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November, 1955. Electricity laps at the frame of the DeLorean like many blue and red tongues, and then it’s gone. Vanished into the past just seconds before it was due to strike the mural painted onto the wall of the drive-in theater.
Emmett shouts in victory and releases another bullet from his hand gun. He hops and kicks around in the gravel until the cloud of dust chokes him and he has to stop to catch his breath. At some point in his celebrating he must have thrown his hat, because he spies it lying a few yards away and stoops to pick it up. When he straightens, he’s grinning from ear to ear.
They’ve done it again, twice now: traveled through time. Never mind that he hasn’t invented the machine yet, this is still his success, just displaced by thirty years.
And what a success it is. The improvements his future self made to the machine in 2015 still have Emmett reeling, high off his own ingenuity and the knowledge of the technological advancements to come. He wishes he’d remembered to take a few photographs of some of the DeLorean’s components, but the opportunity has just vanished into the distance, along with Marty McFly.
Marty.
There isn’t the same weight to this goodbye as there had been that time in front of the clock tower. In fact, there’s a half-formed suspicion in the back of Emmett’s mind that Marty will reappear in front of him any second now, perhaps in the same DeLorean he’s just sent him off in.
Not that Emmett is waiting around to see. He’s just processing, basking in the glow of their accomplishment as sweat trickles down his temple. A minute ticks by. Ten minutes. The California sun beats down directly overhead, but Emmett refuses to do more than step under the awning of the small stucco snack bar. He scans the distance, prepared to spot the glint of a futuristic vehicle on the road leading up to the drive-in theater, but there isn’t one.
Perhaps this time it really worked. Perhaps they accomplished what they set out to do in the first place and Emmett won’t lay eyes on his young friend for another thirty years.
The thought doesn’t quite wipe the smile off Emmett’s face, but it does dampen it. Of course Emmett wants this experiment to have been a success. Any scientist worth their salt would want nothing less. And it’s good for Marty as well to return to his own timeline and get on with his life. There’s nothing for Marty in 1955 except Emmett, who he’ll see no matter which direction he goes in time, forwards or backwards. And he has people waiting for him: a family Emmett’s seen in a photograph, and a girl. Jennifer.
But there’s a part of Emmett that is beginning to feel bereft. It’s Emmett that has to make space for the loss, that has to face the foreseeable future without the only other person in the world he can talk to about any of this. And thirty years is a long time to be apart.
How odd that he’s come to think of Marty so fondly in so short a time. That his absence, which prior to two weeks ago Emmett never would have noticed, now feels so profound. He’s never experienced anything quite like it, the instant familiarity and companionship he’d felt with Marty. Perhaps it was the foundation of friendship Marty brought back with him from the future that lent their relationship the comfort and ease Emmett found it to have.
Whatever the case, Emmett is not ashamed to admit he misses Marty already.
By the time Emmett finally leaves the drive-in theater, the sun has begun to set in the distance. There’s no use waiting around in the dark. Marty isn’t going to return—not here, not now. But if he should, whether it be in 1955 or 1965 or any other point in time, Emmett will be waiting for him. And Marty knows where to look.
November, 1956. It’s been one year to the day since Emmett bid goodbye to Marty in the drive-in parking lot, and he’s only just beginning to come to terms with the fact that Marty’s absence may be permanent—at least until they meet again in the natural course of time.
Emmett tries to take this as a good sign. The kinks with the time machine must evidently have been ironed out. The space-time continuum is probably safe. Marty likely succeeded in saving Emmett’s future-self in 1885.
But there’s a Marty-shaped hole in Emmett’s life, and no matter how hard he tries to ignore it, he can’t quite keep himself from fixating on it. It's not unlike the way one might tongue at the gap left by a missing tooth: habitual, automatic. Emmett makes an interesting observation in his workshop and turns to inform Marty. Emmett has a question he’d like to bounce off another brain and immediately wants to ask Marty. Emmett thinks it might be nice to head into town for a meal and wishes he could invite Marty.
It’s sad, really. Some might say pathetic. But that fact doesn’t stop Emmett from driving out to the drive-in theater and sitting alone in the parking lot on the anniversary of their farewell. He’s not expecting anything—or at least that’s what he tells himself. But the disappointment that settles heavy in his chest by nightfall says otherwise.
Emmett receives a call in the Autumn of 1959. Arthur Hankhoven, an old alumni of Emmett’s and current head of Duke University’s physics department, has a job offer for him. A research fellowship. He’s familiar with Emmett’s work on polarized proton collision, or at least he was for a time back when Emmet’s work was still being published.
“I think you’d be a real asset out here in North Carolina,” says Arthur, his thick Boston accent loud and clear through the earpiece of the telephone. “You’ve got a different way of looking at things and that’s what our team needs right now. Someone who can think outside the box.”
“Wow. I’m flattered, really.” Emmet’s mouth has gone dry. Is this conversation really happening? He thinks it is. “Can I have some time to think about it? It’s just…North Carolina. It’s quite far.”
“Humid, too. But you’ll get used to it, I promise. Just let me know before the end of the week. I have to make a decision by Friday, and I’ve got a few other candidates lined up. You’re my first choice though, Emmett, so don’t go turning me down.” Arthur chuckles, and Emmett in turn forces out a laugh.
“Thank you,” Emmett remembers to say before the line goes dead. Then he hangs up the receiver of the telephone and goes to sit on the couch.
There’s a surreal quality to the living room once Emmett recovers enough to look around. He feels as if he could reach out and touch any number of his possessions but never quite make contact, as if he were experiencing life through a veil. Copernicus pads into the room at some point and licks his hand, but Emmett doesn’t feel it.
This phone call has just changed everything. One minute he was existing comfortably, walking down the path that had been planted before him, and the next he’s at a crossroads, a crossroads that wasn’t on any of the maps Emmett ever saw, a crossroads that wasn’t supposed to be there.
Had the Emmett of 1985—Marty’s Emmett—received this same opportunity? And if so, had he taken it? Had he left Hill Valley for Duke University in 1959? And if he had, how did he end up back in California in time to meet Marty and invent the time machine? What happened in the span of the next 26 years that led to that sequence of events? What was he, the Emmett of 1959, supposed to do now?
Not for the first time, Emmett feels an overwhelming sense of frustration that he can’t just ask. He had been so adamant with Marty that he hadn’t wanted to know anything about his own future, and yet now he would give anything for a bit of guidance, a sense of direction. Despite his commitment to a life of possibility and free will, there are things Emmett wants to see come into fruition, and if he does anything to change his circumstances he risks potentially throwing his entire life off course.
And he can’t risk that—can’t risk creating a future without Marty in it, his future best friend and scientific collaborator. Emmett could fill up a book with all the things he’s wanted to tell Marty over the years: break-throughs and mundane anecdotes alike, interesting tid-bits of information, thoughts, feelings, and questions, so many questions. He’s thought about writing them all down, saving the really important stuff so that he can remember to bring it up with Marty later, but he doesn’t. By then, he’s sure they’ll have other things to talk about.
Emmett wonders if they’ll talk about this, about the years he spent in the interim waiting for Marty. And if they do, what will he have to tell Marty? That Emmett put his life on hold waiting for the future to come? Allowing time to happen to him rather than taking any meaningful action? No. If Emmett knows Marty, and he thinks he does, he’d be furious, disappointed with Emmett for holding himself back.
Abruptly, Emmett leaps up off the couch and shakes his head to clear it. It’s no use sitting there any longer. He’s no closer to a decision now than he was when he’d ended the phone call, and besides, he does his best thinking in his workshop anyway.
Four days and a great deal of scientific progress later, Emmett is ready to make the call.
“I’ve given it a lot of thought this past week, and I’ve decided to accept your offer. However, I have a few conditions.” Emmett clears his throat. “My work at Duke will only be temporary. I have commitments in California I need to return to in a few years’ time. And I’ll need to review any contracts carefully before signing. Namely, it’s important that all intellectual property will remain my own, regardless of whether I come up with it at Duke or in my own lab. Is that clear?”
There’s a beat as Arthur seemingly considers this.
“You drive a hard bargain, Emmett. But I have to give you credit, you seem to know what you want. I’ll talk to my superiors about retention of intellectual property, but as for the rest, I can personally guarantee it.”
“Really?”
“Really. Welcome aboard, Dr. Brown.”
August 1st, 1962.
The fire consumes everything.
Emmett returns to Hill Valley to sweep up the pieces of his life.
Painstakingly taping the letter Marty wrote to him back together does not give him the sense of comfort and assurance he hoped it would.
1968. It’s early summer in Hill Valley and the temperature has started to climb. Emmett sits in front of an air conditioning unit of his own design as he scans the morning paper, taking sips from a chipped mug of iced tea. Copernicus sits a ways away near the garage door, eyeing the chugging AC unit warily and panting to keep cool.
Emmett barely scans the current events section of the Hill Valley Telegraph and completely does away with sports before landing on the announcements. It’s something of an appetizer before he gets to the science section, but he’s gotten into the habit of checking ever since he returned from North Carolina to the news of the first McFly boy’s birth. His eyes meander across the black and white type without any real urgency. He’s learned by now not to expect anything.
Suddenly, the mug falls to the floor and shatters.
George and Lorraine McFly welcomed a healthy baby boy on June 12th, 1968 at Hill Valley Hospital. Martin Seamus McFly, 8 pounds 8 ounces, is their second son and third child overall.
“Great Scott. Martin Seamus McFly. Marty!”
Emmett jumps up from his chair and punches the air. Finally, after thirteen years of waiting, Marty McFly exists in the same timeline as him again. Granted, he’s only a day old, but the fact remains: Marty is real, everything that ever happened to them was real, and it’s only a matter of time before he grows up into the boy Emmett remembers.
After a celebratory dance around the garage, Emmett whirls around to face Copernicus.
“What do you think, boy? Should we send flowers? A card? A fruit basket?!”
Copernicus climbs to his feet with some difficulty and wags his tail at Emmett.
“No, no, you’re right. That’s too impersonal. We can do better than that. Come on, let’s go see what we can cook up!”
Emmett takes the lead and Copernicus follows him over to his workbench on shaky legs.
Christmas Eve, 1978. For the first time in nearly two decades, Hill Valley is about to have a white Christmas. Half an inch of white powder dusts everything in sight, with more flakes falling gently from the night sky.
Emmett walks carefully from the door of the hardware store to his car. Beneath the snow crunching softly underfoot is a layer of ice, and with his arms laden with heavy shopping bags he has nothing to catch himself with should he slip and fall. Unfortunately, he is not careful enough, and one wrong step sends Emmet twirling through the air to land on his back.
“Damn it!” Emmet curses under his breath, taking inventory of his situation. He can still wiggle his toes despite the throbbing of his tail bone, and the pain is minimal compared to his irritation. This was just what he needed, especially when one of his shopping bags was entirely full of glassware.
“Are you okay, Mister?” asks a small voice from nearby.
“Fine, fine.” Emmett mutters, brushing snow off of his jacket. Great. An audience. “Just a little fall.”
“Here, let me help.”
Before Emmett can refuse, a small boy begins gathering up the fallen shopping bags and setting them upright on the edge of the sidewalk. Emmett takes his time getting to his feet using a nearby street lamp for leverage. He’s only just straightened and begun to pick up the bags when a shrill voice breaks through the snow dampened silence.
“Marty? Marty! Come here right now!”
Emmett glances up, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. It’s been more than twenty years, but he’d know that voice anywhere.
Lorraine McFly stands ten feet away on the sidewalk, flanked by two teenagers. She holds out a mittened hand, which is frantically occupied in a come-hither gesture. Her face is stricken with anxiety. With his heart in his throat, Emmet swivels to look at the boy beside him, who is still lining up shopping bags neatly on the curb. Emmett is so much taller than him that all he can see is the top of a mousy brown head.
“M–” Emmet swallows the boy’s name before he can say it. The sound gets the boy’s attention, and he looks up at him expectantly. “Thank you, young man,” Emmett croaks, a sentiment which feels wholly inadequate given all the things Emmett has wanted to say to him for the past two decades.
“You’re welcome,” says Marty McFly, aged ten.
With that, he scampers off to rejoin his mother and siblings, leaving Emmett alone to stare after him. Lorraine wraps an arm around her son’s shoulders and quickly ushers her family away. Her scolding is just loud enough for Emmett to hear.
“Marty McFly, don’t you ever talk to that old man again! Do you hear me?”
“Why?” Comes the reply, small and fading as the distance between the two parties grows larger.
Emmett doesn’t get to hear the answer to Marty’s question, but he can imagine it. Dr. Brown is crazy. A nutcase. A whackjob. He’s heard the rumors enough times by now to be bored of them, but somehow knowing they’re being fed into Marty’s fresh young ears makes them sting anew. He doesn’t want Marty to hear. Doesn’t want Marty to be influenced against him. For all he knows, the Dr. Emmett Brown of Marty’s original timeline never fell from grace. There’s a chance this young Marty will hear these things and obey his mother and never speak to him again. There's a chance that in the here and now, this is destined to be their last conversation.
Emmett hopes to God it’s not.
Standing under the light of the street lamp, Emmett lingers long after losing sight of his young friend, until his paper bags grow soggy and his hair turns wet from the snow.
September, 1982. The door to Emmett’s garage is wide open. As soon as he notices this on his walk up the driveway his footsteps slow, and he keeps toward the wall of the building so as not to be spotted approaching.
How odd. Why would someone choose the middle of the afternoon to break in? The sun is still up, for Christ's sake. They must be an idiot. Then again, Emmett supposes someone might have been observing his daily movements and noticed he tends to leave around the same time each day, so, perhaps not an idiot.
Outside the door Emmett sets down his shopping bags as quietly as possible and stops to listen. No noises reach his ears from inside. Strange. Could he have left the door open by mistake?
Emmett intends to find out. With the utmost caution, he rounds the door frame and enters the garage. It’s difficult to tell whether anything is out of place, given that his home is in a constant state of disarray, but as his eyes flick over his belongings he doesn’t notice anything missing. The television, the stereo, and everything else of value are right where they should be.
“Einstein?” Emmett calls out hesitantly, whistling.
A soft woof reaches him from near the sofa. Emmett makes his way over, stepping over empty boxes and scattered papers as he goes. He spots Einstein’s wiry tail poking out from between a table and the wall.
“What’s wrong, Einie? Did you get stuck?”
Another woof. Emmett crouches down, ready to lend a helping hand, when he catches sight of a body wedged into the crack.
“Ahhhhhh!”
Emmett cries out and leaps back, knocking over a work table stationed behind him. The boy in the crevice screams too and cowers with his eyes shut. Einstein adds his voice to the cacophony with a number of loud barks before licking the child’s face to quiet his screams.
It takes a minute for Emmett’s heart to resume beating, during which he nearly slips and falls over the papers underfoot, but as soon as it does he creeps forward to take a closer look at his intruder.
“Marty?” Emmett whispers.
The boy’s eyes blink open, the same clear, deep blue Emmett remembers from a lifetime ago. His face is softer and rounder than it had been in 1955, but the button nose and pointy chin are unmistakable. Emmett would recognize him anywhere, even with Einstein obscuring the boy's face with his big fluffy head.
“Marty McFly. Great Scott…Has it really been thirty years?”
“H-how do you know my name?” Marty replies, angling his neck to avoid getting dog slobber in his mouth.
Shit. That had slipped out.
Emmett straightens up out of his crouch and folds his arms across his chest. He’s not supposed to know Marty. To behave otherwise would only alarm him, and the last thing he wants to do is mess with the natural order of things by traumatizing his young friend. Fortunately, Emmett made the decision on how he would handle Marty’s re-entry into his life a long time ago. He just has to stick to the plan.
“You’re George McFly’s boy,” says Emmett, as if they were strangers—which, in Marty's case, they are. “What are you doing in my house?”
“I’m sorry. I was playing football with my friends when our ball flew through your window. I just came inside to get it. I didn’t touch anything, I swear.”
“I see." Emmett casts a look around the room. "So, where’s the ball?”
“What?”
“The football. If you came inside to get it, where is it?”
“It’s um…it’s over um…” Marty’s eyes dart around the cluttered garage as if hoping a football will appear in front of him. Emmett watches as the remaining blood drains from the poor boy's face. He looks as if he might be sick.
“Nevermind, nevermind,” Emmett says hastily, unable to be the cause of any undue suffering. He shoos Einstein away and offers Marty a hand to stand up. Marty eyes him warily for no more than a second before taking it and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Say, help me with this, will you?” Emmett gestures to the overturned table behind him.
“Sure.” Marty dashes quickly to the other side of it, skidding slightly on debris, and together they set it upright. At Emmett’s cue, Marty begins assisting in piling all the stuff that fell back on top of it: composition books, engineering journals, wrenches, toolboxes, circuit boards, and any number of other odds and ends.
“What’s this?” Marty asks when they’re nearly finished, holding up a gray box. He's paused no less than a dozen times to examine this or that object, eyes narrowed with curiosity.
“It’s a sonar system. A prototype for hunting down naval mines.”
“What’s a naval mine?”
“An underwater bomb." Emmett turns his attention to the smaller objects on the floor now, the nuts and bolts and paper clips. "I built this for the US Navy back in ‘75. Apparently they were doing some illegal submarining off the coast of Russia and didn’t want to encounter any unknown explosives.”
“Whoa.” Marty’s eyes are round as saucers as he sets the box back down. “That’s heavy. And this?”
"Particle beam gun. Doesn't work."
Marty mouths a word Emmett doesn't hear but he thinks might be 'fuck.' They work in silence for another few minutes to finish cleaning up the mess. Marty finishes his side first and wanders off a few steps, poking his head into various corners and scanning shelves with his eyes. Emmett places his last handful of screws into a metal tin before pausing to observe Marty's inspection of the garage. Eventually, Emmett walks around the table and fixes the boy with a penetrating stare.
“So. Are you ready to tell me why you really broke in here?”
Marty immediately ducks his head in shame, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah, about that. Look, I’m sorry, Dr. Brown. I just…Everyone’s always saying all this stuff about you, y’know?”
“Oh, I know. Trust me. I’ve been hearing it for the last twenty years.”
“Yeah, well.” Marty scuffs the toe of his sneaker over the concrete. “I guess I just wanted to see if any of it was true. So…Is it?”
“Is what true?”
“Are you really um. Crazy?”
Emmett narrowly avoids barking out a laugh. Marty’s expression is so innocent in this moment, so full of courage and curiosity and a healthy amount of skepticism that Emmett wishes he could reach right out and hug him.
He doesn’t, of course. Marty doesn’t know him well enough for that yet, and he doesn’t want to scare the boy off when he's only just now ventured close. Instead, Emmett bends down until they’re at eye-level. Marty’s throat bobs in a swallow, but he doesn’t back away as Emmett asks, “What do you think?”