The Boy Beyond Time 3/?
Title: The Boy Beyond Time (Chapter 3)
Author: someidiot
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing: 11th Doctor, Amy, Rory, Marty McFly, Doc Brown
Genre: Gen / Adventure
Spoilers/Setting: After The Doctor's Wife for DW, post-Back to the Future: The Game from Telltale.
Chapter Word Count: 7,832
Story Word Count: ~11,800 so far
Story Summary: The Doctor, Amy, and Rory investigate Hill Valley, a place where time is twisted, stretched, and warped around the life of Marty McFly, a boy who remembers things that never happened. Now, the Doctor and his companions must unravel both the tangle and the mysteries of Marty's lifetime before time runs out on both him and the Universe.
Previous Chapters: 1 2
Alternate Links: Fanfiction.net, A Teaspoon and an Open Mind.
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SEPTEMBER, 1986
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The air conditioners, worn-down as they were, tried their best to cycle the stale air through the dark, open room. There was little other ventilation to speak of, and what was available was limited and inefficient, so the silicone smell of constantly-running electronics combined with the stink of greasy snack food permeated the the area, creating that all-too-familiar arcade smell. The lights were always dim in here, drawing any patron's eyes directly to its core content - the screens of game cabinets lined up in rows along the walls with bright, colorful displays. Digital music and sound effects from all directions mingled together into a low drum of background noise that managed to filter out distractions rather than cause them.
Marty glanced back at Rory. Even in the dim, inconsistent light, he could see the giddy grin on Rory's face.
“What,” Marty said with a chuckle, “never seen an arcade before?”
“Not for a long time,” Rory answered with an odd, wistful tone in his voice. “And never like this.”
What, they didn't have arcades in England? Seriously? Marty shook his head, bewildered. “Well, you're gonna love this. Come on.” He led his buddy down the rows of arcade games, glancing back occasionally to smirk at Rory's grin. They stopped at a TRON cabinet, and Marty turned to him as he fished in his pocket for quarters. “So they just don't have these places in England, or what?”
Rory shrugged. “I mean, I'm sure they're around. They're just not very popular...” he paused for a moment, “...where I come from.”
“So you don't have video games?”
“Oh, we do,” Rory assured him with a confident nod, “we just play them at home, is all.”
“With the Nintendo and stuff?” Marty shrugged. “Fair enough. My little cousin has one of those. But trust me, the graphics and stuff are loads better here in the arcade. Check it out.” He turned his gaze across the alley, motioning toward a copy of Dragon's Lair. “That's like controlling a movie. Good luck getting something like that on a dinky little Nintendo.” For now, at least, Marty thought with a grin. Doc's youngest son, Verne, was quite a the fan of video games and had a collection of systems spanning over forty years, including a few systems that wouldn't be developed for another decade or two. Marty often found himself roped into playing for hours on end when he watched the kids, and he still had trouble wrapping his head around just how stunning those future-games were. If the home consoles were that advanced in the future, he wondered just how mind-blowing the arcades of tomorrow might be. He regretted not looking for one while he was in 2015. Another time, he promised himself as he dropped a quarter into TRON and showed Rory the Light Cycle game. Until then, he had no problem showing off his skills with today's technology.
They didn't keep track of how much money they blew on games that day, nor did they want to. As the Saturday afternoon stretched into evening the two of them were still playing, switching from game to game as fast as their attention spans would let them, challenging their scores and playfully criticizing each others' strategy and skill with the kind of brotherly goading you'd expect of lifelong friends.
It was strange, but ever since Marty had come back from his time-traveling escapades, he'd felt... misplaced. Disconnected. The Universe had shifted around him, changing to fit the new history while keeping him almost entirely intact. Marty had always been something of an outcast, but in his old life, he'd found a familiar rhythm that kept him going; he'd had his music, his small group of friends, and Doc, his best friend. Now, however, he was trapped in this altered present, where the only friend left who wasn't suddenly a stranger was now preoccupied with a wife and children.
Yet it somehow wasn't so bad now that he had Rory. There was something about him that drew Marty in, something he couldn't place or put a name to. Aside from his unmistakable English-ness there was nothing particularly remarkable about him, yet somehow they shared... something in common, something that made Marty feel Rory was in sync with him in a way the rest of the town wasn't. If Marty was doomed to life as an outcast, at least he knew he and Rory could be outcasts together.
As they laughed over Dirk the Daring falling to his death for the umpteenth time, Marty finally gave in to the strain on his eyes. He managed to pull himself away from the games and take a step toward the exit. “It's getting pretty late,” he sighed, seeing the sunset out the window, “and I've got a history paper due Monday that I haven't even started. We should probably head back.” Not to mention he felt a little bit dizzy, and somewhere in the side of his head he could feel the first stirrings of a nasty headache. Marty wondered if he actually would get any work done tonight.
“A history paper?” Rory quirked an eyebrow at him as they headed for the exit side-by side. “Are you sure? The Doctor isn't the type to give a lot of homework.”
Marty scoffed. “Are you kidding? First week of school, bam! Six-page chapter review. I swear, I thought Bradley was supposed to be the easy professor.” He chuckled to himself as reached for the glass door leading outside and paused, seeing Rory's reflection in the glass, a few paces behind him. Marty turned and gazed curiously at him, noting the concern in his face. “What's wrong, Ror? Forget about it? We've still got time, I can help you out.”
Rory was quiet, and his eyes bored into him. “Marty, there's no paper due on Monday for that class.”
Marty arched his brows and shrugged. “Okay, if you say so.” He turned back to the door and pushed it open. “Good luck explaining that to Doctor Bradley.”
“Smith.” Rory was beside him again, in the entrance of the arcade, gazing at Marty with fearful, pleading eyes. “Doctor Smith is our history professor.”
“Uh,” Marty blinked, staring blankly at Rory, “what? What are you talking...about...?” But even as he spoke, the words caught on his tongue a moment, his headache flaring up suddenly like a twisting knife lodged in his temple. He stumbled, catching himself on the side of the building, and brought his left hand to his face. The dizziness from before was suddenly a rush of vertigo that left the whole street spinning and falling, unable to keep his balance.
“Marty!” Rory cried, and Marty felt strong hands under his arms, safely lowering him to the ground and gently leaning him against the brick side of the arcade. “Marty, what's wrong?”
Though his vision was a bit blurred he could see Rory kneeling in front of him, and just barely make out the look of concern on his friend's face. Marty had to shut his eyes then, because the world was still spinning and it was making him sick. Marty groaned and leaned his head back against the wall, trying to focus. Rory was still talking to him, but Marty didn't pay attention, trying to focus on himself.
He knew this sensation, it was something he'd been dealing with since he'd first come back from the past. Whenever a new memory trickled back or changed, he got these little dizzy headaches. Still, it was always just a mild annoyance, never like... like this. And...
Doctor Smith. Of course he remembered Doctor Smith, the weird British professor who knew his name. Why had he remembered someone else instead? Nothing else in the timeline seemed changed, and he knew for a fact he hadn't been time-traveling for months. Yet he could still remember the kindly Doctor Bradley, with his soft but stern tone, and him chatting with Marty about the subject in such an excited way that he considered changing his major to history... he remembered both clearly. Which one actually happened?
Marty's thoughts were interrupted when his right eye was eased open by Rory's fingers, and met by a large square of bright light. “Gah!”
Rory pulled the light away and leaned forward, gazing right into Marty's eye, before letting his eyelids close. Marty let his eyes flutter back open again and he gazed at the little black square in Rory's palm, the source of the light.
“What is that thing?” Marty mumbled.
Rory glanced at it. “It's my pho-- uh, my clock.”
Marty struggled to process that. A little square of light? “What kind of clock is that?”
“A British clock. Now focus, Marty.” Rory leaned forward again, pocketing the black square and gently taking Marty's arm, feeling the inside of his wrist with his fingertips. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Marty leaned forward, slowly standing up, leaning against the wall for support. “I just... too much video games, that's all.” He forced a smile, standing up on shaky legs. The world was still spinning and his head throbbed, but it wasn't as intense, and he could feel it dying down with every second. “Bright light out here kinda... threw me off a bit.”
Rory gazed at him, clearly deep in thought, though Marty couldn't quite read the emotion.
“Does this happen a lot?” Rory finally asked.
Marty shook his head. “It's fine.” He grinned, though he could tell by the look on Rory's face that he didn't believe him for a second. Regardless, Rory gently placed Marty's arm around his shoulders for support.
“Come on, mate,” Rory said, slowly leading him down the street. “Let's get back to the dorm.”
--
The autumnal equinox was weeks away, yet already the environment had long since shrugged off the thick, humid summer heat to allow for the sharp, crisp autumn air. At one time, Doctor Emmett Brown hadn't been one for the great outdoors, preferring to shut himself inside to tinker and toy with his latest scientific whim. However, during the decade or so he'd lived in the nineteenth century, he'd gained an appreciation for the changing seasons and the creative ways in which the meteorological fluctuations could be utilized, knowledge which had long since been lost to the average twentieth-century first-world man. Growing up in a world of technology and convenience, where rain, snow, and heat were naught more than minor annoyances, had spoiled him rotten and left him vastly unprepared for a nineteenth century life of hard labor and limited technological resources.
Yet after the initial shock, Emmett had reveled in the new, simpler life presented to him. Where others may have found a chore, he saw a challenge: create a comfortable, happy life with only the resources available a century prior. Setting himself up as a blacksmith, Emmett had quickly created himself a utopia of scientific exploration and personal challenges that kept him engaged and entertained for months. He gained a new appreciation for the for the merits of hard work and resourcefulness, a trait he carried back with him to 1985 upon his eventual return to his own time with is new family.
Emmett had been worried about coming home to the future with a family in tow. To the people of Hill Valley, he'd never even left; on October twenty-sixth, he was a shut-in hermit, and by the twenty-eighth, he was married with two biological sons. Strangely enough, he found the best explanation was no explanation at all. People would whisper, and he let them. It was no secret that he'd once worked for the government, and that seemed to be the most popular theory. Perhaps, his neighbors would whisper, he met his wife while working for the government during Nam, then some foreign official wanted him dead, and they had to separate until the threat had passed. Depending on who was speaking, it would often be embellished with spies, nuclear weapons, aliens or astronauts. It was easier for Emmett to just stay vague and let people come to their own conclusions, regardless of how contradictory they often were. He and Clara could always get a good laugh out of it later.
Ah, Clara - his beloved Clara, a woman like none he'd ever met, nor would he ever meet again. Though she was initially unfamiliar with twentieth century technology her eyes still sparkled with creativity and ingenuity. There was no end to her resourcefulness, and in his profession of tinkering and inventing, it was refreshing to have a fresh set of eyes like hers to look past the obvious and find flaws or opportunities he had overlooked. She was perfect, absolutely perfect, intelligent and witty and lovely to boot. In the years they'd been together - just over either a decade or a century, depending on how one measured it - she'd provided a partnership and companionship he'd never before known and graced him with two beautiful sons. In that time life had become more beautiful than he'd ever thought it could be.
Now, the Brown family was happily settled in Emmett's late twentieth-century home, having come back to 1985 so he could take care of his father's estate and scholarship foundation. It was a part-time residence, as they had a nineteenth-century home as well, but the twentieth century was familiar, convenient, and where Emmett had an identity established.
According to Marty, in a previous, obsolete timeline he had chosen not to settle, instead adventuring through time indefinitely. It was a decision with baffled him in the current version of events. Emmett couldn't imagine leaving his affairs at home unattended or depriving his children of a stable home, and he knew for a fact he would never abandon Marty like that. Strange, how small changes in the timeline could affect one's outlook on life so drastically. Emmett often idly wondered what had been different, but he didn't dwell on it very very long. He was happy, and had the future to look forward to.
So here, on this chilly September evening, was a seventy-two (well, eighty-two, but the neighbors didn't know that) year old man doing repairs on his roof. Ten years ago he'd have paid someone else to do it, but back in the nineteenth century he routinely did these sorts of repairs himself, and now saw no point in wasting the money to hire a contractor. To help him he'd recruited his eldest son, Jules, much to the boy's disdain.
“You could hire someone to do this,” Jules kept insisting. “I don't see the point in endangering ourselves just to save a few dollars.”
It wasn't uncharacteristic of Jules to try to find a simple solution to anything, really. In part because he was a budding scientist, always trying to solve problems even when they weren't already manageable, but also because he really wasn't one for working with his hands. He reminded Emmett of himself when he had been twelve, not quite on the threshold of puberty but still growing, seemingly faster than he could produce mass and becoming quite lanky as a result. Jules was tall and dark haired and awkward, and wasn't the physical type, so no wonder working outside on the roof like this would terrify him.
Emmett shook his head and chuckled. “For goodness' sake, son, we're almost finished. Calm down.” He hooked the end of the hammer underneath one of the roofing nails and pried it up. “Do you have the new shingle ready? Slide it underneath.”
It was only after a moment, while watching Jules carefully to check his work, that Emmett noticed his own choice of words. Why, he'd had no issue casually cursing around Marty back in the day... and that was when his young friend had been barely older than Jules. Now here he was, using sterile phrases like “Goodness' sake”. Come to think of it, much of his past treatment of young, preteen Marty as a social equal suddenly sent the father in him reeling. He'd allowed a twelve year old boy around some very dangerous machinery with little supervision... and great scott, he'd shared alcohol with him at fifteen, what had he been thinking? The possible fallout from law enforcement officers alone should have been threatening enough, but he also knew excessive alcohol consumption at such a crucial stage in development might have permanently damaged Marty's long-term cognitive capabilities! Granted, Marty never drank in excess, never more than a single beer, if even that. And despite his... condition, he was still remarkably capable and showed no signs of cognitive inefficiency. Quite the contrary, actually - Marty was quick, clever and resourceful, if a bit lazy at times. Perhaps it was that spark of intellect, that small indication that Marty was sharper than other boys his age, that had drawn Emmett in and allowed him to treat the boy like an adult.
Or, hell, perhaps having a wife and kids had simply mellowed him out more than he realized. Where he'd always encouraged Marty to simply say what was on his mind, these days Jules and Verne were firmly scolded when something inappropriate passed their lips. He'd shared beer with Marty and even allowed him to smoke his pipe once or twice, Yet now his own boys weren't allowed to come near such substances until a much older age. Though he'd never depended on Marty to run the more dangerous machinery he had still been given free reign of the lab, while Jules and Verne were strictly forbidden to come too close to most of his inventions for fear of their safety. Back in the day Emmett had considered Marty the son he'd never had, yet now that he actually had sons, he was starting to realize how un-fatherly he'd truly behaved.
Emmett's thoughts were interrupted when Jules gave an overly-dramatic sigh. “This is a waste of my genius, father,” he whined. “Any idiot can replace shingles.”
“Well, then,” Emmett set the hammer down and ruffled Jules' hair a bit, “a genius like yourself wouldn't want to be bested by 'any idiot', now, would he?” He set the nail and held it in place, handing the hammer to Jules. “Here, you finish this.”
With another drawn-out groan, Jules steadied the hammer, but slipped with the first swing and struck Emmett in the thumb.
“Yeaagh!” Emmett cried, biting back a curse and shaking his hand out. “Now, s-see,” he said, attempting to keep his voice steady as he tried to ease the throbbing, “this is what we're here to learn. You can't be a great scientist if you don't know how to handle simple tools.” Though admittedly, Emmett wasn't entirely sure his son wasn't simply feigning clumsiness to get out of doing work. “I tested my finest inventions by building them with my own two hands. You can repair a roof, at the very least.”
Jules gaze fell, accompanied by an apologetic expression. “Sorry, father. Maybe Marty should be up here helping you, instead.” He held out the hammer, but Emmett didn't take it, instead setting the nail back up so Jules could try again.
“Marty's presently occupied with the college life,” Emmett said, wincing as Jules brought the hammer down, but this time he struck true and began to drive the nail in.
“Perhaps Verne could aid you.”
“Verne isn't allowed up here.”
“I'm not?”
Both Emmett and Jules paused, turning their heads to look back at the ladder where Verne stood, leaning forward on the roof and grinning wide enough to show off his missing tooth. Verne was smaller than his brother, though he hadn't yet grown out of his childhood stockiness, with blond hair and bright eyes. Though not as academically inclined as Jules, Emmett knew Verne was clever and creative in his own... unorthodox ways.
Emmett sighed and gave his son a dark look. “No, Verne, you're not. Get down from there.”
“Aw, come onnn,” Verne whined, “why not?” He rocked backwards... and the ladder followed suit.
Emmett felt his heart stop and scrambled, lunging forward to grab one of the rungs before Verne could crash headfirst to the pavement. He nearly tumbled off the roof himself, but managed to keep his hold.
“That's why,” Emmett snapped, holding onto the ladder firmly as he slowly shuffled back up to a safer height. “You're too young to be up here.”
Verne's frightened look melted away and he stared down at the shingles, dejected. “Sorry, dad.”
“An admirable attempt,” Jules sneered, turning his nose up, “but your plot to render father a corpse has come to naught.”
Verne shot him a scowl. “I'll practice on your thesaurus!”
“Please. You can't kill a book.”
“Can it, Julia!”
“Boys!” Emmett cried, slamming a palm down on the roof. “Enough! Verne, get down. Now.”
With a huff and a roll of his eyes, Verne started his descent, and Jules snickered. Emmett shot him a look.
“That was uncalled for,” Emmett said, setting the nail again. “You should be setting an example for--”
“Oh!” Verne's voice piped up again, suddenly back on the roof. Emmett whirled and was about to scold him, but he continued, “I forgot to mention, Marty's on the phone.”
---
MAY, 1977
---
The house was coordinated in creams, whites and pastels, the sort of colors adults deliberately chose to show off how clean their things were. The lounge furniture looked immaculate; not the recently-cleaned sort of immaculate, either. There were no creases on the sofa, no scuffs on the coffee table, and even the carpet looked barely trodden on the far end of the room. The near end, where the dining-room table was situated, looked a bit more lived-in for obvious reasons. There was a bar separating the dining area from the actual kitchen, and as Amy walked around into the kitchen to find something to eat, Martin climbed up on one of the barstools and rested his chin on his arms, watching Amy silently. As Linda scurried off to another room to find the telly, mumbling something about Martin getting all the attention, Amy began to glance through the cupboards to see what was around.
“So,” she said thoughtfully, pulling a box of instant hot cocoa from a shelf, “Martin McFly. That's a nice name.” She found two coffee mugs and set them on the counter. “With a name like McFly, it sounds like you should be doing some traveling, yeah?”
Martin just shrugged.
Amy gave a humorless smile, then found a kettle to boil water. “You and your siblings told me you're crazy,” she said as she prepared the cocoa, “but I've got to say, you look fine to me.” A little too fine, she noted whenever she glanced at him. He had a sharp, focused look in his eyes as he watched her, something she'd expect of an adult, not a nine-year-old.
“Well...” Martin said slowly, “I am. Everyone says so.” He broke eye contact then, gazing off to the side, clearly uncomfortable. “Even my mom, when she thinks I can't hear her.”
With the kettle on the stove, Amy had a free moment, and leaned back against a cupboard to gaze at him sadly, her thoughts drifting back to her own childhood. She remembered the hushed whispers from grown-ups as she listened around the corner, and their sing-song sweet voices when they spoke to her face and told her as gently as possible that she was crazy and delusional, that she was far too old to cling to her imaginary Doctor. Each word was a stab in the heart, day after day, until the day she finally grew up and started to believe they were right - and then she was far too numb to feel the stabs any longer.
“Why do they say that, though?” Amy struggled to hide the quiver in her voice.
Martin leaned back against the barstool, grabbing the edge of the counter and staring somewhere at the ground. “'Cause I don't remember things right,” he said quietly.
The kettle hissed and began to whistle loudly, and Amy turned to grab it and finish making the cocoa. “Well,” she called back, pouring the hot water over the cocoa powder in the mugs, “lots of people have shoddy memories, you know. It's no reason to call you crazy.”
“But I remember it real wrong,” Martin insisted as Amy set a steaming mug in front of him. “Sometimes I wake up in my room and I don't know where I am 'cause I don't recognize it.” He stopped to blow the steam away from his drink. “And sometimes I start crying 'cause I don't wanna go downstairs 'cause my stepdad is just gonna hit me!”
“Hit you?!” Amy gasped, eyes wide. “And you haven't told anyone?”
Martin pressed his lips together and sunk lower in the chair, his eyes shimmering with the beginnings of tears.
Amy glanced around the room again, suddenly remembering the exterior of the house. “You... don't have a downstairs,” she noted softly, gazing curiously at Martin.
“An' I don't have a stepdad, either.” He sniffed, finally taking a sip of his cocoa. Martin's hands were shaking, and a bit of it splashed on the counter. “I-I tried to tell someone and they thought I was crazy, 'cause of that. But I was so sure,” tears were rolling down his face now, “an' I couldn't stop crying, cause I was sure that dad was dead, even though he was right there talking to me and trying to make me feel better an' I just...”
Amy circled around the bar back into the dining area to pull Martin into a hug. He quickly latched onto her, burying his face in her shoulder and sobbing while she held him close, combing her fingers through his hair. Something stirred in her heart, more than just the connection of shared experiences. It was one thing to try and keep faith in the not-so-imaginary Doctor who fixed a crack in her wall when she was seven, but Martin was actively trying to forget his strange memories. He wanted his stepdad and his two-story house and his strange room to be imaginary, but they continued to haunt him regardless.
Martin pulled back, sniffling. His eyes were pink, making his blue eyes only look bigger and brighter against it, and his whole face was pink and puffy. Amy grabbed a napkin and handed it to him, but he just held on to it. He looked up at Amy and said through quivered sobs, “And everyone keeps telling me, Martin, you should know that isn't real, look around, but... I can't tell!” He sniffed again and wiped his nose with the napkin.
Amy ran her fingers through his hair once more, trying to brush away the strands that were damp from his tears. “Listen, Martin,” she said softly, stepping back and bending down to smile warmly as she looked him in the eye. “When I was a little girl, there was a crack in the wall of my room. Sometimes it would glow, and always, if you listened close, there were voices coming out of it.” She leaned in closer, giving a spooky grin. “Voices that weren't coming from the other side of the wall.”
Martin blinked, his eyes still pink and puffy, but the tears had stopped. He sniffed and wiped his nose on his hand. “So where were they coming from?”
Amy grabbed another napkin and handed it to him. “Would you believe me if I told you they were coming outer space?”
“Not really,” Martin said, taking the napkin and wiping his face. “I'd think you were trying to make me feel better by acting crazier n' me.”
Well, that was a perfectly good explanation, she had to admit. He was a sharp kid. With a chuckle, Amy shook her head. “Nope, this was exactly how it happened. I promise.”
“Okay.” Martin said with a shrug, his tone of voice indicating disbelief.
Amy circled back around to the other side of the bar, leaning on the counter. “I was just a little kid, so you know, of course I was frightened, but no one could fix the crack. So as I said my prayers, I asked Santa Claus--”
“You prayed to Santa?” Martin's cynical attitude was shattered as he burst out laughing, nearly falling out of the bar stool. “That's stupid, Santa isn't God!”
Amy laughed along with him, happy to see him smiling again. She shook her head, grinning. “And you know what else?” She raised her eyebrows and leaned in. “I did it on Easter!”
Martin doubled over and held onto his stomach, he was laughing so hard. “You're crazy!”
“I was seven!”
“Still, you're crazier than me!” He grinned up at her, eyes sparkling with amusement for the first time that night. What a relief to see him actually enjoying himself! “What happened next? Tell me about the voices from outer space!”
Amy never considered herself much of a storyteller, so she tried to think of how the Doctor would tell his own story and drew from that. She told Martin all about the Raggedy Doctor who had come from space in his little blue box that was bigger on the inside, and she used all the wild gestures, bizarre metaphors and funny words like timey-wimey spacey-wacey, and Martin ate it up with glee. She talked about her Raggedy Doctor fixing the crack and disappearing after enjoying a lovely meal of fish fingers (fish sticks, Martin had corrected her) and custard. Then he disappeared, whisked away somewhere into time and space until the aliens came back, and the Raggedy Doctor returned to defeat them.
“But that was twelve years later,” she said, resting her elbow on the counter and propping her chin in her hand. “I was all grown up.”
“Well, not really,” Martin insisted, though he was still smiling and clearly enjoying himself.
Amy raised an eyebrow, giving him a playful scowl. “Yes, really! All of that happened!”
“I'm not a baby, you know,” he sighed. “You don't have to pretend things like Santa and the Tooth Fairy and flying space boxes are real.”
Amy sighed, exasperated. What was wrong with this kid? Didn't he believe in anything? She placed her hands firmly on the table. “Did I say I was pretending?”
Martin shrugged. “You don't have to. Grown-ups are always pretending.”
“How do you know?”
“They just are.”
“How do you know, though?”
Martin didn't answer. He glanced around, shifting in his chair, and finally settled his gaze on his half-empty cup of cocoa. “I dunno. They just... do.”
Amy watched him quietly, her heart breaking. A lifetime of people looking down on you, brushing off everything you say as a silly story or delusion, can do some terrible things to a child. If anyone knew that, it was her. After being treated like that her whole life, it was all she knew, and she had faced the world with the same cynicism and disinterest it had shown her. It looked like that was how Martin was facing his own problems as well. Thank goodness the Doctor had come back for her, showing her just how beautiful and fantastic the Universe could truly be. Now, perhaps, she could pass that lesson onto someone else. Amy reached forward, putting her hand on Martin's wrist and using the other to cup his chin, looking him plainly in the eye.
“Martin,” she said softly, “you can't just assume that people are lying to you. That's a sad way to go through life. You have to give people the benefit of the doubt.”
“The what of the what?”
“The point is,” she said, trying to come up with one of those grand, booming, on-the-fly speeches the Doctor was so good at, “maybe it's okay to believe in things like Santa and flying space boxes, you know? Just because the grown-ups don't believe something doesn't mean you can't.” She smiled, pulling her hand from his chin to smooth back his hair again. Okay, so her speech wasn't great, but she got the point across, at least.
“But why should I believe it if the adults don't?”
“Because that's the best part of being a kid, believing in things!” She grinned, and when he returned the smile, she continued. “And sometimes, something's only impossible because so many people think it is that they don't even bother to try. So you've got to believe it's possible so you'll actually have the will to try it, and then it might be possible!” Okay, that was kind of clear, right?
Martin was looking at her strangely, then nodded. “If you put your mind to it, you can do anything.”
“Yes!” Amy cried. “Exactly!”
“My dad says that all the time,” Martin said.
“He's a smart man.”
“Maybe.” Martin shrugged, “But I don't think it works when your mind is broken like mine.”
Amy sighed, then glanced behind Martin, pausing to stare at the glass patio door. There, waving at her from outside, was the Doctor. She glanced at Martin, who was distracted with his cocoa for a second, then drew a box in the air and pointed in the living room. The Doctor cocked his head, and she nodded - then he turned on his heel and disappeared into the dark backyard.
“Martin,” she said, grinning, “I want you to imagine the flying space box for me.”
“Why?”
“Just close your eyes,” she told him, “and imagine it. A tall, blue box with windows. It's bigger on the inside, and flies through space.”
He glared at her.
“Just do it!”
He sighed, and closed his eyes. Nothing happened, so Amy kept talking, stalling for time.
“It's flying through space and time, spinning around, surrounded by stars on all sides. And inside is a man called the Doctor, and he's flying, coming right here so he can say--”
She was interrupted by a familiar noise, a scraping sound like keys on a guitar string. Martin's eyes snapped open and he twirled on the bar stool. His jaw dropped and his eyes went wide as saucers as a tall, blue box materialized in his living room.
Amy grinned, leaning on the bar, as the TARDIS door opened a crack and the Doctor leaned out. “Hello again, Martin,” he said with a grin.
---
SEPTEMBER, 1986
---
Marty sat quietly at his desk, silent phone at his ear, waiting for Doc to come on the line. As he sat, he stared down at his journal. He'd started keeping it a week or so after coming home from 1885 as a means of keeping track of the changes he had made to the timeline, describing as best he could each “version” of reality he had experienced. He wasn't exactly eloquent, but then, it's not like he was setting out to become an author. Maybe he would have been... maybe he should be, considering his father in this timeline was a published and respected author. Yet he hadn't grown up with that man - the father he knew was meek and downtrodden, a man who didn't have the courage to show someone his stories, much less get them published. But that George McFly was gone, erased from existence, and in his place was the strong, confident George McFly who taught his kids to believe in themselves and follow their dreams.
It was terrible, but Marty couldn't help but feel resentful of that man. Sure, his dad had been kind of a... well, a loser, but what gave this guy any more right to exist than the dad he'd known and grown up with? He knew it was still his dad, and he knew at one point they'd been exactly the same. His father had grown up under the thumb of school bully Biff Tannen, while this new, more confident George McFly had stood up to him and grown up confident and respected. That one difference had turned his father into a happier, more successful man, creating a happier, more successful family life. That was a good thing, right? His life was better, wasn't it? Perhaps it would be, if he could remember more than bits and pieces of this new timeline, more than “just enough” to get by. He still felt like the old Marty, even when he remembered something from the new timeline.
Remembering new timelines... he wasn't sure he'd ever get used to it. He could always tell when it was coming, as it was always accompanied by dizziness and headaches and déjà vu, but it'd never been as bad as today. Not to mention whenever he got these weird memory spells, they were always from sometime before using the DeLorean. Yet he hadn't time-traveled in months, and certainly not since the first day of school. So why was he remembering two different history professors?
“Marty?” Doc's voice broke into his thoughts over the phone, and Marty let out a sigh of relief.
“Doc,” Marty said, “how's it going?”
“Very well, actually. I've been teaching Jules how to help patch up the roof.”
Normal, everyday things. That was a good start. Marty smiled. “You trying to put me out of a job?”
“Of course not. There's always something to do around here, just thought I'd teach him a thing or two about working hard.” Doc chuckled. “Much to his disdain.”
Marty laughed despite himself. “I was just gonna say, bet he loved that.” He paused then, sighing, knowing he had to get to the point sooner or later. “Listen, Doc, I've gotta ask. Have you...” he paused, glancing over at Rory, sprawled out on his own bed studying. “Have you been... speeding at all, lately?”
“...Come again?”
“You know...” Marty mumbled, glancing at Rory again, “driving over eighty-eight.”
Doc didn't answer immediately, and Marty could hear him click his tongue in thought. “Marty, I presume your dorm mate is in the room with you, so I can understand why you can't explicitly refer to time travel.”
“Yeah, exactly. That--”
“That said,” Doc continued, “I'd appreciate it if you'd refrain from using euphemisms that make me sound like a coke head.”
Marty burst out laughing, but quickly tried to cover his mouth. “Oh, God, I didn't... just...” He quickly calmed down, still chuckling a bit. Man, he needed a good laugh like that. “Sorry, Doc. But yeah, that's what I meant. Have you been using the DeLorean at all?”
“I've operated it several times on a near daily-basis for over a month now, but as merely a three-dimensional transport.”
“English, Doc.”
“Yes, I've been using it, but only as a normal car. We haven't time-traveled for a while now... why?” Doc's voice grew suddenly concerned. “Did something happen?”
Marty didn't answer right away. What the heck was he supposed to say? Yeah, my memory is changing, know anything about that? No, of course Doc didn't... well, he did, but not to the extent Marty did. Doc was always careful when he time-traveled, never changing much, never altering things too drastically. While Marty, on the other hand, was the type to get mixed up in disaster and doing something stupid like accidentally prevent his parents from falling in love. Or even worse, causing two people to fall in love who never should have. That had been a mess. Either way, he always seemed to muck something up in his own history, making his own memories that much more confusing.
“Marty?”
“Yeah, Doc,” Marty said quietly. “Well, kinda. I think.” He paused again, watching Rory, who was still studying quietly. “I couldn't... remember something right today. I thought maybe you could clear that up for me.”
“You think someone might have changed the past,” Doc said, “causing your memories to be altered.” It was a question, but phrased matter-of-factly.
“Exactly,” Marty said, a wave of relief washing over him. Thank God he didn't have to come up with a euphemism for that. “And it wasn't something from years ago, it was barely two weeks ago. But no one's been... messing with it, right?”
“Even if we had,” Doc mused, “our shared experiences in the past indicate that to recall both versions of events you would need to be a temporal anomaly present at the moment of alteration, possibly even playing the role of a contributing catalyst yourself. Perhaps this is the Universe naturally attempting equilibrium by compensating for th-”
“Doc,” Marty groaned, “English. Please.”
With a sigh, Doc tried again. “From what I've learned from our own adventures, you can't remember both timelines if you didn't travel back in time to experience the event that caused the change. Otherwise you would simply change along with everything around you. In fact, I think there may be an element of causality required there as well - not just experiencing it, but somehow causing it yourself. But I don't have the data to confirm that, and I've yet to design a safe experiment that would--”
“Okay, yeah. Causality. Got it.” Marty understood most of that, at least. “But Doc, it still changed! Okay, it didn't change, but I remembered it twice, happening completely differently, so something changed. I mean, it had to. What else could it be?”
“Marty...” Doc sounded hesitant and unsure. It was a tone he didn't use often, and it was more than a little unsettling. Finally, with a sigh, Doc continued, “I know you hate it when I bring this up, but when was the last time you saw your psychiatrist?”
“My...” Marty's voice caught in his throat, and he was unsure how to reply. He felt strangely numb all of a sudden, and wondered if maybe he'd misheard. He tried to ignore the iron weight of dread he suddenly felt in his stomach. “I don't see a psychiatrist...”
Doc sighed in exasperation. “Marty, don't be like this. You can't start shifting blame solely onto time travel and hope it goes away. If your symptoms are acting up again, you should swallow your pride and go back to Doctor Rector so he can--”
“What are you talking about?” The numbness was fading, giving way to an icy tightness clutching his chest and running through his veins. “What symptoms?”
“...Marty.” There was that worried tone again. “If you're trying to be proud, stop it.”
“Doc, please,” Marty said shakily, “I swear to God, I... I don't know what you're talking about.” And in all honesty, he wasn't sure he wanted to.
The phone was silent for a few moments, though to Marty it felt like forever. His chest was getting tighter -- oh man, what was going on? What was Doc thinking? This was a joke, right? Any second now Doc was gonna laugh, and say he couldn't believe Marty fell for it, and how he couldn't believe he was still this gullible. They'd have a good laugh, and then, then... then he'd do something about this headache he felt coming on...
“Perhaps the timeline has been altered more than either of us first realized,” Doc said quietly. “In reality, that is, the reality I remember, you've been seeing a psychiatrist since you were nine.”
“That's bullshit,” Marty snapped. His temple was pounding now and he had to close the journal, because looking at the words was making his head spin. “I don't see a psychiatrist!” But even as the words left his tongue he felt the memories begin to tickle at the back of his mind, vague, nostalgic memories of a soft leather couch and a bearded man. Oh, God, no, please, this wasn't happening!
“Marty,” Doc said sternly, “I'm coming over there to get you right now. We need to talk about this somewhere private.”
Marty barely heard him because he was too focused on what his mind was telling him. There were words, now. He could remember them being spoken all his life... all this life, anyway. Delusions. Disassociation. Schizophrenia. God, no. Please, no! He wasn't crazy. He was never crazy. “Oh, God,” he choked, “Doc, we screwed something up real bad. We went back and screwed up history--”
“Marty, your room mate!”
“--and now it's worse than ever because now I'm crazy!”
“Please, calm down!” Doc cried. “I assure you, you're perfectly functional--”
“Functional!” Marty threw up his free hand. “Isn't that a damn relief, huh? But it doesn't change the fact that I'm seeing a fucking shrink!”
“Marty, stop.” Doc snapped. “Meet me at the entrance to your dorm in fifteen minutes. We'll continue this conversation somewhere private.”
The phone clicked before Marty could respond and he was met with a dial tone. Marty slammed the receiver down with a wordless snarl and buried his face in his hands, trying to blink back the burning in his eyes. “Damn it,” he hissed, “God damn it!” He slammed his fists down on the desk.
“You all right there, mate?”
Marty whirled to face Rory, who was staring at him wide-eyed. “Yeah,” Marty said, taking a deep breath, to try and calm himself, “I'm fine.”
“You know,” Rory said hesitantly, “there's no shame in seeing a psychiatrist. Amy -- my wife -- she went through therapy her whole life, since she was seven.”
“Good for her,” Marty replied dully.
“It helped her.”
“I'm glad.” Marty laid his head down on the desk, burying it in his folded arms. He didn't need this right now... or ever. Damn time travel. At least Doc had a happy life now, but apparently it came at the cost of his own sanity. How did this schizophrenia thing work alongside time travel, anyway? Now that he remembered was he suddenly going to start having episodes? Or was it just his alternate-timeline self who was crazy, and he just had to live with the reputation?
There was a sound of squeaking bedsprings behind him, and then footsteps, before Marty felt a firm, comforting hand on his shoulder.
“Marty, I'm serious,” Rory said warmly. “I grew up with her and watched her go through it. So if you ever need to talk about it...”
“I can't talk about this,” Marty murmured, refusing to lift his head. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn't.”
“You could try.”
“Not to you.”
Rory sighed. “I see.” Marty could hear him awkwardly shuffle his feet. “Listen, Marty, I'm a lot more... experienced than you might think. You might be surprised.”
Marty didn't reply.
“So, you know...” Rory continued a bit hesitantly, “if you need an ear, I'll listen. Even if you think I'd never believe it, I'll still listen.”
With a sigh, Marty nodded, though he still didn't left his head. Damn it all, even if the rest of his life sucked, at least he managed to land a room mate like Rory. Maybe fate wasn't ready to completely shit on him yet. “Thanks, Ror,” he mumbled, sitting up to wipe his eyes and get ready to go meet Doc.
Author: someidiot
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing: 11th Doctor, Amy, Rory, Marty McFly, Doc Brown
Genre: Gen / Adventure
Spoilers/Setting: After The Doctor's Wife for DW, post-Back to the Future: The Game from Telltale.
Chapter Word Count: 7,832
Story Word Count: ~11,800 so far
Story Summary: The Doctor, Amy, and Rory investigate Hill Valley, a place where time is twisted, stretched, and warped around the life of Marty McFly, a boy who remembers things that never happened. Now, the Doctor and his companions must unravel both the tangle and the mysteries of Marty's lifetime before time runs out on both him and the Universe.
Previous Chapters: 1 2
Alternate Links: Fanfiction.net, A Teaspoon and an Open Mind.
---
SEPTEMBER, 1986
---
The air conditioners, worn-down as they were, tried their best to cycle the stale air through the dark, open room. There was little other ventilation to speak of, and what was available was limited and inefficient, so the silicone smell of constantly-running electronics combined with the stink of greasy snack food permeated the the area, creating that all-too-familiar arcade smell. The lights were always dim in here, drawing any patron's eyes directly to its core content - the screens of game cabinets lined up in rows along the walls with bright, colorful displays. Digital music and sound effects from all directions mingled together into a low drum of background noise that managed to filter out distractions rather than cause them.
Marty glanced back at Rory. Even in the dim, inconsistent light, he could see the giddy grin on Rory's face.
“What,” Marty said with a chuckle, “never seen an arcade before?”
“Not for a long time,” Rory answered with an odd, wistful tone in his voice. “And never like this.”
What, they didn't have arcades in England? Seriously? Marty shook his head, bewildered. “Well, you're gonna love this. Come on.” He led his buddy down the rows of arcade games, glancing back occasionally to smirk at Rory's grin. They stopped at a TRON cabinet, and Marty turned to him as he fished in his pocket for quarters. “So they just don't have these places in England, or what?”
Rory shrugged. “I mean, I'm sure they're around. They're just not very popular...” he paused for a moment, “...where I come from.”
“So you don't have video games?”
“Oh, we do,” Rory assured him with a confident nod, “we just play them at home, is all.”
“With the Nintendo and stuff?” Marty shrugged. “Fair enough. My little cousin has one of those. But trust me, the graphics and stuff are loads better here in the arcade. Check it out.” He turned his gaze across the alley, motioning toward a copy of Dragon's Lair. “That's like controlling a movie. Good luck getting something like that on a dinky little Nintendo.” For now, at least, Marty thought with a grin. Doc's youngest son, Verne, was quite a the fan of video games and had a collection of systems spanning over forty years, including a few systems that wouldn't be developed for another decade or two. Marty often found himself roped into playing for hours on end when he watched the kids, and he still had trouble wrapping his head around just how stunning those future-games were. If the home consoles were that advanced in the future, he wondered just how mind-blowing the arcades of tomorrow might be. He regretted not looking for one while he was in 2015. Another time, he promised himself as he dropped a quarter into TRON and showed Rory the Light Cycle game. Until then, he had no problem showing off his skills with today's technology.
They didn't keep track of how much money they blew on games that day, nor did they want to. As the Saturday afternoon stretched into evening the two of them were still playing, switching from game to game as fast as their attention spans would let them, challenging their scores and playfully criticizing each others' strategy and skill with the kind of brotherly goading you'd expect of lifelong friends.
It was strange, but ever since Marty had come back from his time-traveling escapades, he'd felt... misplaced. Disconnected. The Universe had shifted around him, changing to fit the new history while keeping him almost entirely intact. Marty had always been something of an outcast, but in his old life, he'd found a familiar rhythm that kept him going; he'd had his music, his small group of friends, and Doc, his best friend. Now, however, he was trapped in this altered present, where the only friend left who wasn't suddenly a stranger was now preoccupied with a wife and children.
Yet it somehow wasn't so bad now that he had Rory. There was something about him that drew Marty in, something he couldn't place or put a name to. Aside from his unmistakable English-ness there was nothing particularly remarkable about him, yet somehow they shared... something in common, something that made Marty feel Rory was in sync with him in a way the rest of the town wasn't. If Marty was doomed to life as an outcast, at least he knew he and Rory could be outcasts together.
As they laughed over Dirk the Daring falling to his death for the umpteenth time, Marty finally gave in to the strain on his eyes. He managed to pull himself away from the games and take a step toward the exit. “It's getting pretty late,” he sighed, seeing the sunset out the window, “and I've got a history paper due Monday that I haven't even started. We should probably head back.” Not to mention he felt a little bit dizzy, and somewhere in the side of his head he could feel the first stirrings of a nasty headache. Marty wondered if he actually would get any work done tonight.
“A history paper?” Rory quirked an eyebrow at him as they headed for the exit side-by side. “Are you sure? The Doctor isn't the type to give a lot of homework.”
Marty scoffed. “Are you kidding? First week of school, bam! Six-page chapter review. I swear, I thought Bradley was supposed to be the easy professor.” He chuckled to himself as reached for the glass door leading outside and paused, seeing Rory's reflection in the glass, a few paces behind him. Marty turned and gazed curiously at him, noting the concern in his face. “What's wrong, Ror? Forget about it? We've still got time, I can help you out.”
Rory was quiet, and his eyes bored into him. “Marty, there's no paper due on Monday for that class.”
Marty arched his brows and shrugged. “Okay, if you say so.” He turned back to the door and pushed it open. “Good luck explaining that to Doctor Bradley.”
“Smith.” Rory was beside him again, in the entrance of the arcade, gazing at Marty with fearful, pleading eyes. “Doctor Smith is our history professor.”
“Uh,” Marty blinked, staring blankly at Rory, “what? What are you talking...about...?” But even as he spoke, the words caught on his tongue a moment, his headache flaring up suddenly like a twisting knife lodged in his temple. He stumbled, catching himself on the side of the building, and brought his left hand to his face. The dizziness from before was suddenly a rush of vertigo that left the whole street spinning and falling, unable to keep his balance.
“Marty!” Rory cried, and Marty felt strong hands under his arms, safely lowering him to the ground and gently leaning him against the brick side of the arcade. “Marty, what's wrong?”
Though his vision was a bit blurred he could see Rory kneeling in front of him, and just barely make out the look of concern on his friend's face. Marty had to shut his eyes then, because the world was still spinning and it was making him sick. Marty groaned and leaned his head back against the wall, trying to focus. Rory was still talking to him, but Marty didn't pay attention, trying to focus on himself.
He knew this sensation, it was something he'd been dealing with since he'd first come back from the past. Whenever a new memory trickled back or changed, he got these little dizzy headaches. Still, it was always just a mild annoyance, never like... like this. And...
Doctor Smith. Of course he remembered Doctor Smith, the weird British professor who knew his name. Why had he remembered someone else instead? Nothing else in the timeline seemed changed, and he knew for a fact he hadn't been time-traveling for months. Yet he could still remember the kindly Doctor Bradley, with his soft but stern tone, and him chatting with Marty about the subject in such an excited way that he considered changing his major to history... he remembered both clearly. Which one actually happened?
Marty's thoughts were interrupted when his right eye was eased open by Rory's fingers, and met by a large square of bright light. “Gah!”
Rory pulled the light away and leaned forward, gazing right into Marty's eye, before letting his eyelids close. Marty let his eyes flutter back open again and he gazed at the little black square in Rory's palm, the source of the light.
“What is that thing?” Marty mumbled.
Rory glanced at it. “It's my pho-- uh, my clock.”
Marty struggled to process that. A little square of light? “What kind of clock is that?”
“A British clock. Now focus, Marty.” Rory leaned forward again, pocketing the black square and gently taking Marty's arm, feeling the inside of his wrist with his fingertips. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Marty leaned forward, slowly standing up, leaning against the wall for support. “I just... too much video games, that's all.” He forced a smile, standing up on shaky legs. The world was still spinning and his head throbbed, but it wasn't as intense, and he could feel it dying down with every second. “Bright light out here kinda... threw me off a bit.”
Rory gazed at him, clearly deep in thought, though Marty couldn't quite read the emotion.
“Does this happen a lot?” Rory finally asked.
Marty shook his head. “It's fine.” He grinned, though he could tell by the look on Rory's face that he didn't believe him for a second. Regardless, Rory gently placed Marty's arm around his shoulders for support.
“Come on, mate,” Rory said, slowly leading him down the street. “Let's get back to the dorm.”
--
The autumnal equinox was weeks away, yet already the environment had long since shrugged off the thick, humid summer heat to allow for the sharp, crisp autumn air. At one time, Doctor Emmett Brown hadn't been one for the great outdoors, preferring to shut himself inside to tinker and toy with his latest scientific whim. However, during the decade or so he'd lived in the nineteenth century, he'd gained an appreciation for the changing seasons and the creative ways in which the meteorological fluctuations could be utilized, knowledge which had long since been lost to the average twentieth-century first-world man. Growing up in a world of technology and convenience, where rain, snow, and heat were naught more than minor annoyances, had spoiled him rotten and left him vastly unprepared for a nineteenth century life of hard labor and limited technological resources.
Yet after the initial shock, Emmett had reveled in the new, simpler life presented to him. Where others may have found a chore, he saw a challenge: create a comfortable, happy life with only the resources available a century prior. Setting himself up as a blacksmith, Emmett had quickly created himself a utopia of scientific exploration and personal challenges that kept him engaged and entertained for months. He gained a new appreciation for the for the merits of hard work and resourcefulness, a trait he carried back with him to 1985 upon his eventual return to his own time with is new family.
Emmett had been worried about coming home to the future with a family in tow. To the people of Hill Valley, he'd never even left; on October twenty-sixth, he was a shut-in hermit, and by the twenty-eighth, he was married with two biological sons. Strangely enough, he found the best explanation was no explanation at all. People would whisper, and he let them. It was no secret that he'd once worked for the government, and that seemed to be the most popular theory. Perhaps, his neighbors would whisper, he met his wife while working for the government during Nam, then some foreign official wanted him dead, and they had to separate until the threat had passed. Depending on who was speaking, it would often be embellished with spies, nuclear weapons, aliens or astronauts. It was easier for Emmett to just stay vague and let people come to their own conclusions, regardless of how contradictory they often were. He and Clara could always get a good laugh out of it later.
Ah, Clara - his beloved Clara, a woman like none he'd ever met, nor would he ever meet again. Though she was initially unfamiliar with twentieth century technology her eyes still sparkled with creativity and ingenuity. There was no end to her resourcefulness, and in his profession of tinkering and inventing, it was refreshing to have a fresh set of eyes like hers to look past the obvious and find flaws or opportunities he had overlooked. She was perfect, absolutely perfect, intelligent and witty and lovely to boot. In the years they'd been together - just over either a decade or a century, depending on how one measured it - she'd provided a partnership and companionship he'd never before known and graced him with two beautiful sons. In that time life had become more beautiful than he'd ever thought it could be.
Now, the Brown family was happily settled in Emmett's late twentieth-century home, having come back to 1985 so he could take care of his father's estate and scholarship foundation. It was a part-time residence, as they had a nineteenth-century home as well, but the twentieth century was familiar, convenient, and where Emmett had an identity established.
According to Marty, in a previous, obsolete timeline he had chosen not to settle, instead adventuring through time indefinitely. It was a decision with baffled him in the current version of events. Emmett couldn't imagine leaving his affairs at home unattended or depriving his children of a stable home, and he knew for a fact he would never abandon Marty like that. Strange, how small changes in the timeline could affect one's outlook on life so drastically. Emmett often idly wondered what had been different, but he didn't dwell on it very very long. He was happy, and had the future to look forward to.
So here, on this chilly September evening, was a seventy-two (well, eighty-two, but the neighbors didn't know that) year old man doing repairs on his roof. Ten years ago he'd have paid someone else to do it, but back in the nineteenth century he routinely did these sorts of repairs himself, and now saw no point in wasting the money to hire a contractor. To help him he'd recruited his eldest son, Jules, much to the boy's disdain.
“You could hire someone to do this,” Jules kept insisting. “I don't see the point in endangering ourselves just to save a few dollars.”
It wasn't uncharacteristic of Jules to try to find a simple solution to anything, really. In part because he was a budding scientist, always trying to solve problems even when they weren't already manageable, but also because he really wasn't one for working with his hands. He reminded Emmett of himself when he had been twelve, not quite on the threshold of puberty but still growing, seemingly faster than he could produce mass and becoming quite lanky as a result. Jules was tall and dark haired and awkward, and wasn't the physical type, so no wonder working outside on the roof like this would terrify him.
Emmett shook his head and chuckled. “For goodness' sake, son, we're almost finished. Calm down.” He hooked the end of the hammer underneath one of the roofing nails and pried it up. “Do you have the new shingle ready? Slide it underneath.”
It was only after a moment, while watching Jules carefully to check his work, that Emmett noticed his own choice of words. Why, he'd had no issue casually cursing around Marty back in the day... and that was when his young friend had been barely older than Jules. Now here he was, using sterile phrases like “Goodness' sake”. Come to think of it, much of his past treatment of young, preteen Marty as a social equal suddenly sent the father in him reeling. He'd allowed a twelve year old boy around some very dangerous machinery with little supervision... and great scott, he'd shared alcohol with him at fifteen, what had he been thinking? The possible fallout from law enforcement officers alone should have been threatening enough, but he also knew excessive alcohol consumption at such a crucial stage in development might have permanently damaged Marty's long-term cognitive capabilities! Granted, Marty never drank in excess, never more than a single beer, if even that. And despite his... condition, he was still remarkably capable and showed no signs of cognitive inefficiency. Quite the contrary, actually - Marty was quick, clever and resourceful, if a bit lazy at times. Perhaps it was that spark of intellect, that small indication that Marty was sharper than other boys his age, that had drawn Emmett in and allowed him to treat the boy like an adult.
Or, hell, perhaps having a wife and kids had simply mellowed him out more than he realized. Where he'd always encouraged Marty to simply say what was on his mind, these days Jules and Verne were firmly scolded when something inappropriate passed their lips. He'd shared beer with Marty and even allowed him to smoke his pipe once or twice, Yet now his own boys weren't allowed to come near such substances until a much older age. Though he'd never depended on Marty to run the more dangerous machinery he had still been given free reign of the lab, while Jules and Verne were strictly forbidden to come too close to most of his inventions for fear of their safety. Back in the day Emmett had considered Marty the son he'd never had, yet now that he actually had sons, he was starting to realize how un-fatherly he'd truly behaved.
Emmett's thoughts were interrupted when Jules gave an overly-dramatic sigh. “This is a waste of my genius, father,” he whined. “Any idiot can replace shingles.”
“Well, then,” Emmett set the hammer down and ruffled Jules' hair a bit, “a genius like yourself wouldn't want to be bested by 'any idiot', now, would he?” He set the nail and held it in place, handing the hammer to Jules. “Here, you finish this.”
With another drawn-out groan, Jules steadied the hammer, but slipped with the first swing and struck Emmett in the thumb.
“Yeaagh!” Emmett cried, biting back a curse and shaking his hand out. “Now, s-see,” he said, attempting to keep his voice steady as he tried to ease the throbbing, “this is what we're here to learn. You can't be a great scientist if you don't know how to handle simple tools.” Though admittedly, Emmett wasn't entirely sure his son wasn't simply feigning clumsiness to get out of doing work. “I tested my finest inventions by building them with my own two hands. You can repair a roof, at the very least.”
Jules gaze fell, accompanied by an apologetic expression. “Sorry, father. Maybe Marty should be up here helping you, instead.” He held out the hammer, but Emmett didn't take it, instead setting the nail back up so Jules could try again.
“Marty's presently occupied with the college life,” Emmett said, wincing as Jules brought the hammer down, but this time he struck true and began to drive the nail in.
“Perhaps Verne could aid you.”
“Verne isn't allowed up here.”
“I'm not?”
Both Emmett and Jules paused, turning their heads to look back at the ladder where Verne stood, leaning forward on the roof and grinning wide enough to show off his missing tooth. Verne was smaller than his brother, though he hadn't yet grown out of his childhood stockiness, with blond hair and bright eyes. Though not as academically inclined as Jules, Emmett knew Verne was clever and creative in his own... unorthodox ways.
Emmett sighed and gave his son a dark look. “No, Verne, you're not. Get down from there.”
“Aw, come onnn,” Verne whined, “why not?” He rocked backwards... and the ladder followed suit.
Emmett felt his heart stop and scrambled, lunging forward to grab one of the rungs before Verne could crash headfirst to the pavement. He nearly tumbled off the roof himself, but managed to keep his hold.
“That's why,” Emmett snapped, holding onto the ladder firmly as he slowly shuffled back up to a safer height. “You're too young to be up here.”
Verne's frightened look melted away and he stared down at the shingles, dejected. “Sorry, dad.”
“An admirable attempt,” Jules sneered, turning his nose up, “but your plot to render father a corpse has come to naught.”
Verne shot him a scowl. “I'll practice on your thesaurus!”
“Please. You can't kill a book.”
“Can it, Julia!”
“Boys!” Emmett cried, slamming a palm down on the roof. “Enough! Verne, get down. Now.”
With a huff and a roll of his eyes, Verne started his descent, and Jules snickered. Emmett shot him a look.
“That was uncalled for,” Emmett said, setting the nail again. “You should be setting an example for--”
“Oh!” Verne's voice piped up again, suddenly back on the roof. Emmett whirled and was about to scold him, but he continued, “I forgot to mention, Marty's on the phone.”
---
MAY, 1977
---
The house was coordinated in creams, whites and pastels, the sort of colors adults deliberately chose to show off how clean their things were. The lounge furniture looked immaculate; not the recently-cleaned sort of immaculate, either. There were no creases on the sofa, no scuffs on the coffee table, and even the carpet looked barely trodden on the far end of the room. The near end, where the dining-room table was situated, looked a bit more lived-in for obvious reasons. There was a bar separating the dining area from the actual kitchen, and as Amy walked around into the kitchen to find something to eat, Martin climbed up on one of the barstools and rested his chin on his arms, watching Amy silently. As Linda scurried off to another room to find the telly, mumbling something about Martin getting all the attention, Amy began to glance through the cupboards to see what was around.
“So,” she said thoughtfully, pulling a box of instant hot cocoa from a shelf, “Martin McFly. That's a nice name.” She found two coffee mugs and set them on the counter. “With a name like McFly, it sounds like you should be doing some traveling, yeah?”
Martin just shrugged.
Amy gave a humorless smile, then found a kettle to boil water. “You and your siblings told me you're crazy,” she said as she prepared the cocoa, “but I've got to say, you look fine to me.” A little too fine, she noted whenever she glanced at him. He had a sharp, focused look in his eyes as he watched her, something she'd expect of an adult, not a nine-year-old.
“Well...” Martin said slowly, “I am. Everyone says so.” He broke eye contact then, gazing off to the side, clearly uncomfortable. “Even my mom, when she thinks I can't hear her.”
With the kettle on the stove, Amy had a free moment, and leaned back against a cupboard to gaze at him sadly, her thoughts drifting back to her own childhood. She remembered the hushed whispers from grown-ups as she listened around the corner, and their sing-song sweet voices when they spoke to her face and told her as gently as possible that she was crazy and delusional, that she was far too old to cling to her imaginary Doctor. Each word was a stab in the heart, day after day, until the day she finally grew up and started to believe they were right - and then she was far too numb to feel the stabs any longer.
“Why do they say that, though?” Amy struggled to hide the quiver in her voice.
Martin leaned back against the barstool, grabbing the edge of the counter and staring somewhere at the ground. “'Cause I don't remember things right,” he said quietly.
The kettle hissed and began to whistle loudly, and Amy turned to grab it and finish making the cocoa. “Well,” she called back, pouring the hot water over the cocoa powder in the mugs, “lots of people have shoddy memories, you know. It's no reason to call you crazy.”
“But I remember it real wrong,” Martin insisted as Amy set a steaming mug in front of him. “Sometimes I wake up in my room and I don't know where I am 'cause I don't recognize it.” He stopped to blow the steam away from his drink. “And sometimes I start crying 'cause I don't wanna go downstairs 'cause my stepdad is just gonna hit me!”
“Hit you?!” Amy gasped, eyes wide. “And you haven't told anyone?”
Martin pressed his lips together and sunk lower in the chair, his eyes shimmering with the beginnings of tears.
Amy glanced around the room again, suddenly remembering the exterior of the house. “You... don't have a downstairs,” she noted softly, gazing curiously at Martin.
“An' I don't have a stepdad, either.” He sniffed, finally taking a sip of his cocoa. Martin's hands were shaking, and a bit of it splashed on the counter. “I-I tried to tell someone and they thought I was crazy, 'cause of that. But I was so sure,” tears were rolling down his face now, “an' I couldn't stop crying, cause I was sure that dad was dead, even though he was right there talking to me and trying to make me feel better an' I just...”
Amy circled around the bar back into the dining area to pull Martin into a hug. He quickly latched onto her, burying his face in her shoulder and sobbing while she held him close, combing her fingers through his hair. Something stirred in her heart, more than just the connection of shared experiences. It was one thing to try and keep faith in the not-so-imaginary Doctor who fixed a crack in her wall when she was seven, but Martin was actively trying to forget his strange memories. He wanted his stepdad and his two-story house and his strange room to be imaginary, but they continued to haunt him regardless.
Martin pulled back, sniffling. His eyes were pink, making his blue eyes only look bigger and brighter against it, and his whole face was pink and puffy. Amy grabbed a napkin and handed it to him, but he just held on to it. He looked up at Amy and said through quivered sobs, “And everyone keeps telling me, Martin, you should know that isn't real, look around, but... I can't tell!” He sniffed again and wiped his nose with the napkin.
Amy ran her fingers through his hair once more, trying to brush away the strands that were damp from his tears. “Listen, Martin,” she said softly, stepping back and bending down to smile warmly as she looked him in the eye. “When I was a little girl, there was a crack in the wall of my room. Sometimes it would glow, and always, if you listened close, there were voices coming out of it.” She leaned in closer, giving a spooky grin. “Voices that weren't coming from the other side of the wall.”
Martin blinked, his eyes still pink and puffy, but the tears had stopped. He sniffed and wiped his nose on his hand. “So where were they coming from?”
Amy grabbed another napkin and handed it to him. “Would you believe me if I told you they were coming outer space?”
“Not really,” Martin said, taking the napkin and wiping his face. “I'd think you were trying to make me feel better by acting crazier n' me.”
Well, that was a perfectly good explanation, she had to admit. He was a sharp kid. With a chuckle, Amy shook her head. “Nope, this was exactly how it happened. I promise.”
“Okay.” Martin said with a shrug, his tone of voice indicating disbelief.
Amy circled back around to the other side of the bar, leaning on the counter. “I was just a little kid, so you know, of course I was frightened, but no one could fix the crack. So as I said my prayers, I asked Santa Claus--”
“You prayed to Santa?” Martin's cynical attitude was shattered as he burst out laughing, nearly falling out of the bar stool. “That's stupid, Santa isn't God!”
Amy laughed along with him, happy to see him smiling again. She shook her head, grinning. “And you know what else?” She raised her eyebrows and leaned in. “I did it on Easter!”
Martin doubled over and held onto his stomach, he was laughing so hard. “You're crazy!”
“I was seven!”
“Still, you're crazier than me!” He grinned up at her, eyes sparkling with amusement for the first time that night. What a relief to see him actually enjoying himself! “What happened next? Tell me about the voices from outer space!”
Amy never considered herself much of a storyteller, so she tried to think of how the Doctor would tell his own story and drew from that. She told Martin all about the Raggedy Doctor who had come from space in his little blue box that was bigger on the inside, and she used all the wild gestures, bizarre metaphors and funny words like timey-wimey spacey-wacey, and Martin ate it up with glee. She talked about her Raggedy Doctor fixing the crack and disappearing after enjoying a lovely meal of fish fingers (fish sticks, Martin had corrected her) and custard. Then he disappeared, whisked away somewhere into time and space until the aliens came back, and the Raggedy Doctor returned to defeat them.
“But that was twelve years later,” she said, resting her elbow on the counter and propping her chin in her hand. “I was all grown up.”
“Well, not really,” Martin insisted, though he was still smiling and clearly enjoying himself.
Amy raised an eyebrow, giving him a playful scowl. “Yes, really! All of that happened!”
“I'm not a baby, you know,” he sighed. “You don't have to pretend things like Santa and the Tooth Fairy and flying space boxes are real.”
Amy sighed, exasperated. What was wrong with this kid? Didn't he believe in anything? She placed her hands firmly on the table. “Did I say I was pretending?”
Martin shrugged. “You don't have to. Grown-ups are always pretending.”
“How do you know?”
“They just are.”
“How do you know, though?”
Martin didn't answer. He glanced around, shifting in his chair, and finally settled his gaze on his half-empty cup of cocoa. “I dunno. They just... do.”
Amy watched him quietly, her heart breaking. A lifetime of people looking down on you, brushing off everything you say as a silly story or delusion, can do some terrible things to a child. If anyone knew that, it was her. After being treated like that her whole life, it was all she knew, and she had faced the world with the same cynicism and disinterest it had shown her. It looked like that was how Martin was facing his own problems as well. Thank goodness the Doctor had come back for her, showing her just how beautiful and fantastic the Universe could truly be. Now, perhaps, she could pass that lesson onto someone else. Amy reached forward, putting her hand on Martin's wrist and using the other to cup his chin, looking him plainly in the eye.
“Martin,” she said softly, “you can't just assume that people are lying to you. That's a sad way to go through life. You have to give people the benefit of the doubt.”
“The what of the what?”
“The point is,” she said, trying to come up with one of those grand, booming, on-the-fly speeches the Doctor was so good at, “maybe it's okay to believe in things like Santa and flying space boxes, you know? Just because the grown-ups don't believe something doesn't mean you can't.” She smiled, pulling her hand from his chin to smooth back his hair again. Okay, so her speech wasn't great, but she got the point across, at least.
“But why should I believe it if the adults don't?”
“Because that's the best part of being a kid, believing in things!” She grinned, and when he returned the smile, she continued. “And sometimes, something's only impossible because so many people think it is that they don't even bother to try. So you've got to believe it's possible so you'll actually have the will to try it, and then it might be possible!” Okay, that was kind of clear, right?
Martin was looking at her strangely, then nodded. “If you put your mind to it, you can do anything.”
“Yes!” Amy cried. “Exactly!”
“My dad says that all the time,” Martin said.
“He's a smart man.”
“Maybe.” Martin shrugged, “But I don't think it works when your mind is broken like mine.”
Amy sighed, then glanced behind Martin, pausing to stare at the glass patio door. There, waving at her from outside, was the Doctor. She glanced at Martin, who was distracted with his cocoa for a second, then drew a box in the air and pointed in the living room. The Doctor cocked his head, and she nodded - then he turned on his heel and disappeared into the dark backyard.
“Martin,” she said, grinning, “I want you to imagine the flying space box for me.”
“Why?”
“Just close your eyes,” she told him, “and imagine it. A tall, blue box with windows. It's bigger on the inside, and flies through space.”
He glared at her.
“Just do it!”
He sighed, and closed his eyes. Nothing happened, so Amy kept talking, stalling for time.
“It's flying through space and time, spinning around, surrounded by stars on all sides. And inside is a man called the Doctor, and he's flying, coming right here so he can say--”
She was interrupted by a familiar noise, a scraping sound like keys on a guitar string. Martin's eyes snapped open and he twirled on the bar stool. His jaw dropped and his eyes went wide as saucers as a tall, blue box materialized in his living room.
Amy grinned, leaning on the bar, as the TARDIS door opened a crack and the Doctor leaned out. “Hello again, Martin,” he said with a grin.
---
SEPTEMBER, 1986
---
Marty sat quietly at his desk, silent phone at his ear, waiting for Doc to come on the line. As he sat, he stared down at his journal. He'd started keeping it a week or so after coming home from 1885 as a means of keeping track of the changes he had made to the timeline, describing as best he could each “version” of reality he had experienced. He wasn't exactly eloquent, but then, it's not like he was setting out to become an author. Maybe he would have been... maybe he should be, considering his father in this timeline was a published and respected author. Yet he hadn't grown up with that man - the father he knew was meek and downtrodden, a man who didn't have the courage to show someone his stories, much less get them published. But that George McFly was gone, erased from existence, and in his place was the strong, confident George McFly who taught his kids to believe in themselves and follow their dreams.
It was terrible, but Marty couldn't help but feel resentful of that man. Sure, his dad had been kind of a... well, a loser, but what gave this guy any more right to exist than the dad he'd known and grown up with? He knew it was still his dad, and he knew at one point they'd been exactly the same. His father had grown up under the thumb of school bully Biff Tannen, while this new, more confident George McFly had stood up to him and grown up confident and respected. That one difference had turned his father into a happier, more successful man, creating a happier, more successful family life. That was a good thing, right? His life was better, wasn't it? Perhaps it would be, if he could remember more than bits and pieces of this new timeline, more than “just enough” to get by. He still felt like the old Marty, even when he remembered something from the new timeline.
Remembering new timelines... he wasn't sure he'd ever get used to it. He could always tell when it was coming, as it was always accompanied by dizziness and headaches and déjà vu, but it'd never been as bad as today. Not to mention whenever he got these weird memory spells, they were always from sometime before using the DeLorean. Yet he hadn't time-traveled in months, and certainly not since the first day of school. So why was he remembering two different history professors?
“Marty?” Doc's voice broke into his thoughts over the phone, and Marty let out a sigh of relief.
“Doc,” Marty said, “how's it going?”
“Very well, actually. I've been teaching Jules how to help patch up the roof.”
Normal, everyday things. That was a good start. Marty smiled. “You trying to put me out of a job?”
“Of course not. There's always something to do around here, just thought I'd teach him a thing or two about working hard.” Doc chuckled. “Much to his disdain.”
Marty laughed despite himself. “I was just gonna say, bet he loved that.” He paused then, sighing, knowing he had to get to the point sooner or later. “Listen, Doc, I've gotta ask. Have you...” he paused, glancing over at Rory, sprawled out on his own bed studying. “Have you been... speeding at all, lately?”
“...Come again?”
“You know...” Marty mumbled, glancing at Rory again, “driving over eighty-eight.”
Doc didn't answer immediately, and Marty could hear him click his tongue in thought. “Marty, I presume your dorm mate is in the room with you, so I can understand why you can't explicitly refer to time travel.”
“Yeah, exactly. That--”
“That said,” Doc continued, “I'd appreciate it if you'd refrain from using euphemisms that make me sound like a coke head.”
Marty burst out laughing, but quickly tried to cover his mouth. “Oh, God, I didn't... just...” He quickly calmed down, still chuckling a bit. Man, he needed a good laugh like that. “Sorry, Doc. But yeah, that's what I meant. Have you been using the DeLorean at all?”
“I've operated it several times on a near daily-basis for over a month now, but as merely a three-dimensional transport.”
“English, Doc.”
“Yes, I've been using it, but only as a normal car. We haven't time-traveled for a while now... why?” Doc's voice grew suddenly concerned. “Did something happen?”
Marty didn't answer right away. What the heck was he supposed to say? Yeah, my memory is changing, know anything about that? No, of course Doc didn't... well, he did, but not to the extent Marty did. Doc was always careful when he time-traveled, never changing much, never altering things too drastically. While Marty, on the other hand, was the type to get mixed up in disaster and doing something stupid like accidentally prevent his parents from falling in love. Or even worse, causing two people to fall in love who never should have. That had been a mess. Either way, he always seemed to muck something up in his own history, making his own memories that much more confusing.
“Marty?”
“Yeah, Doc,” Marty said quietly. “Well, kinda. I think.” He paused again, watching Rory, who was still studying quietly. “I couldn't... remember something right today. I thought maybe you could clear that up for me.”
“You think someone might have changed the past,” Doc said, “causing your memories to be altered.” It was a question, but phrased matter-of-factly.
“Exactly,” Marty said, a wave of relief washing over him. Thank God he didn't have to come up with a euphemism for that. “And it wasn't something from years ago, it was barely two weeks ago. But no one's been... messing with it, right?”
“Even if we had,” Doc mused, “our shared experiences in the past indicate that to recall both versions of events you would need to be a temporal anomaly present at the moment of alteration, possibly even playing the role of a contributing catalyst yourself. Perhaps this is the Universe naturally attempting equilibrium by compensating for th-”
“Doc,” Marty groaned, “English. Please.”
With a sigh, Doc tried again. “From what I've learned from our own adventures, you can't remember both timelines if you didn't travel back in time to experience the event that caused the change. Otherwise you would simply change along with everything around you. In fact, I think there may be an element of causality required there as well - not just experiencing it, but somehow causing it yourself. But I don't have the data to confirm that, and I've yet to design a safe experiment that would--”
“Okay, yeah. Causality. Got it.” Marty understood most of that, at least. “But Doc, it still changed! Okay, it didn't change, but I remembered it twice, happening completely differently, so something changed. I mean, it had to. What else could it be?”
“Marty...” Doc sounded hesitant and unsure. It was a tone he didn't use often, and it was more than a little unsettling. Finally, with a sigh, Doc continued, “I know you hate it when I bring this up, but when was the last time you saw your psychiatrist?”
“My...” Marty's voice caught in his throat, and he was unsure how to reply. He felt strangely numb all of a sudden, and wondered if maybe he'd misheard. He tried to ignore the iron weight of dread he suddenly felt in his stomach. “I don't see a psychiatrist...”
Doc sighed in exasperation. “Marty, don't be like this. You can't start shifting blame solely onto time travel and hope it goes away. If your symptoms are acting up again, you should swallow your pride and go back to Doctor Rector so he can--”
“What are you talking about?” The numbness was fading, giving way to an icy tightness clutching his chest and running through his veins. “What symptoms?”
“...Marty.” There was that worried tone again. “If you're trying to be proud, stop it.”
“Doc, please,” Marty said shakily, “I swear to God, I... I don't know what you're talking about.” And in all honesty, he wasn't sure he wanted to.
The phone was silent for a few moments, though to Marty it felt like forever. His chest was getting tighter -- oh man, what was going on? What was Doc thinking? This was a joke, right? Any second now Doc was gonna laugh, and say he couldn't believe Marty fell for it, and how he couldn't believe he was still this gullible. They'd have a good laugh, and then, then... then he'd do something about this headache he felt coming on...
“Perhaps the timeline has been altered more than either of us first realized,” Doc said quietly. “In reality, that is, the reality I remember, you've been seeing a psychiatrist since you were nine.”
“That's bullshit,” Marty snapped. His temple was pounding now and he had to close the journal, because looking at the words was making his head spin. “I don't see a psychiatrist!” But even as the words left his tongue he felt the memories begin to tickle at the back of his mind, vague, nostalgic memories of a soft leather couch and a bearded man. Oh, God, no, please, this wasn't happening!
“Marty,” Doc said sternly, “I'm coming over there to get you right now. We need to talk about this somewhere private.”
Marty barely heard him because he was too focused on what his mind was telling him. There were words, now. He could remember them being spoken all his life... all this life, anyway. Delusions. Disassociation. Schizophrenia. God, no. Please, no! He wasn't crazy. He was never crazy. “Oh, God,” he choked, “Doc, we screwed something up real bad. We went back and screwed up history--”
“Marty, your room mate!”
“--and now it's worse than ever because now I'm crazy!”
“Please, calm down!” Doc cried. “I assure you, you're perfectly functional--”
“Functional!” Marty threw up his free hand. “Isn't that a damn relief, huh? But it doesn't change the fact that I'm seeing a fucking shrink!”
“Marty, stop.” Doc snapped. “Meet me at the entrance to your dorm in fifteen minutes. We'll continue this conversation somewhere private.”
The phone clicked before Marty could respond and he was met with a dial tone. Marty slammed the receiver down with a wordless snarl and buried his face in his hands, trying to blink back the burning in his eyes. “Damn it,” he hissed, “God damn it!” He slammed his fists down on the desk.
“You all right there, mate?”
Marty whirled to face Rory, who was staring at him wide-eyed. “Yeah,” Marty said, taking a deep breath, to try and calm himself, “I'm fine.”
“You know,” Rory said hesitantly, “there's no shame in seeing a psychiatrist. Amy -- my wife -- she went through therapy her whole life, since she was seven.”
“Good for her,” Marty replied dully.
“It helped her.”
“I'm glad.” Marty laid his head down on the desk, burying it in his folded arms. He didn't need this right now... or ever. Damn time travel. At least Doc had a happy life now, but apparently it came at the cost of his own sanity. How did this schizophrenia thing work alongside time travel, anyway? Now that he remembered was he suddenly going to start having episodes? Or was it just his alternate-timeline self who was crazy, and he just had to live with the reputation?
There was a sound of squeaking bedsprings behind him, and then footsteps, before Marty felt a firm, comforting hand on his shoulder.
“Marty, I'm serious,” Rory said warmly. “I grew up with her and watched her go through it. So if you ever need to talk about it...”
“I can't talk about this,” Marty murmured, refusing to lift his head. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn't.”
“You could try.”
“Not to you.”
Rory sighed. “I see.” Marty could hear him awkwardly shuffle his feet. “Listen, Marty, I'm a lot more... experienced than you might think. You might be surprised.”
Marty didn't reply.
“So, you know...” Rory continued a bit hesitantly, “if you need an ear, I'll listen. Even if you think I'd never believe it, I'll still listen.”
With a sigh, Marty nodded, though he still didn't left his head. Damn it all, even if the rest of his life sucked, at least he managed to land a room mate like Rory. Maybe fate wasn't ready to completely shit on him yet. “Thanks, Ror,” he mumbled, sitting up to wipe his eyes and get ready to go meet Doc.