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September 7, 1885 / October 27, 1985
Second by second, as terrifying as their momentum had become, Emmett had never felt anything as exhilarating as this. Watching the DeLorean vanish for the first time in 1955 had held a similar breathtaking terror, as had watching it vanish with Einstein onboard in 1985. Still, as he pulled the train-whistle's cord, he couldn't resist leaning out the window to share the moment with Marty.
“I've always wanted to do that!” Emmett shouted gleefully into his walkie-talkie. “Time circuits on?”
“Check, Doc,” replied Marty, his voice a faint, welcome crackle above the baseline of wind and static.
“Input the destination time,” Emmett said, trying to stay calm. “October 27th, 1985. Eleven A.M.”
“We're cruising at a steady twenty-five miles an hour, Doc,” Marty cautioned, clearly growing anxious.
Emmett maneuvered his way from the driver's seat to the boiler, tortured by the abrupt acknowledgment that he'd left them in free-fall. He untethered his homemade incendiaries, realizing that Marty was undoubtedly the bravest party onboard this hellish contraption.
“I'm throwing in the presto logs,” Emmett said into the walkie-talkie. “Marty, the new gauge in the DeLorean will show the boiler temperature. The color-coding indicates when each log will fire: green, yellow, and red. Each detonation will be accompanied by a sudden burst of acceleration. Hopefully, we'll get up to eighty-eight miles per hour before the needle hits two thousand.”
“Right,” Marty replied tersely, his nervousness palpable. "What happens when it hits two thousand?"
“The whole motor will explode!” Emmett exclaimed, realizing too late that aiming for lightheartedness in a statement such as that might have been less than reassuring. He silently cursed himself.
“Perfect,” said Marty, his sarcasm waning. “Hey, Doc, we just hit thirty-five! You'd better get in here!”
"Okay, Marty!" Emmett called back, finding himself alarmingly short of breath. "I'm coming aboard!"
Marty's eyes on his were what kept him steady as he clung to the side of the train, taking step after step forward. After all that they'd endured, after all that they'd lost, this improbability did, indeed, feel like the final frontier. With the wind in his coat, it was almost as if he might—
"Doc!" Marty shouted as Emmett slipped, horrified as he watched from the perilously open DeLorean.
Dangling from a speeding locomotive was, in retrospect, an all-too-probable eventuality that Emmett had simply been too foolish to postulate. In the thick of it, his hat lost to the gale generated by steel-on-steel roar, he couldn't help but realize he'd be losing more in Marty than he'd ever dreamed—so much more in one daring, extraordinary young man than he'd ever taken time to consider.
“Hang on!” Marty screamed, heart undoubtedly in his throat given their acceleration. “Doc! Catch it!”
Sending the hoverboard on a straight, backward trajectory felt just as risky as flinging it haphazardly into the ether, but it was just the kind of calculated risk that Emmett had known he could trust Marty to take. He snagged the foot-strap with the toe of his boot.
“Whoa!” Emmett shouted, finding his footing, grinning and breathless. “I’m on my way, Marty!”
“Yes!” Marty yelled, radiating unabashed relief as Emmett shakily approached. “Let's go.”
“Seventy,” Emmett grunted, settling into the passenger seat and slamming the gull-wing door behind him just as another explosion rocked them. He flipped the hoverboard off his boot, wedging it between the side of his seat and the door. He glanced at Marty, offering a tired smile.
Marty reached for him, never mind the gadgetry between them. “Jesus, Doc, I thought you were a goner after all,” he hissed, throwing his arms around as much of Doc as he could. He buried his face in the filthy canvas of Emmett's duster, breathing hard against Emmett's shoulder.
“Eighty,” Emmett murmured into Marty's hair, clinging to Marty, knowing he'd have been the one to reach if Marty hadn't. “Hold on, Marty,” he added, his voice low. “Eighty-five, eighty-six...”
Marty squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled as the DeLorean shuddered with bone-rattling intensity.
Emmett held fast to that warm armful, his anchor. He knew the blue-white flash by heart, shivered through the eerie ghost-trace behind his eyelids. He blinked as they decelerated, registering the fretful, repeated clutch-and-release of Marty's fingertips between his shoulder blades.
Ding, ding, ding, clanged an all-too-modern signal in Emmett's ears. That sound meant—
“Get out of the car,” said Emmett, not even skipping a beat, attempting to keep his voice level. He let go of Marty, reached across to release the catch on Marty's door, and then did the same with his own. “Marty, get out of the car now!” he exclaimed, vaulting out his own side of the vehicle before Marty could even protest. “I'll see you on the other—”
“Shit!" Marty screamed, his cry echoing as long and terrible as the fate they might not escape.
Emmett lay still in the dust and sagebrush and broken glass for a few stunned seconds, wide-eyed as the DeLorean shattered with the impact of an oncoming commercial freighter. He closed his eyes and shielded himself, not even sure what good it would do. Debris pelted him anyway. Marty had gotten out of the car a split-second after Emmett had, so he was presumably safe.
Still, that didn't stop Emmett from staggering to his feet and stumbling across the tracks as soon as the train had passed. Marty, already on his feet and moving in Emmett's direction, caught him. They stumbled, landing on Marty's side of the tracks. Emmett didn't care that Marty was crushing the breath out of him; it wasn't as if either of them had breathed through the impact to begin with.
“Well, Doc,” Marty said tremulously, on the verge of either laughter or tears, “it's destroyed. Just like you wanted.” He let his cheek rest against Doc's, gasping at the feel of slight stubble on both of them.
“It's a shame,” said Emmett, quietly, rubbing Marty's back like he'd done before. “But it's for the best.” He wanted nothing more than to hold Marty until he'd stopped shaking like the world was about to end.
“C'mon,” Marty sighed, coming to his senses; he clapped Emmett on the shoulder before crawling off him with more reluctance, somehow, than Emmett would have expected. “We'd better get outta here before somebody calls the cops or something. We look ridiculous, and how the hell are we gonna explain this mess? Somehow, I don't think you'd get off with just a fine this time.”
Emmett accepted Marty's proffered hand, letting Marty pull him to his feet. “You're right about that,” he agreed, brushing himself off once they'd found their footing. “I don't have the right century’s cash on me to pay them off, either. I've come to understand that's less effective these days.”
Marty gave him a tired, tilted smile. “So that's how you dealt with the cop in 1955, huh?”
Grinning, Emmett shrugged, slightly abashed. “Ways and means, Marty. I wouldn't have gotten far with many of my earliest experiments if the local law enforcement hadn't been easy to buy off.”
“You'd better start walking, Doc,” Marty sighed. “I don't care if you keep yakking while you're at it, but let's move.” He hesitated for only a second before casting about them until he'd found what pieces he was looking for. Removing his poncho, he wrapped it around the remains of the flux capacitor and the battered hoverboard like a shroud. “For safe-keeping. Okay, now let's move.”
Touched beyond words, Emmett put an arm around Marty's shoulders and urged them forward. “We'll parallel the tracks for as long as we can,” he said. “So we don't run into too many people, hopefully.”
“You're the doc, Doc,” Marty said, leaning into Emmett, cradling his burden like precious cargo.
They were exhausted by the time they reached the lab an hour later, although that didn't prevent Emmett from prioritizing Marty's divestment and inspection ahead of his own. He fetched the key from under the mat and hastily let them inside. Wasting no time in relieving Marty of his souvenirs, he placed them on the spare bed and gingerly removed Marty's hat for him.
“I need to know you're not hurt,” he mumbled by way of apology. “You might well have sustained...”
Emmett touched Marty's cheeks, his forehead, and his chin. He found dirt, but no injuries. Marty laughed when Doc's hands, applying gentle pressure, spanned his ribcage on both sides. No bones cracked, thank heavens.
Marty leaned in and did the same, slipping his hands beneath Emmett's coat.
Emmett fell into Marty's sure, impulsive embrace with a shiver, clinging as if his life depended on it.
“I'll tell you one thing,” Marty said, his words muffled against Emmett's chest. “We need a shower.”
“You go on,” Emmett said, feeling lightheaded at what he imagined unbidden. “I'm happy to wait.”
Marty tipped his chin up. “My family's gonna think I'm at the lake, but Jennifer's still asleep on that swing. She might even be awake already. What am I gonna do? I can't go home looking like this.”
“The lake,” Emmett echoed, pensive, recalling what Marty, all less-than-eager nerves, had told him.
“You know, I'm kinda glad that trip didn't happen,” said Marty, chewing his lip. “After everything...”
“Go shower, Future Boy,” Emmett said, clapping Marty's back. “You've still got spare clothes here.”
Marty nodded and disentangled himself from Emmett's arms, glancing back over his shoulder after he'd made it halfway to the bathroom. “We’re both filthy, Doc. Your shower’s big enough. Just saying.”
Emmett's mouth went dry. He was beginning to wonder if he hadn't misread the situation after all.
“No, no,” he said with measured insistence, shedding his duster, heading for the wardrobe. He could at least fetch a dressing-gown and get comfortable on the bed till Marty was finished. “I'll doze a while.”
Marty nodded, more perplexed than disappointed, neglecting to close the bathroom door behind him.
Stripping down as perfunctorily as he could manage, Emmett wrapped himself in the one article of clothing dating to 1955 that he knew Marty would recognize on-sight. The chaos of his sheets was as welcome as the groan of his mattress; he fell asleep almost instantaneously, dreamless.
On waking an indeterminate amount of time later, he found the bathroom empty.
Convinced Marty had done the sensible thing and gone home, Emmett took the longest, hottest shower that he could stand. He wasn't the kind for tears, not insofar as he could help it, but the memory of what he'd lost (What you never really had, he reminded himself, determined to research what kind of life Clara had lived) and the thought of what he'd almost lost (What you can't have) got the better of him.
Still damp and re-wrapped in the dressing-gown, Emmett did a sweep of the premises and found Einstein asleep amidst the mess Marty had made of the bookshelves. Picking his way back to the spare bed to have one last look at what Marty had salvaged, he swallowed a gasp.
Marty—in a pair of Emmett's boxers and the spare tee he'd kept in the bottom drawer, clutching the bundle formed by his poncho—was asleep.
Sighing, Emmett extracted Marty's parcel from the bed, set it on the floor, and soothed Marty's murmur with a hand on Marty's shoulder.
“Scoot over,” he whispered, nudging Marty closer to the wall, curling a protective arm around him.
An hour later, Marty left with mumbled apologies, his mouth pressed warm against Emmett's neck.
October 28, 1985
Emmett spent most of the next day setting his residence to rights. After breakfast, he’d spent a full twenty minutes inspecting the blown-out amplifier, realizing that the repairs would take nearly as long as he’d spent building the thing. He cleared away the shattered shell of the speaker, lifted the shelving unit back into place, and proceeded to painstakingly gather the scattered books and papers into piles.
Einstein seemed antsy, inexplicably ill at ease. He trotted about the garage while Emmett worked, whimpering fretfully even though Emmett had made a point of feeding him bacon for breakfast.
“Marty’s fine, Einie,” Emmett insisted, dusting off his hands. The mess was as good as it was going to get for the moment, and it was almost two o’clock in the afternoon. “Let’s go for a walk.”
Einstein’s ears perked encouragingly at both Marty and walk; that gave Emmett an idea.
Killing time for the half an hour or so until Marty got off school was the difficult part. Emmett drove himself and Einstein back to the stretch of tracks where the collision had occurred and, on arrival, swept what remained of the debris for anything else of importance while Einstein explored.
Half-obscured by some dry brush and twisted metal, Emmett found the charred remnant of the photograph of himself in front of the clock tower that Marty had mentioned pilfering from the library archives in 1955. Emmett traced the ragged edge of it, realizing that it would have changed to include Marty had it been left intact. He folded the fragment, tucking it in his pocket.
He stayed a little while longer, doing his best to clear the worst of the mess he and Marty had left off to either side of the tracks. He soberly considered the EASTWOOD RAVINE sign, wondering what chain of events had led to Marty being commemorated as the lone train-jacker. Perhaps he’d been considered Emmett’s hostage, a victim, and thereby his name had been deemed most suitable.
Einstein whimpered, pawing impatiently at Emmett’s shoe. He panted, gazing up in fierce expectation.
“You’re right,” Emmett said, scratching behind Einstein’s ears. “If we don’t leave now, we’ll be late.”
The times he’d previously picked Marty up from school, Emmett had waited in the high-school parking lot, usually without ever leaving his van. However, the element of surprise wasn’t usually in play, so Marty wouldn’t know to look for him. He parked in the only free space he could find—next to Gerald Strickland’s reserved spot, alas—and put Einstein back on his leash. Waiting under the tree near the bike racks seemed innocuous enough, although he risked recognition and possibly even heckling.
As a likely fruitless precaution, he donned the 1950s hat he’d dug out of his wardrobe the day before.
Mercifully, he only had to pass about fifteen minutes of sitting under the tree with a snoozing Einstein’s head in his lap—as well as some perplexed looks from students who’d begun to exit the school, a lone Jennifer Parker included—before Marty spotted him and came dashing down the lawn.
“Boy, am I glad to see you guys,” Marty sighed, dropping his skateboard and backpack. He flopped down beside Einstein, who woke with a happy snuffle and got right down to business licking Marty’s face. “Today was the shittiest day ever. My conversation with Jennifer, uh, didn’t go so well. She remembers 2015, and she is pissed. I don’t even think I’m gonna salvage our friendship outta this unless I come clean on, like, everything.”
Emmett pondered this troubling statement, eyes fixed on his shoelaces. “Tell her whatever you must.”
“No way, Doc,” said Marty, adamantly, finally shoving Einstein off so that he could scoot closer to Emmett, reaching up to adjust Emmett’s hat. “Most of those secrets are yours—ours—and even if I wanted to spill my guts, it wouldn’t be my place. Hey, that still looks good on you,” he remarked, letting his fingertips graze Emmett’s temple before studying the effect. “Ever think of pulling your hair back? It’s just that it was shorter before, and that goes a bit better with…”
Emmett met Marty’s gaze expectantly as Marty trailed off, realizing that he wanted nothing so much as to address the way they’d behaved toward each other on Sunday. Still, it felt like too much of a risk.
“Forget it,” Marty sighed, pulling up a handful of grass. “You do what you want. Your style’s fine.”
Risks be damned. If they had even the ghost of a shot at this, after all they’d survived against every set of odds history had thrown at them, then Emmett was willing to try. He took Marty’s hand in his, plucking away the bits of grass stuck to Marty’s palm, marveling at the intimacy of it.
“What the hell,” he said, giving Marty’s hand a squeeze before releasing it. “I’ll give your idea a whirl.”
Marty’s glance from beneath lowered lids was either pleased or shy; Emmett couldn’t quite tell which.
“We should check out Lone Pine Mall, don’t you think? See if it’s different from what I remember?”
Emmett nodded, catching on to the opening Marty was giving him. “If you’re not expected home early tonight, we could make an evening of it,” he suggested. “Dinner at the Mexican place, my treat.”
“There’s a sit-down Mexican place there now?” Marty asked, lighting up. “Heavy. You’re on.”
“From the sound of things, it’s more upscale than your recollections suggest,” Emmett said, rising, offering Marty his hand. He tugged Marty to his feet, grateful Marty had taken Einstein’s leash.
“I feel like when we shop it’s either clocks for your collection or shit for your experiments,” Marty said, keeping pace with Emmett’s rushed strides the whole way to the van. “Is that how things are in this version of reality, too? If so, let’s cut loose a little. We deserve it.”
“That’s more or less the shape of my spending habits, yes,” Emmett admitted, opening the passenger-side door, shooing Einstein inside. “We should drop Einie off at home, though, as non-service animals aren’t exactly welcome,” he said, helping Marty into the seat.
“You’re a regular knight in shining armor,” Marty teased, fastening his seatbelt. “You know that?”
Emmett shrugged, shut the door, and hurried around to the driver’s side. “I always did enjoy medieval narratives as much as I enjoyed Jules Verne and tales of the Old West,” he admitted once he’d gotten in the van and started it up. “The Matter of England, Matter of France…” He trailed off, realizing he’d likely lost Marty on this one. “Stories about Arthur, stories about Charlemagne. Parzival out of Germany. They were competing, overlapping traditions. My mother had a lot of translations.”
“Now that my dad’s a writer and community-college lit professor, I bet he knows all about that stuff,” Marty said, rubbing the side of his neck like he tended to do when he felt out of his depth. “Turns out I’m a more diligent student than I used to be, so I guess I’d better start paying attention.”
“I’m convinced you were never unintelligent,” Emmett insisted as he drove. “Quite the opposite, given everything I’ve seen from you in every era we’ve weathered. Your mind’s as quick as they come.”
Marty folded his hands in his lap, grinning straight ahead, watching the traffic light change. “Thanks.”
Shopping without an agenda was more diverting than Emmett would’ve expected. In JCPenney, Marty insisted on trying a whole sequence of hats on both of them that were neither flattering, nor particularly practical, but which left them both in stitches. While he was at it, he complained about how he feared his hat from 1885 might never come clean, because, damn it, he liked that hat.
“It’s leather,” said Emmett, finally dragging Marty out of the department store before someone decided they needed to be kicked out. “There are specialty cleaners. Why don’t you leave it with me?”
“I already looked some places up,” said Marty, discouraged. “They’re expensive. Even though I know my folks are good for it, I couldn’t ask them to cover it. And you, well. I worry about those overdue bills of yours, Doc. It’s not like you try to hide ’em from me.”
“Between the handful of late nineteenth-century coins in excellent condition and a few items of clothing which, once cleaned, will similarly be worth something,” Emmett replied, reassuringly squeezing Marty’s shoulder, “something tells me I can just about swing the expense. Consider it your Christmas gift, how about that?”
“I don’t even know what to get you,” Marty sighed. “After the number of times you’ve saved my ass lately—and, uh, a long time ago, too—nothing I can think of really seems sufficient.”
Your presence here and now is more than I could ever ask, Emmett thought, pointing to the sign of the Mexican restaurant. “Are you hungry yet?” he asked brightly. “I could really use an enchilada.”
“Yeah, Doc,” Marty agreed, looking as if he still couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Lead the way.”
Two hours later, they returned to Emmett’s place full, with plenty of choice leftovers to spoil Einstein.
After an hour or so spent watching mindless television (in which Emmett found that his arm stretched across the back of the sofa did, indeed, result in Marty cozying up to him), Marty checked his watch and made a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat. His forehead was as warm against the side of Emmett’s neck as his mouth had been, and his breath down Emmett’s collar was maddening.
“I’d better go home,” Marty sighed, sitting up, frowning. “Wish I didn’t have school in the morning.”
“Finishing your education is important,” Emmett agreed. “You’ve only got about seven months left.”
“Graduation’s right around my birthday,” Marty yawned, getting to his feet. “Week before, even.”
“You know you’re welcome here whenever you can make it,” Emmett reassured him. “As always.”
“G’night, Doc,” Marty said, lingering a moment longer, his frown deepening. “Uh…yeah. See ya.”
Emmett passed the rest of the evening pensively watching reruns. He’d missed out on courting when he was young, and he’d clearly botched the earnest, yet misplaced attempt he’d made with Clara.
He couldn’t afford to make the same kind of mistake with Marty, that much was absolutely certain.
October 29, 1985
For a Tuesday, which was a day of the week Emmett had always found eminently tolerable, the twenty-ninth was off to a terrible start. He'd somehow managed to sleep through his clocks, and Einstein was on the bed, licking Emmett's face in a manner that suggested he was starving.
“I'm up, I'm up,” Emmett groaned, nudging the dog onto the floor. “What time is it, boy?”
Einstein sat down and barked, ears perked at attention. Emmett sat up and yawned, rubbing his eyes.
“Great Scott,” he sighed, checking his watch. “Einie, it's almost noon! Why didn't you wake me sooner? That machine won't feed you unless I turn it back on, and my breakfast isn't cooking itself anymore, either.” He headed for the kitchenette. “Bacon again can't hurt, surely?”
Einstein barked and wagged his tail, trotting happily after Emmett. They ate in companionable silence.
After showering, Emmett dressed and got back to facing down the one project he'd been least looking forward to: reinstalling the contents of his shelves in their original locations. As chaotic as his filing system had become over the years, it did, at least, work. He was glad he'd already reshuffled most of it into piles, but he'd mis-stacked some items. Even this stage would take a small eternity.
He pitched himself into the task so zealously that, several hours later, the sound of his spare key turning in the lock made him jump and drop an entire sheaf of early-stage DeLorean schematics. He turned to find Marty abandoning both his skateboard and backpack next to the spare bed.
“Hey, Doc,” Marty said, his carriage more downcast than usual. “Looks like you've got your work cut out for you.” He shed his jacket and vest on the pillow. “It's, uh, my fault. Want some help with that?”
Emmett shrugged, attempting to bend and retrieve the schematics, but Marty was there in a flash to do it for him. “You don't have to help with the manual-labor aspect,” he said. “If you had it in mind to play for a while, a little music would go a long way to making this task fly.”
Marty shook his head, getting to his feet with the papers clutched neatly to his chest. “I wish I was in the mood, but it hasn't...really been that kind of day,” Marty sighed. “Where do you want these?”
“Over next to the engineering journals,” said Emmett, pointing. “Why's that? Is something amiss?”
“Nah,” Marty replied distractedly, sliding the papers between the metal book-end and the most recent issue of the hardback journal. “Not really. Everything's as fine as it can be.”
“That doesn't necessarily mean everything's as it should be,” Emmett said cautiously, fetching a stack of faded National Geographic issues dating to the seventies. “What can I do to help?”
Marty shook his head, picking up the next five or six issues. “I'd be doing you a favor by not telling you,” he admitted, following Emmett over to the shelf, hefting them into place after Emmett had offloaded his own. “But it's bad enough I've even said that, so. I can't lie to you, Doc.”
Instead of going back for the rest of the magazines, Emmett turned so that he and Marty faced each other. He placed a hand on each of Marty's shoulders, hoping to reassure him; the gesture had never before failed. “Then if you'd like to tell me what happened, Marty, I'm all ears.”
Marty nodded, placing his hands as deliberately as ever on Emmett's forearms. “You know Doug Needles, right? The guy who's been giving me shit at school since, like, fifth or sixth grade no matter what timeline I'm in?” He bit his lip, squeezing Emmett's arms in distress. “He saw us.”
Instantly, Emmett felt a cold wash of anxiety; his first thought was that Marty meant Needles had witnessed the DeLorean appearing out of nowhere on the tracks. “Was he stopped at the intersection?”
Marty blinked at him in confusion, his grip tightening even more as he shook Emmett for emphasis. “No, Doc, not...saw us saw us, not in the DeLorean or dressed like cowboys, nothing like that. I mean he saw us yesterday. At the school. Sitting there with Einie.”
Emmett replayed the scenario in his head, his thoughts catching and looping on the memory of Marty's hand cradled in one of his own while he plucked grass off Marty's palm with the other. “Oh.”
Marty nodded, biting the inside of his cheek this time, eyes tightly closed. “I'm pretty sure your imagination's good enough to fill in the blanks,” he said. “He and his usual crew of assholes were saying a lot of shit. A lot of shit I wouldn't even have minded if they hadn't put such an ugly spin on it.” He opened his eyes, tugging Emmett closer. “And that's just the thing—I don't mind it. Not that part of it. It's the ugliness I mind, Doc.”
Before Emmett could think twice about what he was doing, he pulled Marty in for the most earnest hug he could manage. He couldn't afford for any other shades of meaning to seep into the gesture, especially not given the subject matter at hand. The chill of his anxiety turned to fury.
Still, Marty clung to him the same as always, and there was no escaping the unspoken course they'd set.
“If I've ever, for any reason,” Emmett said, his fingertips pressing in the space between Marty's shoulder blades as if of their own accord, “made you feel uncomfortable, then I...” He released Marty as swiftly as he'd gathered him close, instantly regretful. “Then I urge you, please, to leave and never come back,” he managed, as excruciating as it was to articulate that sentence.
Instead of maintaining the distance Emmett had attempted to put between them, Marty, launching himself up precariously on tiptoe, made a pained sound and latched onto Emmett harder than ever.
“D'you honestly think I'm gonna let a fucking jerk like needles keep me away from you?”
Overcome with sheer, relieved fondness, Emmett blindly sought out Marty's forehead and kissed it.
“I can't tell you how glad I am to hear it,” he said, hunching forward to lessen Marty's strain. “However, I think you shouldn't stay too late. Let's finish the periodicals, and then I'll take you home.”
“Since when do you care that much about my bedtime?” Marty laughed, his tears audibly subsiding.
“Your non-existent bedtime has nothing to do with it,” Emmett reassured him. “Lurking bullies do.”
October 30, 1985
The next day, Emmett wasn't half surprised when Marty turned up after school looking nearly as pensive as he had the previous afternoon. Emmett was quick to greet him with an embrace once Einstein had gotten his fill of licking Marty's cheek. There was distinct thrill to the way that Marty turned up his face, seeking to brush their cheeks together like he'd done on the railroad tracks.
“Guess you're back to shaving on the regular, too, huh,” Marty joked, grazing his lips along Emmett's jawline as they parted. “Be honest with me, do you miss the straight-razor you had back there?”
Emmett shrugged, offering Marty a wry smile. “Safety razors had been invented by the time I ever had need of such a thing, but my father was, shall we say, traditional. I learned to use a cutthroat early.”
“Then I'm glad you were willing to do it for me the once, Doc,” said Marty, gratefully, “because I would've gone around 1885 looking like Freddy Krueger had a go at me.”
Fictional villains aside, Emmett didn't want to think about anyone having a go at Marty. “Was your day at school...uneventful?” he asked hopefully, watching as Marty made his way over to the spare bed, wrinkled his nose, and unrolled the poncho. “No events out of the ordinary, I hope?”
“Needles and his jack-ass squad snickered and shit any time they got anywhere near me, but what else is new?” Marty asked, shrugging, picking up the hoverboard to examine it. “This is sad, Doc.”
“That's an understatement,” Emmett insisted. “The thought of you being tormented is intolerable.”
“No, jeez,” Marty sighed, turning around, waving his prize. “The hoverboard, Doc.”
“Insofar as I'm aware, it still works,” said Emmett, indicating that Marty should let go of it at shin-level to see if it would still function—which it did. “It's just somewhat worse for wear now.”
“Can't we do something about that?” Marty asked, indicating the scrapes and gashes in the resin-cast design. “I don't care if we have to repaint every last inch. She's served us pretty well.”
Emmett approached the bed, pondering the warped flux capacitor fragments over Marty's shoulder.
“They both did,” he agreed. “Seems to me everything you salvaged could do with some restoration.”
Marty lit up at the suggestion, flipping the hoverboard back into his arms. “What are we waiting for?”
While Marty sanded gouges out of the hoverboard and Emmett patiently welded the flux capacitor's framework back together, they chatted relatively little. It was a relief to discover that the comfort of companionable silence wasn't lost to them after yesterday's conversation, and Emmett found himself distracted more than once by the endearing furrow of Marty's brow as he concentrated on his work.
On the third or fourth instance that Emmett caught himself, Marty glanced up, holding Emmett's gaze.
“Are we even gonna talk about this, Doc?” he asked, raising both eyebrows at Emmett meaningfully.
“I'm sorry if I haven't been as clear as I might—” Emmett began, embarrassed. “That is, I'd hoped—”
“I mean, Jesus,” Marty said, putting down he worn square of sandpaper. “We almost died.”
Emmett blinked at him, entirely gobsmacked that this conversation was apparently not going to be about what he'd assumed it was going to be about. “In...in 1885, you mean? Or in 1955, or—”
“All of the above, Doc,” Marty sighed, reaching across the work-top to take the roughly reassembled flux capacitor in hand. He turned it over reverently and handed it back to Emmett. “We're lucky.”
Emmett nodded gravely and set the defunct time-circuits aside. “Indeed we are, Marty,” he agreed. “Indeed we are. Please allow me to apologize for the colossal foolishness that resulted—”
“You might be foolish sometimes, yeah,” Marty cut in, “but I usually match you in that department.”
Emmett nodded, permitting Marty the amendment. “I can't afford to take this kind of risk from here on out,” he continued, “and I regret it, because the journey we've taken has been once-in-a-lifetime.”
Marty came around from his side of the work-top and, in the space of several seconds in which neither of them breathed, put his arms around Emmett from behind. “In case you hadn't noticed,” Marty said, his cheek pressed between Emmett's shoulder blades as he held on tight, “our lives aren't over yet. You were almost a goner, and so was I, but...” The remainder was muffled in Emmett's shirt.
It might have been but I love you too much to let that happen, or Emmett might've been hearing things. However, when Marty mouthed the spot, breathing warmth through to Emmett's skin, the shiver that rocked them both might as well have been proof-positive Emmett had heard right.
The maneuvering that it took to get Marty disentangled from him was worth the effort for Marty's facial expression alone. Marty's eyes were wild, pleading, in a way Emmett had only ever seen them when Marty was on the brink of despair.
For all this time, Marty had been asking, and only recently had Emmett even begun to comply.
Emmett took Marty's face tentatively in both hands, palms against his cheeks. “May I?” he whispered.
Marty's lips parted as if he meant to speak, wide eyes radiating pleased disbelief. He nodded instead.
Determined not to overdo it on the first attempt, Emmett gave Marty as brief, firm, and meaningful a kiss as he could manage. Keeping his eyes open felt wrong, somehow, but Marty's eyes had him so transfixed that he didn't dare look away, not even as he drew back.
Marty didn't waste any time in leaning forward, chasing Emmett's mouth with a disbelieving laugh.
However long the second kiss lasted—measured, achingly slow and tender—Emmett was certain it would never have been enough. Marty broke away, resting his forehead against Doc's collar.
“I could get you in so much trouble for this,” he lamented. “It isn't worth putting you in danger.”
“Putting me in danger?” Emmett demanded, incredulous. “Those ne'er-do-wells at school—”
“Can't arrest me and lock me up, Doc,” Marty pointed out, fingers twisting angrily in Emmett's shirt.
“While I'm touched that your first concern is for me, your safety is paramount,” Emmett said, holding him close. “This isn't a point of no return. All you need do, Marty, is say the word.”
“And say I'm never gonna see you again?” Marty scoffed, giving Emmett a squeeze. “Nice try, Doc.”
“At least go home and sleep on it?” Emmett ventured. “My certainty shouldn't be the deciding factor.”
“What about my certainty?” Marty asked, letting go of Emmett abruptly. “The law says one thing, sure, I get that,” he went on unhappily, “but d'you even know how arbitrary that is when you compare it to other places in the country? It's just...” He raked both hands through his hair, frustrated. “I'm not a kid anymore, and even when I was? You never treated me like one. You've always treated me like your equal, and I really hope that I am.”
“Of course you are! It's because we both want this that I'm begging you to reconsider,” Emmett sighed, leading Marty to the door, opening it apologetically. “As counterintuitive as that sounds—”
“I'm gonna do this because I respect you,” Marty said, but his annoyance at the situation was palpable. “No other reason, Doc. When you see me again, you'd better be ready for what's coming.”
Following Marty outside, Emmett nodded, briefly squeezing Marty's hand. “Marty, I already am.”
October 31, 1985
Under any other circumstances, Emmett would have expected Halloween night to be a time when Marty would have appeared on his doorstep to hide from the trick-or-treating madness of Lyon Estates. Nobody had bothered to knock on Emmett's door in well over a decade, although he had been the target of more than his fair share of pranks. Having Marty around had made them more tolerable.
Tonight, however, he was alone with Einstein, determined to finish the task of setting the shelves to rights. It had taken every ounce of his resolve not to call Marty around the time he'd be getting home.
Lengthy telephone conversations between them were far from unusual on the days when Marty couldn't drop by, and Emmett had both marveled at and been infinitely grateful for George and Lorraine's tolerance. He'd been on amicable terms with them ever since they'd first met thirty years ago.
Emmett braced a number of plastic binders in place with another judiciously applied metal book-end. Einstein was behaving as nervously as he had several days before, whimpering and trailing after Emmett almost everywhere he went. In the several years they'd known Marty, the dog had grown shockingly fond of the young man who, by now, might as well be part of their tiny family.
Einstein halted and growled, almost tripping Emmett as he turned to fetch some more binders.
“Don't tell me those damn kids are back,” Emmett sighed, realizing Einstein's attention was trained on the door. “Tell me, Einie, what'll it be—eggs? Toilet paper? Maybe some spray paint for a change?”
The dog's growl transformed into something more like a confused howl when a knock sounded at the door. Whoever it was had either cut their way through the gate or climbed the fence. Impressive.
“Dr. Brown?” said a clear, strong voice that sounded like it belonged to a teenage girl, accompanying the determined knock. “Dr. Emmett Brown? Is anybody home? Trick or treat!”
Emmett approached the door, tentatively setting his hand on the knob. “You'd better not be planning any tricks, because I can tell you've had enough of those!” he said. “And I haven't got any treats!”
“Yeah yeah, I know it's not your thing,” said the young interloper. “McFly said as much.”
“You know Marty?” Emmett asked, hopeful in spite of himself. “Did he send you? Is he all right?”
“That worked like a charm,” said the girl, smugly. “Look, will you just let me in? Please? A peek at your place is the only treat I'm after. Plus, I've heard your dog's freakin' adorable.”
“Hear that, Einie?” Emmett muttered to the dog. “Your reputation precedes you.” He unlocked the door and opened it, startled to find himself face to face with a reasonable facsimile of...himself.
“Sorry about the wig,” said the skinny teenager, the corners of her heavily made-up hazel eyes crinkling in embarrassment. “It's the closest thing I could find, and I can see now it isn't great.”
“The lab-coat is a reasonable assumption, although I'd advise you to choose a radiation suit next time,” Emmett replied, opening the door a bit wider. “Please come in. Although—your name?”
“Tiff,” said the girl, enthusiastically offering her hand. “Tiff Tannen. Marty hasn't mentioned me?”
“He's mentioned quite a number of people,” said Emmett, distractedly, ushering her inside, “and I'm afraid I haven't done a thorough job of keeping track. I assume you're related to Biff Tannen?”
“Yeah, his daughter,” she said, making a bee-line for the nearly restored bookshelves. “Whoa.”
“You have an interest in reading?” Emmett asked, watching as Einstein licked her hand and got no response. “My collection might not exactly be to your taste. Much of it consists of notes...”
He watched Tiff snatch one of the engineering journals and proceed to flip through it in wonder.
“I've got a science fair project coming up,” she said, breathless. “I need this shit. The library doesn't even have it. And even if I requested it on ILL, do you know how long it would take?”
Emmett nodded sympathetically, because he did, indeed, know all too well. “Borrow it,” he suggested, amazed at the way the kid's eyes lit up as he said it. “Consider it a treat for not just neglecting to prank me, but also for having an interest in what so few people your age hold in any regard.”
“Hey, listen,” said Tiff, snapping the book shut, clutching it to her chest. “My dad's a mechanic. If it's got wheels and an engine, he can fix it. I've been around machines since the day I was born, and I've learned a thing or two. Okay, maybe a lot. And I wanna know more.”
“Hang around your father's auto shop for any amount of time and you're bound to,” Emmett agreed.
“Hang around Marty McFly for any length of time,” said Tiff, pointedly, “and you're bound to learn how much a guy like you can teach somebody interested in science and engineering.”
Touched, Emmett made a gesture at the shelves. “Is there anything else that might be of use to you?”
“At a glance, I'm not really sure,” Tiff admitted. “I'd need a whole day to look it over, you know?”
“You've likely got a parent waiting outside,” said Emmett. “Unless you did scale the fence?”
“Oh, I scaled the fence,” Tiff agreed happily. “But my Dad's waiting over in the Burger King parking lot. He wouldn't have let me do this if he didn't know from the McFlys that you're pretty harmless.”
Emmett nodded, his throat constricting. “You'd indicated you've seen Marty already this evening?”
“Mhmmm,” Tiff hummed, finally taking note of Einstein's interest. “Dude's mopey as can be. My theory is that guys take pining to an even higher level than girls, know what I'm saying?”
“I'm not sure I know what you're saying, no,” said Emmett, hesitantly, pleased to see her pet the dog.
“Lovesickness, duh,” said Tiff, going down on her knees to get closer to Einstein. “You're just a big, sweet, fuzzy dum-dum, huh,” she cooed, kissing the tip of Einstein's nose. “Guard dog, my ass.”
“Guard dog, not exactly,” Emmett agreed, “but dum-dum, he is not. He understands an impressive array of commands and single words. If you stay in his life long enough, he'll recognize your name.”
“Huh,” Tiff said, laughing when Einstein licked a stripe in the age make-up on her cheek. “Far out!”
“You shouldn't keep your pop waiting,” Emmett said. “If you see Marty tomorrow, send my regards.”
Tiff got up and brushed her hands off, straightening her lab coat. “Why don't you just call him?” She adjusted her one-armed hold on Emmett's book, going to the door without complaint. “Oh, the gate.”
Emmett let her out and didn't re-attach the padlock until he'd seen her get in her father's tow truck.
Once he was back inside, he didn't need a second reminder. He dialed Marty's number while Einstein trotted restlessly around the garage, sniffing here and there at everything Tiff had managed to touch.
It took Marty five rings to reach his room. “Hello?” he answered, sounding like he'd run to get there.
“Marty, it's me,” Emmett said. “I've just had a curious visit from a friend of yours. The Tannen girl?”
“Aw, jeez,” Marty sighed, sounding glad to hear Emmett's voice. “I told her not to bug you!”
“She was no trouble at all, actually,” Emmett admitted. “I loaned her one of my engineering books.”
“Yeah, kid's a total gearhead like her old man,” Marty said, “but it goes deeper than that. She's smart.”
“So it seems,” Emmett replied, relieved to be in contact. “I hope your evening has been...tolerable?”
“If I have to hand out one more piece of candy,” Marty sighed, “I'm gonna run screaming.”
“I'd suggest you come over,” Emmett said wearily, “but that's antithetical to what I asked of you.”
“I've done nothing but think about it since last night,” said Marty, earnestly. “Nothing's changed.”
Emmett exhaled, closed his eyes, and said, “Thank you for honoring—or humoring—my request.”
“No way,” Marty replied, his voice soft with conviction. “About humoring you, I mean. So, ah, I was...” He swallowed audibly. “I was thinking about tomorrow night. Potentially. If that's okay?”
“As soon as you can manage,” Emmett said, his heart hammering. “Or never. Do you understand?”
“There's nothing about never that I understand,” Marty replied. “Tomorrow night, Doc.”
“Tomorrow night,” Emmett agreed, noticing that Einstein had curled up in his bed. “Until then.”
November 1, 1985
From midnight until six in the morning, having slept only a few hours after speaking to Marty on the phone, Emmett had applied himself to the expediting of a project that he'd hoped to put off for a month or two at least. Suddenly, repairing the amplifier seemed like a moral imperative.
After completing that task, judging by the clocks, he'd slept around another eight hours uninterrupted.
Emmett yawned, stretched, and realized he was still in yesterday's clothes. It was now Friday, two o'clock in the afternoon, and, knowing Marty, he'd turn up around five with ideas about dinner.
“Dinner,” Emmett muttered, finding his worn flip-flops just under the edge of the bed. “Riddle me this, Einstein,” he said, yawning again, dragging himself to the coffee maker, which was clean enough to yield a drinkable pot. “What should I order that's appropriate, but won't break the bank?”
Einstein, still curled up in his bed, barked intermittently while Emmett waited for the machine to finish brewing. Emmett filled Einstein's bowl before pouring himself a mug of espresso-strength coffee.
“I appreciate your input,” he said, sipping the stuff black, wandering back over to watch Einstein eat, “but something tells me Kal Kan isn't to Marty's taste. Maybe something from that Italian place on Jefferson?”
Einstein looked up, chewing enthusiastically, having noted the use of Marty's name. He whimpered.
“Of course you can have a share of the leftovers, Einie,” Emmett reassured him. “As long as you don't get underfoot,” he added, anxiety flaring in his chest as he headed for the shower.
Setting the menu, it turned out, was easier than deciding what to wear. He'd scarcely ever given his attire a thought in Marty's presence, except for deliberately choosing his dressing-gown on their return from 1885. The hat, too, he supposed. Nearly everything he hadn't worn in far too long now had some kind of almost religious significance. He assembled the nearest facsimile of what he'd been wearing that night in 1955 that he could, assuming that was the dressiest Marty had ever seen him.
Emmett hadn't bothered with a tie in so long that it took him several tries to get the damn thing right.
Arranging for the delivery of several different pasta dishes and garlic bread around six was easily accomplished; by the time he'd finished showering and fussing with clothes, it was four o'clock. He was relieved to have assumed Marty would be going home first to pack and otherwise prepare, because, given how late he'd slept, he couldn't have dealt with Marty turning up directly after school.
Einstein came over and sat down at Emmett's feet, pawing Emmett's knee as he sat motionless in the armchair. Passing an hour or more in which every misgiving under the sun would pile itself on Emmett's heart was not an ideal set of circumstances, but Emmett didn't see any way around it.
The next thing he knew, Einstein was making a racket and somebody was gently shaking his knee.
“Delivery guy got here at the same time I did,” said Marty, crouched in front of Emmett, grinning. He indicated the several stapled-shut brown bags neatly occupying one of Emmett's many scattered end-tables. “Two kinds of spaghetti and prosciutto ravioli? Don't you think that's overkill?”
“Not if it means there'll be at least one thing you enjoy,” Emmett said, groggily reaching for him.
Marty, warm and heavy in Emmett's lap, hadn't even taken off his jacket or his shoes. Over his favorite red t-shirt, he was wearing a gray collared shirt that Emmett had never seen before; while his denim jacket was very much in evidence, the orange down vest was nowhere in sight.
“Hey,” Marty said, tipping Emmett's chin so that he had no choice but to focus. “Eyes up here, Doc.”
Emmett, chagrined that he'd drifted off in the first place, cupped Marty's jaw in order to give him a slow, lingering kiss. Marty reacted almost instantaneously; he gasped and twisted even closer.
“We'd better get plates down from the cupboard before the food gets cold,” Emmett sighed at length.
Getting up to set Emmett's cramped table was a less-than-comfortable affair, but they had as companionable a laugh about it as anything else they'd ever managed to botch. Marty was pleased to see a fresh supply of Pepsi Free in the fridge, and he brought Doc's pitcher of home-brewed iced tea back to the table in the same trip as fetching himself a can.
Emmett had finished serving them both a small portion of each dish and was on to lighting a pair of tapers (in silver candlesticks, no less) from the storage closet. He hadn't used them in a while.
“I hate to break it to you, Doc,” said Marty, pouring Emmett some tea before resuming his seat and cracking open his Pepsi, “but you're a regular old-school romantic. Not that I'm, ah, complaining.”
“If you were,” Emmett said, extinguishing the match, “I would've asked you to to humor me. Again.”
Marty reached across the table with his free hand, already busy twisting some pasta onto his fork. “How many times do I have to insist that none of this is about humoring you?” he demanded. “If anything, I'm the one who deserves to be humored. You asked me to be sensible, and I refused.”
“Not sure I know what's sensible anymore and what's not,” said Emmett, cutting a ravioli, running his thumb across the back of Marty's hand. “Part of me doubts I ever did. Doubts we ever did.”
“I don't want somebody sensible, Doc,” Marty said, pausing to take a sip of his cola. “I want you.”
The straightforwardness of Marty's statement resulted in Emmett all but losing his appetite, and for the best of reasons. He patted Marty's hand before releasing it, giving his plate as much attention as he could muster, determined to temporarily change the subject for the sake of his sanity.
“I'd hoped you might follow dinner with a bit of light entertainment, but that would have been contingent upon me not having fallen asleep and remembered to ask you to bring your guitar,” Emmett sighed. “I repaired the amp. It's still not up to the kind of overload you prefer, but...”
Marty's touched expression took the rest of Emmett's needless apology right out of Emmett's mouth.
“I brought it,” he said, setting down his fork, wiping his mouth on the nearest napkin. “Over there.”
Emmett glanced in the direction of the spare bed, irritated by the number of obstructions that met his field of vision. He could just make out Marty's overnight bag and the widest end of Marty's guitar case.
Einstein had already lost interest in what was left of his late-afternoon meal and curled up in his bed.
“That's fortunate,” Emmett said, attempting to remedy his dry mouth with a sip of tea. “Great minds.”
“I wanna show you something,” Marty said, reaching inside his jacket, pulling out what looked like a cassette tape. “Found this going through my dad's music collection last night. It came out last year. Some Canadian recording artist who's written a lot of poetry; that's why I recognized the name. Dad's got most of the books on his shelf. I've read the one called Let Us Compare Mythologies.”
“Various Positions,” Emmett read off the tape's cover. “Cohen's been recording for years, but I hadn't been aware of this new one. Do you intend for us to listen to it? I'd be more than willing.”
“Not exactly,” said Marty, snatching the tape back out of Doc's hand. “There are a couple of songs on here—hell, maybe even half of 'em—that made me think I could do decent covers of this guy's work.”
“You're going to play a set?” Emmett asked, touched beyond reason. “I'd like that for an introduction.”
“Here I thought maybe I'd found an artist you knew nothing about,” Marty sighed, pocketing the tape. “At least I found an album of his you haven't heard yet. One out of two ain't bad.”
Emmett wiped his mouth, deciding it was the better part of valor to accept that he just wasn't hungry anymore. He got up and made his way around to Marty's side of the table, taking Marty's hand.
“Where would you like your audience to sit?” Emmett asked, pausing halfway between the kitchenette and his bedroom-slash-living-area. “Will be using the equipment, or would you rather—”
Marty set his fingers against Emmett's lips, as if he knew exactly when to end the nervous monologue.
“Sit down over there,” he said, indicating the edge of the bed. “Take off your shoes, Doc. I liked 'em in '55, and I still like 'em now, but there's no need for that kind of formality. I can play this unplugged.”
Emmett let go of Marty's hand, doing as he'd been told while Marty fetched his guitar. Marty came back sans jacket and shoes, elegant in worn Levi's and his unbuttoned dress-shirt with its starched sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He shouldered the guitar-strap, and Emmett was riveted.
“This is, ah,” Marty faltered, raking one hand through his hair, “the last track on the album.”
“A fine place to start, then,” Emmett said, bracing his palms against the mattress so he could lean back.
The move was one that he instantly regretted, because Marty's delicate opening required no pick and every last ounce of Marty's concentration as Marty began to sing. Emmett hadn't realized Marty knew any such technique; at a guess, he had borrowed it from Spanish methodology.
If it be your will
that I speak no more
and my voice be still
as it was before—
I will speak no more.
I shall abide until
I am spoken for
if it be your will.
One verse in, and Emmett couldn't imagine how this song could possibly have been designed for its composer's register. Marty's clear, earnest tenor sailed through the lilting phrases as his fingers continued to pluck out the complex accompaniment. It was practically classical.
Marty's labored breath on the transition between segments caused Emmett to pay closer attention to the lyrics than he had previously. There was a message in this, because Marty did nothing by halves. Emmett refused to miss it.
If it be your will
that a voice be true—
from this broken hill,
I will sing to you.
From this broken hill,
all your praises, they shall ring,
if it be your will
to let me sing.
Spellbound, Emmett leaned forward on the longest phrase. Marty had closed his eyes, lost in the difficulty of sustaining such an extended breath. What followed was an interlude of equally startling beauty before the second verse's ending lines, the song's stunning centerpiece, repeated.
From this broken hill,
all your praises, they shall ring,
if it be your will
to let me sing.
Marty's eyes were open this time, unclouded and unafraid. He bit his lip on the come-down from let me sing, devolving into a moment of silent, self-deprecating laughter. Fucked up, he mouthed.
“Couldn't tell,” replied Emmett, breathless, overcome with the generosity of Marty's performance.
“Sure, Doc,” Marty said, fingers chasing his segue into the next verse. “Keep telling yourself that.”
If it be your will,
if there is a choice—
let the rivers fill,
let the hills rejoice.
Let your mercy spill
on all these burning hearts in hell
if it be your will
to make us well.
You do not deserve this, Emmett told himself, closing his eyes even as Marty's went wider than ever. You do not deserve any part of the incandescence you've so recklessly, selfishly courted.
“Eyes up here,” Marty repeated, concerned, his fret-work faltering slightly. “Hey, Doc? Come back.”
Emmett opened his eyes, letting Marty ground him. He inhaled, returned Marty's apprehensive smile.
And draw us near,
and bind us tight—
all your children here
in their rags of light.
In our rags of light,
all dressed to kill
and end this night
if it be your will.
Applause should have been the only reasonable response to such a moving rendition, but, instead, Emmett found that he'd gotten to his feet as Marty stood there trembling with the final chord.
“Well, that's...” Marty shrugged, letting his hands fall away from the strings. “That's it. Any good?”
Emmett approached him, unable to summon any action except that which involved taking hold of the instrument's neck with one hand and carefully divesting Marty of its strap with the other. He set Marty's guitar aside on the armchair, quelling whatever question was about to pass Marty's lips with a kiss as brief and chaste as the first one they'd shared around forty-eight hours ago.
“What the hell, Doc,” Marty sighed against Emmett's mouth, catching Emmett's hands between them, pressing them up against his chest. Marty's heart hammered, double-time to his breath.
“I'll never ask you to put my wishes before yours,” Doc breathed in response. “Marty, never.”
“You wanted me to sing for you, so I did,” Marty said, seemingly just as entranced as Emmett, molding his lips to the corner of Emmett's mouth. “I'll never get tired of doing that, okay? I'll never...”
The next kiss was on Marty's initiative, and it had such force behind it that Emmett was lucky his coordination was still intact enough to steer them backwards onto the bed. If Emmett had been the one calling most of the explicit, yet unspoken shots in this courtship for most of the week since their return, then this was a reversal on the grandest scale possible. And Emmett was more than ready for it.
“A tie, Doc,” Marty said, fumbling at Doc's collar. “A tie. D'you want me to choke you?”
“Not particularly,” said Emmett, batting Marty's hands away, undoing the knot for him. “There.”
“Mmm, great,” Marty replied, shoving his hips against Emmett's while he bent to nip at Emmett's earlobe and got down to business on Emmett's shirt-buttons. “Are we on the same page?”
“Entirely,” Emmett gasped, startled at the sensation of Marty's hands sliding down his chest. Shivering, he sought out Marty's mouth before Marty could come up with another smart-ass response.
“Okay, that's enough,” Marty panted after a few minutes in which Emmett was sure that kissing and grinding were going to finish them both in no time at all. “Why don't you just lie back and watch?”
Dazedly, Emmett nodded, letting his head hit the mattress as Marty made a startlingly unselfconscious show of shedding his collared shirt, stripping out of his tee, and tossing both back over his shoulder. He stood up just long enough to shed—well, everything else—before bending over Emmett to unbuckle his belt, unfasten his trousers, and yank the whole lot, socks included, entirely off him.
“It's not like you weren't strong before,” Marty remarked, half-lidded as he climbed right back to where he'd been before, straddling Emmett like he belonged there, “but those eight months put some muscle on you, Doc.” And, just like that, Marty's attempt at bravado was gone. He melted into Emmett with a ragged whimper, overwhelmed by the same wash of sensation that had rendered Emmett feverish.
“Marty,” Emmett whispered, brushing Marty's hair back from his forehead. “What would you like?”
“Jesus, I—” Marty's breath hissed past his teeth as Emmett levered him up by his shoulders, taking Marty's erection gently in hand. “I don't know,” he moaned. “Fuck, I just. That. What you're doing, Doc. Keep it up, or I'll—”
“All right,” Emmett murmured, stroking Marty's cheek while he kept his other hand busy. “More?”
Marty gave a single fierce nod, leaning heavily into Emmett's palm, jerking forward with each stroke.
Watching Marty lost in this kind of pleasure was tantamount to watching him play, although Emmett could unquestionably recognize that the latter was irreplaceable. This was another dimension: new and uncharted, fragile and strange.
Emmett's touch faltered when Marty shifted forward, trapping Emmett's hand between their bellies. Easier to let go, easier to let Marty stroke the length of him with glassy-eyed, blissful curiosity before letting go in his turn and crushing their bodies back together. Yes.
“Love ya, Doc,” he whispered hotly in Emmett's ear, driving harder when Emmett groaned his name.
Emmett couldn't remember the last time he'd lost all sense of place and circumstance during an orgasm, much less the last time he'd had difficulty regaining his breath on recovery. He shuddered weakly.
Marty was watching him from just a few inches away, his awed, unblinking gaze impossibly blue.
“Jeez,” he said, laughing almost like he had while he was playing, only this time Emmett could hear him, and it was such a relief to know the sentiment was shared. “Can you count to ten?”
Emmett feigned a swat at Marty's backside, which earned him another burst of laughter. “Did you...”
“Hell yes,” Marty sighed, collapsing fully on top of Emmett, and, oh. Undoubtedly.
Emmett closed his eyes, raking one hand through his hair while rubbing between Marty's shoulder blades with the other. “Then I trust this endeavor was...” He couldn't find the right words.
“Shut up,” Marty said, kissing Emmett's cheek before rolling off of Emmett and wobbling to his feet. “Bask a while. I'll get a washcloth. Is that hand-towel clean? Never mind, I know where...”
“Yes,” said Emmett, belatedly, blinking up at Marty on his return about thirty seconds later. “It is.”
Marty shook his head at Emmett, ducking down for a sound kiss before tossing the washcloth on him.
“We've gotta tweak your timing, though,” he said, winking at deliciously close range. “Needs work.”
“You've got the requisite focus,” Emmett replied, tugging Marty close. “And I...” He grinned, realizing they had nothing left to risk, recalling Marty's hushed breath against the shell of his ear. “I feel the same way about you, too.”