes of clothes for Marty for the forthcoming winter months.) The scientist had even set up a private dinner in a room of the boarding house down the street, confiding his plans to the landlady, who was sworn to secrecy. Marty had done his part by tracking down some flowers for Doc to bestow to Clara, which wasn’t as easy as it sounded, now. Fall had firmly settled down over Hill Valley, bringing bitterly cold nights and damp days. There were no florists in town that had bustles of flowers to sell like back home. Marty had finally gained some assistance from the wife of the town doctor, who kept a small garden behind her home with herbs and stuff. The subsequent bouquet wasn’t terribly impressive, but it would do -- and it smelled great.

“You have the ring?” Marty asked, thinking that would be just like Doc, to forget something so key and so obvious.

“Of course,” Doc said, absently patting the bulge in the pocket of his overcoat. He frowned at his reflection in the mirror, worry lines snaking across his forehead and creasing the corners of his eyes. For a moment he looked older than his chronological age, not younger. “Everything should be successfully arranged,” he added, turning around to regard Marty. “Do I look suitable for a marriage proposal?”

Marty eyed him critically, then nodded his approval. “Yeah. You look... nice. Different.”

It wasn’t an insult -- in a brand new, freshly pressed suit, hair neatly combed and slicked back, and a much less manic demeanor at the moment, Doc seemed a bit unlike himself. It just seemed kind of weird to Marty, and it was clearly odd to the inventor as well. He looked a bit ill at ease.

Of course, maybe it wasn’t just the attire.

Doc tugged at his collar. “I’ve never felt so nervous in my entire life,” he confessed. “Not even when I sent you through time in 1955.”

“You’ll be fine, Doc. Just be yourself -- or she’s gonna know something is up.”

“Yes, well...” Doc smoothed out his coat, then looked at the clock on the wall nearby. “I’d better be on my way. I told Clara I would pick her up at seven. We’re expected for dinner at seven-thirty.”

Marty took a deep breath. This was it, then. “Well... good luck,” he said softly, mustering a smile.

Doc nodded once, clapping him on the arm. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll need it.”

“No, you’ll be okay,” Marty said. He couldn’t imagine that Clara would say no -- and he didn’t want to. Not because he was counting on her and Doc getting hitched, but because he didn’t particularly want to get his hopes up in case they did end up together.

Marty frowned faintly, not happy about his feelings. He felt like a jerk, secretly hoping for his friend’s disappointment and unhappiness.

Doc smiled at him one more time, not noticing the teen’s melancholy. “I hope so,” he said. He donned his hat -- also bought new for the occasion -- and headed outside, to hitch one of the horses up to his wagon for the trip. Marty remained standing where he was for a couple minutes, not moving, his eyes locked on the doors. A rush of emotions churned in his stomach; he couldn’t tell if he wanted to scream or cry. He did neither, remaining still instead, trying to get a grip on things.

Okay, he thought. It’s okay. So the doc’s gonna get married. No biggie. He could do worse than Clara -- and you know it. So stuff’s gonna change around here. It had to at some point.

He finally sighed, breaking his paralysis, and drifted uneasily around the room. He hated being alone in this time. His mind would drift to the things he didn’t want to think about now, depressing him all the more. He killed some time by pulling out the time machine plans, flipped through those for a while. And, noticing that Doc hadn’t made much progress on them (big surprise), filed them away again feeling more cranky and out of sorts.

Well, he finally figured, who says I have to stay here?

Marty came to a decision. He put on his coat and hat, then headed outside, determined to distract himself in some way. Screw Doc’s numerous warnings at keeping to himself -- he sure as hell wasn’t putting on the best example in the world for that.

Although it was early evening, with sunset so recent, the only business that didn’t appear to be shutting down for the night -- on the contrary, in fact -- was the Palace Saloon and Hotel. Marty veered in that direction, following the lights and the chatter and laughter he could hear on the cool night air. He would be welcomed there, he knew. Ever since he had faced off with Buford Tannen he’d found he had friends around every corner -- though he rarely was able to spend time with anyone in particular, between Doc’s paranoia and the simple acts of day to day living.

The teen stepped through the swinging doors, warm air rushing forward to greet him -- along with the cheerful sounds of the piano and the smells of alcohol, cigars, and cigarettes. A few heads turned at his arrival, cursory noting his presence, but beyond that there was no reaction. Marty realized he had half expected things to stop dead with him walking in there -- maybe because he really hadn’t visited the Palace Saloon since that fateful day in September.

The bartender, Chester, gave him a smile as he stepped forward, up to the bar. “Evenin’ Mr. Eastwood,” he said. “What brings you to the Palace tonight?”

Marty shrugged. “I just wanted some company, I guess....”

Chester nodded once. “Are Emmett and Miss Clayton spending time together again?”

“Yeah, they’re having dinner.” He didn’t bother to elaborate as to the rest of the news; it would get out when it got out. Besides, Clara could still turn Doc down, even though Marty thought it was a sketchy possibility at best.

“Ah, well, they seem to be happy together,” Chester said. “Is there anything I can get you?”

Marty hadn’t intended to get anything -- he wasn’t even hungry, really, though he hadn’t had dinner yet -- but the bottles behind the counter suddenly caught his eye and he considered. He wasn’t underage here, a matter that still took him a bit off guard if he really thought about it. It wasn’t as if he’d get in trouble for having a drink. Alcohol in general did have a few unpleasant associations for him, reminding him of his mother’s problem with it from Before he went back in time. But, hell, if there was ever a time where he needed a drink, this was definitely one of them.

“Sure,” he said. “Give me a shot of... uh, whiskey, I guess. Nothing that’ll smoke the bartop, though, okay?” he added quickly, remembering that particular incident on his first day in town.

Chester paused a moment, staring at him. For a minute Marty thought he would be turned down. “You sure? Whiskey’s mighty strong....”

“I can handle it,” Marty said, testy.

“All right, then.” Chester pulled out a shotglass and a bottle from underneath the countertop. He poured the amber liquid into the shotglass, then corked it and set it beside the drink. Marty picked it up, eyeing it for a moment in the light of the gas lamps, trying to decide if it was okay to drink.

Other people are knocking it back... and isn’t alcohol supposed to be anteseptic, kill germs and that kind of thing?

Marty decided he needed to stop being a chicken -- about this, anyway. He raised the glass to his lips and tilted his head back, letting the liquid slide down his throat. It burned a path to his stomach; his eyes watered a little. He swallowed hard a few times, trying not to cough, and set the empty glass back on the bartop.

“Can I get another?” he asked.

* * *

Doc never imagined he could be so nervous, so terrified. On the drive to Clara’s home he had to stop more than once because his hands were shaking so badly, which in turn caused the reins to tremble, which made Gaileo skittish and uneasy. He couldn’t imagine how he could live through the next couple hours, before he had to ask The Question, and was already wishing fervently that this evening was in his past.

If I had a time machine, I’d skip over tonight, he decided, temporarily forgetting that such a thing, if actually attempted, would create a whole host of problems and potential paradoxes. Of course, dying from a stress-induced stroke or heart attack wouldn’t be one of them. In spite of the cold night air, he was sweating when he finally arrived at the schoolteacher’s home, and felt slightly ill.

Clara opened the door less than a minute after he knocked, looking stunning as always. She wore a long dark coat over her dress, and a hat trimmed in fur that Doc couldn’t recollect having seen before. Her lips parted in a smile as she stepped onto the porch and closed the door at her back. “You’re late,” she said, brushing aside a curl that had drifted into her eye. “Did you have trouble on the drive over?”

Doc blinked rapidly a few times, his mind whirling. She knew! But how could she know? “Uh, ah, well, uh... no,” he stammered, fibbing. “I just, uh, got a late start.”

“Oh,” she said, seemingly not the slightest bit suspicious. “Well, shall we?”

“Shall we what?” Doc asked, on edge all over again.

Clara smiled again, reaching out and squeezing his arm with her gloved hand. “Have supper,” she said.

This was going to be a very long night, Doc realized. He gave her a weak smile. “Yes, quite so.”

He escorted her off the porch, down the path and through the gate, then helped her into the carriage.

“So,” she began, after he had gotten in beside her, and they were on their way back to town again, “what have you planned for this evening? Are we dining at the boarding house again?”

“Well, there aren’t many other options here,” Doc said, a bit ruefully. “In the future there will be -- and the cars, the automobiles, can take you to nearby towns and cities in less than an hour to experience other cuisines and eateries.”

“I don’t mind,” Clara assured him, squeezing his arm again and scooting in close to his side. Doc relaxed a moment -- then went rigid when he realized that she was pressing up against his pocket -- the one with the ring in it. What if she felt the lump?

A part of the inventor that was unaffected by his reeling emotions realized he was being awfully irrational. So what if she felt something? She certainly had no way of knowing what it was, and would likely assume it to be nothing more than a pocket watch or keys or something. But his feelings for Clara defied logic and rationality. Since meeting her, Marty had accused him more than once of not thinking like a scientist, of being carried away by his emotions. Doc knew it was the truth, but knowing it didn’t change anything. He couldn’t control his thoughts now, or the worries, or the way he reacted and felt every time he saw Clara or was in her presence. It was like a fuse blew in his brain, throwing rationalism out the window. It was like every stereotype of love that he had ever heard, and subsequently scoffed at.

Until it had happened to him. Odd how much truth there had been in those stereotypes.

Clara’s close proximity was a blessing at the moment -- the distraction of her head against his shoulder and her hip snug against his drove out everything else in his head. Including his worries about the forthcoming evening plans. Doc slipped an arm around her back, concentrating on nothing more than guiding the horse along the dark road.

His anxiety came rushing back to him the moment the boarding house came into view, however. He carefully stopped Gaileo before the building, dismounted the carriage, then helped Clara down. “Ma’am,” he said with a little bow, sweeping an arm forward, towards the door.

Clara giggled, the sound as musical as bells, then started forward. A man -- Mrs. Bovary’s nephew, William Tucker -- met her at the door as planned and bowed.

“Miss Clayton,” he said. “May I show you to your table?”

Clara turned her head to look at Doc, her eyebrows raised in surprise. Doc smiled, saying nothing.

“My table?” she echoed, turning back to William. “I have a table?”

“Of course,” he said. “Allow me...” He stepped back, beaconing them to follow. They were lead away from the main dining room, up the narrow stairs to the second floor. Doc couldn’t see Clara’s face, but he could easily imagine her confusion over this variation to their routine. She would be in for more surprises yet.

When they reached their destination, Clara’s gasp was audible. Doc hadn’t seen the room yet -- he had simply described to Mrs. Bovary what he wanted -- and he eagerly peered past her shoulder for his own look at the interior.

There was a table set for two, settled near a fireplace. Surrounding the room were many lit candles, providing a warm glow within. The flowers that Marty had helped in finding were placed in a crystal vase in the center of the table, and a fire burned merrily in the hearth.

“Oh, Emmett,” Clara breathed, her eyes as round as marbles. “What... why....”

William bowed from the doorway as the couple crossed the threshold. “I’ll bring your meals up,” he said, then left them alone.

Doc smiled at Clara’s wonderstruck expression. “Surprise,” he said softly.

“It’s... it’s lovely,” Clara murmured, her fingers drifting up to her mouth. “But I don’t understand....”

Doc had already settled on an excuse. “In honor of our two month anniversary,” he said. “This was the closest non-school night to the fifth.”

“Oh,” Clara said, her eyes finally drifting away from the scene before them, focusing on Doc’s face. “You didn’t have to do something so elaborate.”

Doc took her hand and gave it a warm squeeze. “I know,” he said. “But I wanted to. Here, let me take your coat.”

After he had hung up his overcoat and Clara’s, as well as their hats, he helped his love to her seat and took his own. Just in time for William, bringing up the first course of food. He smiled at the couple as he set the plates down before them, and the warm half loaf of bread.

“If you need anything, do not hesitate to call,” he said. “I’m to serve you both tonight -- your own personal butler if you will.”

Doc smiled at Clara’s astonished expression. “Thank you, Will,” he said.

When the man had left them alone again, Clara stared at Doc, suddenly looking a bit suspicious. “What are you up to, Emmett Brown?” she asked. “This can’t simply be for a two month anniversary.”

The inventor felt the nerves again in his stomach, but he smiled, determined not to let on his secret. He raised his glass of water. “To a beautiful, wonderful woman,” he said.

Clara blinked at the change in subject. After a moment’s hesitation she reached out and picked up her own water glass. “To a wonderful, lovely man,” she said.

They tapped glasses, then each took a sip.

* * *

Why hadn’t he thought of this sooner?

Marty smiled at the bartender as he set aside the shot glass from the second drink, a pleasantly warm feeling spreading out from his stomach and into his arms and legs. He felt relaxed, at ease for the first time since... well, arriving in this time period. “That stuff’s great,” he said. “I’ll take some more if you have it.”

Chester stared at him for a moment. Once again, Marty had the paranoid idea that he was going to be refused, or kicked out from the saloon. Maybe Doc had given the guy a heads up or something against serving him drinks. “Did you want the bottle?” he asked.

The teen considered it, then decided to be more adventurous. “Can I have shots of some different kinds?” he asked. “Maybe six different kinds?”

The bartender looked taken aback by the request. “You don’t want to be mixin’ your liquors,” he said.

“Why not?” Marty asked.

“Well, it could make you a bit sick.”

Marty didn’t care at the moment, too enamored by the idea of temporary oblivion. He didn’t want to remember that, right now, Doc was probably popping the question, going to ruin all of their lives. “I’ll take the chance,” he said.

Friday, November 6, 1885
7:56 P.M.

The dinner went smoothly -- and fast. Too fast, in Doc’s opinion. It wasn’t that he was not enjoying the meal -- he was -- but he knew that when the food had been consumed, it would be his turn to ask the question that had been waiting all night.

And Clara sensed something was up. But how could she not? This wasn’t a typical date by any means, and Doc was so knotted up inside with the nerves that he could barely eat half of what was on his plate. When William had cleared their plates, and left them alone, Clara looked at him almost expectantly.

“That was a pleasant meal,” she said.

“It’s not over yet,” Doc said. He wiped his sweaty palms off on his slacks under the table, his heart already skipping over beats.

“Oh? Are they bringing dessert?”

The moment of truth had arrived. Doc smiled across the table at the schoolteacher as he reached into his pocket with his free hand. His fingernails scratched against the velvet box as he pulled it out and hid it under the tablecloth. “In a manner of speaking,” he said as he fumbled around to open the box. He wanted to present the ring to her in it’s full glory. If the damned thing would just ease open....

The box suddenly leapt out of his fingers, bounced off his knee, and then clattered to the ground. Clara’s brows drew together at the sound. “What was that?” she asked.

Doc blinked once. “Nothing,” he said, as innocently as possible -- then plunged down on his hands and knees under the table, trying to find the box.

“Emmett?”

Doc reached out -- and felt something move. Clara’s foot. “Whoops, sorry,” he said. He scooted forward a little, feeling around -- and his knee bumped something hard and small. The box. He snatched it up in his hand, then started to get up -- and slammed his head into the underside of the table. Hard.

“Damn!” The curse exploded out of his mouth without any forethought. “Sorry,” Doc added, wincing as he emerged from under the tablecloth, rubbing the top of his head.

“What on earth is going on?” Clara asked, looking both concerned and confused.

The inventor tried to smooth out his hair, standing on end from the static cling of the tablecloth fabric. “Well, uh...” he muttered, trying to think of a reasonable answer. “I dropped something.”

“So I gathered,” Clara said dryly.

Doc looked up at her, then scooted forward until he was on his knees before her. Time to bite the bullet. Time to ask.

“Clara...”

The sound of footsteps stopped him. He turned his head and saw William standing in the doorway, a couple plates in hand of what looked to be chocolate cake. “Oh,” their “butler” said. “I’ll just leave these here for you both....” He scurried in, set them on the table, then left without a word.

Doc watched him go, then turned back to Clara and cleared his throat. She was staring at him, what looked like a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice clearly conveying the strain he felt at the moment.

“Sorry? For dropping something under the table?”

“Not just something....” It was now or never. Doc raised his hand and opened his fist, revealing the boxed ring. He held it up to Clara. The amusement drained from her face, and she appeared to pale slightly. Even more nervous now, the inventor began to speak, running quickly through the speech he had already rehearsed several times that day.

“Clara... I know this may seem a bit soon, and I’ll admit it seems fast to me, too. But from the moment I met you, the second I first saw your face, I knew that I never wanted to be with anyone else in my life. That I never cared for anyone as much as I care for you now. I never expected to feel that way about anyone. In fact, I gave up hope a long time ago that I would ever experience anything like this. I can understand if you want to say no to this question... maybe I’m a fool for even asking it, but....” Doc had to pause to swallow; his mouth felt as if it was filled with dust. “Will... well, would you do me the honor of... of....”

“Yes, Emmett.”

The voice seemed to come from far off. The scientist had to blink and focus his eyes on Clara’s face. He couldn’t have heard right. “What?”

Clara broke into a dazzling smile. “I said, yes, Emmett. I would be honored to be your wife.”

“But I - I... are you sure?”

The question was out before Doc could stop it, and he immediately wished he could take it back and bury it somewhere. Are you sure? Great Scott, what was he trying to do? Talk her out of it?

Clara nodded, still beaming.

Doc’s mouth had a mind of it’s own. “But... do you realize all that you’ll be taking on? I’m so much older than you... and, well, we shouldn’t have kids. And there’s Marty to consider, too. I can’t forget about him, you know. Someone needs to watch out for him. And I don’t have all that much money. Not anymore, not here. I’m just a blacksmith.”

“I don’t care about any of that,” Clara said firmly. “I love you, Emmett. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Now, if you’ve finished trying to talk me out of my decision, I’d like to try on that ring, please.”

Doc blinked again, looking down at the box in his hand. “Oh! Well, yes, of course.” His hands were shaking again; it took him a moment to pry the jewelry out of the box. Clara extended her left hand and, taking it into his own, Doc gently slipped the ring on her finger.

The couple stared at it for a moment, silently. “It’s lovely,” Clara said, turning her hand a bit. The candlelight caught it, made it glitter like something much more expensive than it was. “I love amethysts. How did you know?”

Doc shrugged, still on his knees. “The color made me think of you,” he confessed. “Do you really want to marry me? Are you absolutely sure?”

And if he had any doubts as to the matter of that question, the kiss that Clara gave him then put them all to rest.

* * *

Marty had never really dabbled in the sport of drinking before in his life. Watching his mother frequently booze her way into oblivion from childhood on had kind of put a damper on any interest whatsoever he might have had in that area. He literally couldn’t smell alcohol without thinking of Mom, of the way she was before he went back and changed things.

He found, however, that he had greatly underestimated the power of alcohol. Maybe it was bad for the health, dangerous, potentially addictive, and so on, but it definitely made life much better when one wasn’t happy. After collecting his selection of six different shots, Marty had taken a table near the back of the room, off to the side, and proceeded to sample the drinks. He wasn’t stupid enough to down them one after another -- he didn’t feel like passing out... yet -- but instead staggered them out to about one every twenty minutes. After a couple, though, he couldn’t differentiate any variety in the taste. In fact, it was getting hard to differentiate anything around him. The music, the laughter, the chatter, the people around him all combined to be a muffled, distant blur.

And, Marty discovered, that after the first buzz of exhilaration, his mood plummeted straight down. Instead of forgetting about Doc and Clara and being trapped in the past, his mind seemed to dwell on it all the more. A half hour after the last drink, he stared down at the table, playing with the empty shot glasses lined up before him, feeling dangerously close to tears and more than a little woozy.

Hearing someone address him, then, in his current pseudonym, nearly made him fall out of his chair, so deeply immersed he was in his own gloomy thoughts.

“What’s all this, Mr. Eastwood? Men shouldn't drink like this alone."

Marty dragged his eyes away from his study of the scarred tabletop to see Seamus McFly standing next to him. It was getting hard to focus his eyes on anything, but he could definitely tell that it was his great-great-grandfather. That voice was unmistakable. Seamus had a beer in one hand, which looked somewhat tempting to the teenager. Except for the fact he didn’t think he’d be able to stand and walk the ten or so steps to the bar to get anything.

There was a clear concern in Seamus’ voice, but Marty ignored it. He nodded once at the farmer’s words, personally agreeing with him. Drinking alone was lousy. And he found himself feeling happier already that one of his relatives had found him. He hadn’t seen much of Seamus or Maggie since his stay became more permanent. Doc’s fears-at-possible-unraveling-family-history and all that.

"Alone," he said, his voice coming out blurry even to his own ears. Marty picked up one of the empty shot glasses and rolled it under the hand, across the tabletop. "You're right, I'm all 'lone.... All alone an' far from home...." he added, singing it under his breath, then chuckling softly at his own cleverness with the rhyme. Music -- now that was another thing that he missed dearly. God, what he wouldn’t give to hear a rock song, or play a guitar....

Seamus set down his beer glass on the table and pulled up a chair at the table. "Is somethin' wrong, lad?" he asked softly, leaning forward and looking hard into his great-great-grandson’s eyes. "You're lookin' as if ye lost your best friend."

"I will," Marty said, nodding again, amazed at his ancestor’s perception. Maybe it had to do with their genetics. He looked at the beer near his elbow, wondering if Seamus would mind if he tried a sip. "He's getting engaged tonight, y'know."

Seamus blinked, surprised. Marty realized he had his full, undivided attention with that little bombshell. "Are you speakin' of the blacksmith, Emmett Brown?"

There was no point in denying the guess. It wasn’t as if he had actually told Seamus... and, anyway, who the hell cared anymore? Marty bobbed his head once to confirm the news. "He's asking Clara Clayton to marry him tonight." The news wasn’t any better said aloud -- and Marty suddenly wanted to be in total oblivion, not be reminded of that fact in any capacity. He sighed, pained, and looked over at the bar, wondering if he could make it over there to order another round. Maybe Seamus could get him something.

Seamus didn’t notice the teen’s distraction. "Why, that's wonderful news!" he said, beaming. When Marty did not immediately agree, his happy expression faltered somewhat. "Tis good tidin's, isn't it?"

The teen started to shake his head, then reconsidered. He felt oddly off balanced, numb and loose, like he would slide out of his chair and to the floor soon if he wasn’t careful. He definitely wouldn’t be able to make it to the bar. "I'll be alone, then," he mumbled, resting his chin in his hands. "You know what they say when your best friend marries...."

"No," Seamus said, oh-so-seriously. "I don't."

Marty tried fiercely to think about what it was that "they" said, snappy quotes or sayings, but came up completely blank. It was getting harder to think -- this was both good and bad. Before he could figure out how to respond to Seamus’ comment, the farmer decided to speak again.

"Do you need any help home, Mr. Eastwood?" he asked, completely changing the subject.

Marty didn’t like where this was going. "No," he said immediately, slurring the word in his haste to get it out. He paused again to speak more clearly, having to pronounce the words slowly in order to get them out ungarbled. "I'm not done here, yet."

The farmer surveyed the half dozen empty shot glasses scattered across the table. It wouldn’t take a scientist to put together how much he had had. "I'm thinkin' ye are," he said gently. "Let me help you home, now. You still stayin' at the 'smithin' shop?"

"I don't wanna go there -- I wanna go home," Marty said, annoyed that his great-great-grandfather couldn’t see that. Seamus ignored the protest and stood up, slipping his arm around the teen's shoulders. Marty wanted to pull away, but his muscles weren’t cooperating. "You can't take me home, Seamus...." he muttered, the words having a double meaning to them that he doubted his ancestor could understand.

"Ah, sure'n I'll try," Seamus said, grunting a little as he dragged the limp and uncoordinated teen to his feet. The full weight of the drinking binge hit him all at once as he stood. Marty moaned softly, black spots dancing before his eyes as the room spun. He clung hard to Seamus, not sure if he was going to pass out or throw up. The worst of the sensation passed after a long minute.

“Take it easy,” Seamus murmured gently, as if he knew exactly what Marty was feeling. “Ain’t wise to stand all at once after drinkin’ so much strong liquor. We’ll move slowly, now.”

“But I didn’t pay for the drinks,” Marty mumbled, finding it necessary to rest his head on his ancestor’s shoulder.

“Sure’n you can settle your accounts later.”

They lurched across the crowded floor of the saloon. Marty found it almost impossible to walk, his feet repeatedly tangling up with one another. No one stopped them as they went, though Marty was far enough gone that he couldn’t tell if anyone was paying them any mind. He was surprised with the strength his ancestor had; if he had to practically carry himself, he’d be gasping for breath and having to stop much more frequently. It had been hard enough for him to move Doc when the inventor had fainted in 1955.

It took only a few minutes for the farmer to reach the livery stable. As soon as the building loomed ahead, Marty groaned. "This isn't home!" he protested. "This is hell!"

"Where, pray tell, is your home then?" Seamus asked as he nudged one of the doors open with his foot.

Marty’s moan was born of frustration with the question. "Far away... an' not here...."

There was the sound of a carriage approaching as they went inside. Marty was only peripherally aware of it. Seamus shifted, turning his head with a frown. The vehicle came to a stop, and a horse snorted, sounding impatient. Marty’s stomach gave a lazy roll, half from the drinks, and half from the realization as to who it was who had arrived. His guess was confirmed a second later as the scientist slipped through the doors, a dreamy smile on his face and a distant look in his eyes.

For the first time it hit Marty that he was probably going to be in trouble; Doc was going to kill him! The realization did little to sober him, though. Too much whiskey and God knows what else was flowing through his blood. Marty groaned, wanting nothing more than to slump to the ground and hope that Doc wouldn’t notice him -- but Seamus’ grip made that impossible at the moment. “Oh, God...” he murmured under his breath, wishing he could just pass out now. He wasn’t looking forward to this little confrontation.

* * *

Doc’s mood was so astronomically high after the evening’s events that he wasn’t aware that two people were watching him as he arrived home until one of them spoke. He jumped at the sound of the voice, blinking a couple times before his eyes focused on the forms. It was Seamus McFly, he realized after a moment -- and Marty. But something, Doc knew immediately, was wrong. Maybe it was the way Marty was barely standing, clearly being supported by the farmer.

"I found 'im in the saloon, Mr. Brown,” Seamus explained as Doc stared. “I thought I'd do right in bringin' him back 'ere for you. He's had his fill of drink tonight, I think."

Doc felt surprised all over again. Marty? In the saloon? Drinking? "Is that so?" he asked mildly, stepping closer and holding up the lantern he had carried with him from the carriage. He deliberately raised it close to Marty’s face for a look. His friend squinted sluggishly at the glow, turing his face half away. His reflexes were definitely lagging, and his cheeks were oddly flushed.

"She say yes, Doc?" he asked as the inventor lowered the light. "Are you and Clara gettin' hitched now?" He laughed a little, the sound almost bitter.

Doc didn't answer the question, frowning as he caught a whiff of Marty’s breath. Had he sampled half of the alcohol in Hill Valley? He looked at Seamus as he set the lantern down on one of the tables nearby, then circled around to Marty’s other side. "Thank you for bringing him back," he said, quite sincere. "I can take it from here."

Seamus allowed the scientist to ease Marty's weight off his shoulders. Doc grunted under his breath as he half dragged his friend over to his cot. Marty was not helping in the least with the job, practically a dead weight. Seamus remained standing near the door, his concern over Marty’s condition not quite alleviated -- or so Doc thought.

"Far be it from me t'pry,” he began, “but... if Mr. Eastwood's words were right, an' you were indeed askin' for Miss Clayton's hand t'night, and she accepted, well... let me be the first to congratulate you.”

Doc stopped for a moment, a warm, breathless feeling seizing in his chest again. He was engaged to Clara Clayton! He couldn’t help turning and smiling at Seamus. "Thank you," he said. "We'll probably be having the wedding next month, and we'd love for you and your family to come."

Seamus returned the smile, pleased by the news. "Sure'n we'll be there," he said, nodding. "Feel better, Mr. Eastwood," he added as he turned towards the doors.

Marty seemed barely coherent of the departure. Doc eased him down on the edge of the cot and stared at his friend for a moment as he sat there, swaying a bit from side to side, his eyes half closed and unfocused. He suddenly felt very angry with the kid -- an emotion that seemed to strike from almost nowhere. Doc took a deep breath, mostly in an attempt to steady his temper, before he let himself speak.

“Marty," he began, unable to conceal the disappointment in his voice, "if you think this is a way to deal with your problems, then you are sorely mistaken. Drinking like this is not going to make anything change."

Marty stared up at him, looking sullen, and not saying a word -- for a moment. He suddenly looked angry. "Why not?" he demanded, his words coming out slurred. "What else is there t'do here, anyway? You got Clara--” He pointed at Doc, to emphasize this point, then jerked his thumb back and tapped his own chest. “I have no one. Jennifer's a hundred years away.... I can have a few drinks if I want.” He looked at Doc, almost smugly. “It's legal here!"

"Perhaps,” Doc said, trying to keep his voice neutral with the comment. “But getting drunk is not going to fix any of your problems. In fact, I think you will find it'll make them worse."

Marty shrugged carelessly at the words. "Why should you care?" he muttered, taking off his hat and tossing it aside. "You're getting married, now. You don't need me 'round anymore. I'll never see you anymore, an' I'm sick of feeling like a... a third wheel. And Jennifer! Jen's too far away for me. Dammit, Doc, you don't even care about this anymore! You're...” The teen paused a moment, looking confused, as if he lost his train of thought. He found it again after a few seconds. “You're enjoying yourself here! You don't care I'm going through hell, an' you'll never build another time machine now. Not with a wife. She'll take up all your time."

Marty abruptly stopped talking. Doc stared openly at him, astonished by the words that had come out of his mouth. Finally, he thought, a part of him relieved that Marty had finally spilled out these things. But there was another side of him that was sad -- sad that he had been right with his perception of the matter. And that Marty had clearly been suffering in silence for so long.

The inventor rubbed his forehead, not sure how he should respond to this right now. Carrying on a conversation of this significance with someone so inebriated was a poor idea. He felt irritated all over again that the teen had reacted with such poor judgment, going out and getting drunk. It couldn’t have been an accident; Marty wasn’t stupid, though he was certainly acting like it at that moment.

"None of that is true, Marty," he said softly, honest. "You should know better than that -- and there are other ways to deal with your feelings that are far more constructive than downing large quantities of alcohol at the saloon.” He took a step back, folding his arms. “I'm not going to discuss this matter with you now and ruin the rest of my evening; we'll talk about this tomorrow, which I don't think will be very pleasant for you. Hangovers here are not easy, and there aren't any painkillers that can really remedy it for you. But you brought this all on yourself. Remember this."

Marty sucked in a deep breath, his eyes widening minutely. Doc thought he was going to be sick for a moment, the belief seemingly confirmed when his friend struggled up to his feet. He almost fell back down to the cot, grabbing hold of the side of a table to keep his tentative balance. What came out of his mouth were just words, though, spoken fast and running over one another so much that it was difficult to clearly understand them.

"You listen," Marty began, swaying, again punching Doc's chest with his finger for emphasis. "You can't marry Clara -- that'd screw up history, right? And if you screw up history, you might never be born. Already happened to me, almost, remember? You keep talkin' about how we're not s'pose to mess anything up, but how is marrying someone not gonna do that? You're not from here, Doc, and I'm not either. You should be spending your time making something to get us home. Not chasing girls like Clara, 'cause they could break your heart. And then what're you gonna do? And you gotta remember that I... I..."

The stream of angry, hurt words suddenly faltered. Marty paled a bit, raising a hand to his forehead. He staggered, clearly having trouble with his balance, and started to list towards Doc. The inventor caught him gently by the shoulders, taking a step back at the shift in his weight. Marty sagged against him, groaning faintly, and for a moment, Doc thought, That’s it; he’s passed out.

The teen suddenly tensed up -- and then started gagging. Doc realized what was about to happen a second too late. No, he thought immediately, trying to push Marty back. Oh no--

It was too late; Marty’s stomach had finally had enough and it was calling an all out revolt; he threw up all over the front of Doc’s new suit. The inventor gasped in horror -- and in doing so, for a moment, thought he would be sick himself. It was that horrible, sour-vomit smell... and the warm dampness now soiling and dripping down what had been a rather pricey piece of cloth.... He couldn’t see much, though, not with the light of the one lantern a dozen feet away. Maybe, right now, that was a good thing.

Marty staggered back, his legs bumping into the cot. He lost his balance, plopping down onto the cot rather awkwardly, panting a little, his face slick with perspiration, his eyes wide and glassy. “Sorry,” Doc heard him mumble, the word barely coherent. The teen tipped to one side. “I think... maybe I should just lie down for a few minutes."

He collapsed before Doc could move, his head narrowing missing a corner of a worktable, conveniently hitting the pillows and blankets instead.

The scientist remained rooted to the floor for a full minute, breathing as shallowly as he could, fighting against his own nausea. At long last the worst of the sensation passed and he found he could think again -- and act. The very first thing he did was to peel off the clothes on his back -- the overcoat, the suit jacket, his new shirt, his new vest, his new shoes, and his new pants. This left him clad only in the long cotton underwear, but that was far preferable at the moment. Doc carried the bundle of soiled clothes over to the washtub and dumped them in, then activated the water pump to fill it with water. He would rinse them out, and let them soak overnight in some soap. Maybe they could be salvaged yet. Clothing in this time had to be durable -- and, had he not just spent a considerable sum on the suit, Doc wouldn’t have been worried in the least.

Once that was taken care of, the inventor pulled on some well-worn clothes, collected some cleaning supplies, and scrubbed the floor near the cot where he had been standing when Marty had gotten sick. Their was little mess to clean up actually on the floorboards; Doc noted ruefully that the bulk of it had fallen on him and the new suit. What luck. This was certainly not how he envisioned the rest of the evening of his engagement.

His engagement.... He smiled even as he cleaned the floor, his mind drifting back to earlier in the evening. The release of all that horrible tension with Clara’s “yes.” The tentative plans about their future -- and the wedding!

Now that they were going to marry, Doc was eager to speed up the duration of the engagement. He had, at the back of his mind, hoped that maybe they could become man and wife on November 12th. A foolish idea, he realized about two seconds into a conversation with his new fiancée. Clara wanted a real wedding in a church, not a quick and simple affair in a courthouse. She wanted her family to be there -- and they lived on the other side of the country, in New Jersey, not an easy trip by any means. And the marriage of the town’s schoolmarm was not an event to be undertaken lightly, with anonymity. Too many people would be interested in attending the ceremony, Clara thought, for her as well as Doc . There was also the matter of their housing -- could they live in the schoolteacher cabin with Clara still allowed to teach, or would she have to resign her position and he have to purchase a house? None of those issues could be decided in less than a week’s time.

But, like Doc, she was eager to begin a life with him. By Christmas, she hoped, they would be legally married. She would send a telegram the next morning to her family, and visit the pastor at the church about performing the service. Rings would have to be selected, as well as a dress for Clara and... well, maybe another new suit for the scientist. (If the one he had just bought was ruined beyond salvaging.) And perhaps a honeymoon trip needed to be planned out and booked. Doc wasn’t sure to where -- what money that wasn’t eaten up by a wedding service and the expenses relating to marriage would probably need to be saved for an eventual home. And without cars or planes, it was not very easy to travel long distances. The best to hope for, perhaps, could be a trip to San Francisco.

But none of that really mattered to Doc. The important thing was that Clara had said yes -- and they would be together, now. His brain was still a bit shellshocked by this unbelievably pleasant development. Even Marty’s bingeing on alcohol couldn’t mar that.

Marty.... What about Marty?

Doc sighed as he got to his feet and dragged the bucket and washrags to the outside pump. What was he going to do with the kid? His behavior tonight had been thoroughly unexpected, and out of character. What would happen if he continued to do things like this? Doc wasn’t his father; he didn’t want to adapt that role entirely, since it could possibly undermine their entire friendship. But he couldn’t step aside and let the teen do whatever he wanted, either. He was still a kid, not even eighteen, yet.

Besides -- Marty couldn’t be left alone to fend for himself here. Absolutely not. Doc had promised him in September that he wouldn’t be abandoned, that he would help him out. He couldn’t -- and wouldn’t -- welch on such a promise now. Clara had offered no complaint, no ultimatum of any kind about Marty. But the inventor felt guilty that he had such obligations, and that his obligations would soon become her obligations, too. It wasn’t Marty’s fault, though... it wasn’t anyone’s fault.

Outside, Doc dumped the water out of the bucket, rinsed it and the rags out, then returned to the shelter of the stable. He headed over to the cot, where Marty was still sprawled where he had fallen. He was bent awkwardly, in a sort of L shape, his legs hanging over the side of the cot. Doc set the empty bucket down near his feet, then grabbed the teen’s ankles and lifted them up to the cot. Marty didn’t stir at all from the shifting position, continuing to snore softly, nor did he react when Doc eased the coat off his friend’s shoulders. He was as heavy and limp as a life size rag doll. After freeing some of the quilts pinned underneath him, Doc tucked them around his friend. Marty was already conveniently lying on his side, saving the scientist the effort of positioning him like that himself. He nudged the empty bucket over with his foot, so it was resting on the floor right under Marty’s open mouth. Just in case.

Of course, if he got sick already, he shouldn’t get sick again... isn’t that right?

It was faulty reasoning. Doc had no idea how much alcohol his friend had ingested. He thought about checking with Chester about that -- maybe he would have a clue -- but didn’t want to leave Marty alone at the moment. That would have to wait until morning.

Doc frowned as he looked down at his friend, worried, and shook his head. “If you wanted to get my attention, you certainly have it now,” he murmured. “I’m sorry you’re not happy, Marty. I’m sorry about sending you back here to meet me. Maybe I should’ve gone to greater lengths to talk you out of it thirty years ago. And I’m sorry you’re not happy that Clara and I are getting married. She’s a wonderful woman -- and if you just take some time to get to know her, you’ll see that.”

Marty, of course, said nothing to any of this; he wasn’t hearing a word. Doc sighed and walked away, heading for the front of the barn. He wanted some fresh air -- and poor Gaileo was still hitched to the carriage, Doc having not had the chance to put him away for the night. Tomorrow he would have to have a very serious conversation with Marty. He wasn’t looking forward to it.

Saturday, November 7, 1885
9:22 A.M.

Doc beamed as he said those two little words that Marty had been dreading for weeks: “I do.”

“And do you, Clara Clayton, take Emmett Brown to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, for better or for worse, until death do you part?”

Clara returned Doc’s happy, loving gaze. “I do.”

The priest raised his hands heavenward. “Then I now pronounce you man and wife. You may now kiss the bride.”

Marty nervously watched their mouths meet, standing just a couple feet away from the both of them. When they broke apart, they spent a moment gazing into each other’s eyes, sappy grins on their faces. It was almost sickening, and in fact he did feel slightly ill viewing it all.

He felt sicker, though, when they both turned their heads to look at him. Clara frowned, wrinkling her nose. “What do we do with him, now?” she asked. “You don’t honestly want him around us all the time, do you?”

Doc frowned faintly at his new bride. “Now, Clara, Marty’s my friend.... I can’t abandon him because I’m a married man.”

Clara folded her arms across her chest, tucking her bridal bouquet in the crook of her arm. “But you have me now,” she said. “What do you need him for?”

“He’s my friend.”

The schoolteacher batted her lashes at Doc. “But aren’t I, too? I’m not only your friend, I’m now your wife. You can’t have us both in your life.”

Doc continued to frown, looking at Clara with clear hurt and surprise. Marty held his breath as he waited for the scientist’s answer. Doc had known him for a few years. Surely that had to count for something. And it was because of him that Marty was even here in the first place. He wouldn’t be tossed aside over a woman... would he?

“Well....” Doc sighed, then turned to Marty. “I’m sorry, kid.”

Marty’s jaw dropped. “What?” he half whispered. “You gotta be kidding me.”

Clara shook her head. “No, he’s not,” she said, matter-of-factly. “It’s time for you to leave us alone, now. Your friend is a married man; he has no time for you.”

Marty blinked a few times, still in a state of disbelief. Clara’s face remained stony; Doc turned away and looked at the ceiling instead, clearly uncomfortable. “Okay,” the teen finally murmured, realizing he was not wanted. “Okay, I’m outta here.”

He turned to walk away, the back of his throat aching, like he was going to cry. In his haste to get out, he stumbled on the way out of the church, toppling towards an empty pew. He reached out to catch himself -- but the scene around him abruptly shattered, dissolving. A throbbing pain snaked through his skull, and for a disoriented moment he thought he struck his head on the wood as he fell.

“Oooohh,” he groaned softly. Marty reached up to touch his forehead, finding it hard to move. Blankets were on top of him, he realized after a moment. Other sensations trickled in during the next few seconds. His mouth was incredibly dry, the back of his throat hurting in protest. There was a swimmy sensation in his head, and he felt faintly nauseated.

All this before he even opened his eyes.

Am I sick? Marty wondered, thoroughly disoriented. He opened his eyes, squinting heavily, and found himself looking into the depths of an empty wooden bucket. His head was hanging down, he realized, off the side of his bed. He raised it up, for a look around, and felt even sicker.

“Oh, God....”

The room swam around him and the ache in his head escalated. He rolled onto his back and shut his eyes, pressing the palm of one hand over his eyes. After a moment the headache eased up, marginally. Marty took a couple of deep breaths, craving water like he never had before. He wasn’t even going to try to get up, though.

“Doc?” he called out feebly, wondering if the inventor was lurking nearby.

He heard a noise from nearby -- movement, definitely. Footsteps slowly approaching where he lay. “Yes, what is it?” Doc asked a moment later, his voice rather gruff.

Marty cracked one eye open and peered out from between his fingers. The shafts of daylight slipping through the windows and the cracks in the ceiling hurt his eyes. He saw Doc’s face bend over him, frowning and looking faintly irritated. The teen wondered if he had woken him up.

“I think I’m sick,” he moaned. “Maybe the flu.... God, I’m thirsty.”

“It’s not the flu,” Doc said, his voice still oddly flat. He vanished from sight, returning a minute later with a glass of water in hand. “If you can manage to sit up, you should drink this. It’s no wonder you’re feeling dehydrated.”

The thirst was almost painful. Marty cautiously removed his hand from his face, risking both eyes opened and the pain that provoked. He reached out for the glass, but Doc held it teasingly just out of reach. “Sit up,” he said.

Marty frowned, annoyed, but even he knew that drinking from flat on his back was all but impossible. He took a deep breath and carefully raised himself up to his elbows. The room spun sickeningly for a moment before it stabilized, and he was reminded of the first few days following the accident back in September. His headache worsened briefly and he grimaced. Doc studied him as he handed him the water. Marty almost spilled it in his haste to get it in his mouth. He started to gulp it down, greedily, his eyes half closed.

“Take it easy,” Doc warned. “You’re drinking that far too fast. You’ll make yourself sick again.”

Again? Marty reached the bottom of the glass a couple seconds later, gasping a little. “Again?” he repeated, confused. “What do you mean, again?”

Doc narrowed his eyes as he sat at the end of the cot. “How much do you remember of last night?”

Marty’s stomach suddenly cramped up. The water had reached it’s goal, and it clearly wasn’t a good thing. He swallowed hard, hoping that the nausea would pass. Doc was still staring at him, waiting for an answer. “Uh... I dunno.” Something, maybe the hazy, half remembrances of the dream, came back to him. “Are you and Clara getting married?”

Doc stared at him a moment before answering. “Yes. She accepted my proposal last night.”

“Oh,” Marty muttered, a hand to his stomach. “That’s good.” He definitely felt like he was going to be sick.

Ten seconds later his head was bent over the bucket as his stomach effectively rejected all the water he had just consumed. Doc remained sitting where he was, and when Marty finally raised his head, desiring death as a viable alternative to life at that moment, he offered no words of empathy.

“Well,” he said instead, “at least you didn’t make a mess of it this time.”

Marty blinked, his eyes watering from the unnatural exertion of his body. “This time?” he gasped hoarsely, confused. He rolled onto his back and threw an arm over his eyes. God, his head ached.

“Yes,” Doc said, a faint edge to his voice. “You vomited all over the suit I wore last night. I think it’s ruined.”

Marty moaned, having no memory of that at the moment. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I think I’m dying.... Maybe you should get the doctor.”

The inventor snorted once, softly. “There’s very little he can do for an alcoholic hangover.”

Marty licked his dry, cracked lips. “Hangover?” he murmured -- and then it all came back to him. Well... not all of it -- his memory had some strange gaps in it -- but he remembered going to the Palace Saloon the night before, Doc leaving him behind to ask Clara to marry him. He remembered drinking shots... how many was kind of a blur. And hadn’t Seamus McFly come in there at some point, or was his brain cross-wiring the night before with something else?

Oh, God -- I was drunk last night! No wonder Doc is pissed.

Doc didn’t realize that the pieces had finally fallen into place for Marty. “Yes, hangover,” he said, definitely sounding annoyed. “Seamus McFly brought you here when I arrived; you could barely stand of your own accord. What you’re experiencing now is nothing more deadly than the physiological reaction a body has when purifying the alcoholic toxins from the body. Uncomfortable, perhaps, but you’ll live.”

Doc stood up -- Marty could feel his weight shift off the cot -- and picked up the bucket, heading off without another word. The teen remained where he was, feeling too miserable to move. The headache, the dizziness, the nausea.... And stuck in a time before they had over-the-counter meds that could take an edge off the symptoms. “Oh, man....”

Doc returned a few minutes later, setting the presumably now-cleaned bucket beside the bed once more. The clatter of it irritated the ache in Marty’s head and he raised his arm enough to peer out from under it, squinting at Doc standing beside the bed. “Isn’t there anything that can help this?” he asked.

“Water,” Doc said. He plucked the empty glass from where Marty had dropped it on the blankets. “Sipped, not gulped. And time.”

That sounded lousy. Doc returned a couple minutes later with a full glass and a damp rag, advising Marty to put the latter it over his eyes to help the headache. Marty followed the directions after taking a few careful sips of the water, now suitably nervous about upsetting his stomach again. He still wished for... well, if not death, then something that would give him temporary oblivion. Sleep -- he would settle for sleep.

Any hope of that happening was shattered a few minutes later, by the most Godawful banging noise. Marty clenched his teeth together, the metallic clangs bringing renewed pain to his tender head. He recognized the noise without looking -- Doc was shaping something on the anvil. When there was a pause in the labor, he couldn’t help but speak up.

“Do you have to do that now?” he asked, his irritation clear in his voice. “It feels like little needles of pain.”

Doc’s voice drifted over to him from the work area. “I can’t stop working on the count of your physical state. I’m sorry that there’s no way to conceal the noise, but I’ve got to use the hammer today. Three horses need shoes.”

Marty scowled, though Doc couldn’t see the expression. “Perfect,” he muttered. He rolled over, grabbing the pillow and pulling it over his head in a fruitless attempt to muffle the sounds from the forge.

After a few minutes of banging, the inventor stopped. Marty listened to the blessed silence, too happy to really wonder what was the cause of the hold up. After a moment, however, he realized he could hear voices. Curious in spite of his aches, he loosened his grip on the pillow, sliding the bulk of the padding off his ear.

“...Since last night,” he heard Clara said. “I sent a telegram off to my family in New Jersey, but I haven’t yet spoken with the pastor about the ceremony. I did let Daniel Wilson know, however.”

The name was unfamiliar to Marty’s ears, but Doc’s reaction made it clear he knew exactly who the man was. “Wilson! But he’ll tell everybody.”

Clara sounded faintly wounded. “Well, yes.... I wasn’t aware that we had to keep this a secret.”

“No... no, not at all. He’ll just.... He’ll print an announcement in the Telegraph.”

“Is that a problem?”

There was a pause. “It could be. Our engagement was never announced in my history, Clara. The newspaper is archived in the future. Someone could see that.”

“Oh, well....” Now Clara sounded flustered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Well.... It’s all right. As long as they won’t print a photograph with the announcement. The name could be explained away as a coincidence, I suppose.”

There was another pause. Marty wondered if they were kissing. His dream came back to him with that thought and he shivered, chilled.

“Where’s Marty?” Clara eventually asked. “How did he take to your news?”

Doc snorted softly. “Marty apparently visited the Palace Saloon last night. When I arrived home, he was intoxicated. Seamus McFly had to help him over here.”

Marty felt worse hearing the scorn in his friend’s voice, but he couldn’t not continue listening. It surprised and hurt him a bit that Doc was speaking so candidly to Clara while he was most definitely in earshot. The inventor had to know that... right?

“Oh dear,” Clara said, sounding more sympathetic than her fiancé. “How is he this morning?”

“He’ll live. It’s his own fault, and I think he knows that.”

“Does he normally do things like that?”

“What? Drink? No, not in the time I’ve known him. Unless you’re keeping that habit concealed from me,” Doc added, raising his voice to clearly address the teenager.

Marty let the pillow fall from his head. There was no use anymore pretending he wasn’t listening to the conversation. “No,” he said, the word hurting his head. He risked opening his eyes for a look and saw both the Doc and Clara standing near the doors, staring at him. Clara looked faintly startled; maybe she hadn’t known he was in the same room. “I’d never tried this before... not really.”

“It’s foolish,” Doc said.

“I know,” Marty half whispered, thinking of his mom from Before. He suddenly felt so homesick he wanted to cry. Maybe his parents were better now -- happier and healthier and more respectable -- but if he remembered the way things were previously, it would be like living with strangers. If he ever got back there again.

Something in his face or voice seemed to touch the scientist. Doc’s face softened for the first time that morning and he looked at Clara. “Are you aware of any contemporary remedies for hangovers? I’ve tried a few of them, unfortunately, but I’ve found them to often make the problem worse, or do nothing at all.”

“I’m not sure,” Clara said after a moment. “If anyone would know it might be the bartender.”

Doc’s lip curled back. “Yes,” he muttered. “With something akin to ‘wake up juice.’ I don’t think Marty should be subjected to a cure like that.”

Having watched the bartender make that particular beverage, and seen Doc’s reaction to it on that fateful day in September, Marty was quite inclined to agree.

“If his stomach is upset, adding ginger to water may help,” Clara said. “And tea with willow bark.”

“Yes, those,” Doc said, half to himself, in such a way that Marty got the impression he was aware of these natural sort of cures. “Are you up for those, Marty?”

“Anything’s better than the way I feel now.”

Clara went off to fetch the needed ingredients for the beverages. Doc watched her go, then headed for the cot side, his face serious. “We need to talk about something, Marty.”

The last thing the teen felt like doing was having a serious chat. He sighed. “Now?”

“Yes, now.” Doc leaned against one of the worktables. “Clara and I are engaged.”

“Yeah, no kidding. Congratulations, I guess.”

“She’s a wonderful woman, Marty. Kind, intelligent, beautiful--”

“Look, spare me the sappy stuff. I get the idea.”

Doc’s lips tightened together to almost, not quite, form a smile. “All right. I know you don’t approve, Marty. But if you just get to know Clara, spend some time with her--”

Marty resisted the urge to pull the blankets over his head, in what he knew would be a completely ineffective effort to avoid the mini-lecture from his friend. “You’ve told me this before, Doc.”

“And you have done nothing to give me the impression that my words are being acknowledged.” Doc paused a minute, then seemed to get to the point of what he really wanted to say. “Last night, while you were inebriated, you said a few things to me.”

Marty felt his stomach give a lazy roll at the words, though the sensation had nothing to do with his alcoholic binge. His memory wasn’t thoroughly clear about the previous evening’s events -- not by a long shot. “Did it make any sense?” he asked, wary.

Doc made an odd sort of face. “Yes, a great deal. I know you’re feeling out of place here, Marty. And it must be strange for you to get used to the idea of... well, sharing me with someone. You’ve been pretty much my only friend for years. But nothing will change with my marrying Clara -- I may be happier, and feel less lonely, but our friendship won’t change.”

Yes it will, Marty thought, restraining himself from blurting out those very words. Everything’s gonna change... especially once you’ve got a wife. “So when’s the wedding?” he asked lightly.

The inventor looked hurt or irritated; it was difficult to tell immediately. “Soon,” he said, not elaborating. “Marty, I know you’ve heard the question before, but I want you to answer it one more time, and truthfully: What do you think of Clara? Do you think she’s not good enough for me?”

Marty closed his eyes a moment, wishing he could just escape from this very moment of time right now. Why did Doc have to talk to him about this stuff when he already felt lousy? “She’s fine, Doc,” he said, keeping his eyes shut so he wouldn’t have to look at the scientist as he answered. “You’ll be happy together.”

“Do you think I’m making a mistake getting married? You said as much last night.”

Had he? Marty wished he could remember at the moment. Maybe once his headache went away, he’d be able to regain some of the hazy and foggy memories from the evening before. “Well, what else can you do with a serious girlfriend here?” he asked, still keeping his eyes closed. “And I guess since she knows about the time machines you’ll have to take her with you if you ever leave.”

There was a weighty kind of silence at Doc’s end. “Not if, Marty. When. When we leave.”

The teen finally opened his eyes again. “Really, Doc?” he asked, faintly sarcastic.

“Marriage is not going to keep me from that goal,” the scientist vowed quietly. “As previously stated, none of us belong here. We need to leave as quickly as we can.”

“It’s been two months,” Marty said, groaning as he put a hand to his head. “That’s two months too long.”

“It’s only been two months,” Doc corrected. “And I’ve been here nine months longer than you. Keep that in mind. So I’m to understand,” he added, changing the subject, “that for all intents and purposes, you have no problems or issues or negative feelings around my marrying Clara? That you are in support of this?”

The words in Marty’s mouth felt awkward and wrong. “Yeah, Doc, sure.” Ditch me, I don’t give a damn.... “I’m fine, I’m glad, it’s great.”

Doc looked at him, one of those scrutinizing, mind reading looks. He opened his mouth to say something -- but Clara returned, then, carrying a brown paper bag in hand. Her arrival effectively concluded the conversation between the two time travelers. “I found the ingredients,” she announced cheerfully, then looked at Marty. “You should feel better in a little while.”

Or worse, Marty thought, cradling his head in his hands as Doc left his side for hers. They would be married in a few weeks? That meant his days with Doc -- or, specifically, with Doc wanting him around -- were numbered.

Everyone knew that three was a crowd.


To Be Continued....