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Thursday, February 7th, 1889
The last thing Emmett had expected to find upon exiting the smithy was Marty in the midst of an altercation with Mad Dog Tannen.
The outlaw who, according to rumor, had recently escaped custody, had presumably tracked Marty down in the hopes of rehashing a fight.
That in and of itself didn’t come as much of a surprise to Doc.
After all, Buford had vowed for revenge on the day of his defeat–promising to execute them both upon his release.
What did alarm the scientist, however, was the sound of their daughter’s wailing.
Emmett had shoved his way through the gathered crowd of curious Hill Valley citizens, until he could get a proper glimpse of what had happened. Having then been met with the sight of Darcy being shielded behind Marty, who was but an arm’s length away from Mad Dog, Emmett promptly jumped into action.
Though he hadn’t the faintest idea as to why, the 2-year-old was crying heartily, and clutching her shoulder, as if she were in pain.
Alarm bells went off in Doc’s head.
In the blink of an eye, the old man had rushed forward and scooped Darcy up into his arms, before taking a gigantic leap back, with the intention of putting as much distance between their daughter and the altercation as possible.
This had captured Buford’s attention.
“Well, lookie who we have here!” the outlaw giddily exclaims.
“If it ain’t the old blacksmith himself. Say, yer real lucky, there, Brown–bagging yourself a dame like Eastwood. I shoulda known there was something off about you two. Looks like you’ve gone and had yerself a kid now, huh–?”
Mad Dog attempts to step around Marty, but is prevented from doing so when Marty plants a hand in the square of his chest and shoves him away.
Though taken aback, Buford promptly recovers, and his stunned expression morphs into that of a sneer.
"Ha!" Tannen barks. "Is that all you've got, Runt–?”
Buford's nose breaks with a sickening crack as Marty's fist abruptly connects with his face. Blood pours from his nostrils; coloring his filthy mug and Marty's knuckles red.
Buford pulls back, dumbfounded, and blinks at Marty.
Emmett's mouth falls open as Marty rears back and punches the outlaw again.
That jab is immediately followed by another; Marty strikes Buford in the temple, eliciting a howl from the man.
“Ah! ” Tannen cups a hand over his eye socket. “Wha– What the fuck is the matter with you, you stupid–!”
His next hit lands on Buford's jaw, hard enough to dislocate it. Simultaneously, Marty strikes Mad Dog in the gut with his opposite fist, effectively knocking the wind out of him.
Mad Dog hasn't any chance of retaliating; Marty’s moving at a pace that the bulky Tannen can’t keep up with.
He can only stand there in a winded stupor as the young man beats him.
Emmett tears his eyes away from Marty’s fists to get a look at him directly.
Marty's teeth are grit and bared; his eyes are wide and steely. A low rumble, resembling that of a growl, emanates from Marty's throat. Palpable wrath rolls off of him in waves.
"Hell hath no fury," Doc mutters aloud to himself. "Like a mother scorned."
With his fingers buried in their daughter's hair, who's head twists in a fruitless effort to catch a glimpse of the action, Emmett turns on heel and hurries back into the general store, where he leaves Darcy with Isabelle and Sam, before returning to the scene of the beating.
Buford's long since fallen to his knees. His arms are raised above his head, in an attempt to shield his face. He's half-pleading with Marty to cease his attack, though he is wholly ignored by the 20-year-old.
It's evident that if not stopped, Marty may very well kill Buford.
"Marty!" Emmett calls, though it falls on deaf ears. Though wary to approach, Emmett does so anyway, and reaches out to grab Marty by his shoulder. "Marty, stop–"
The initial contact does little to stop Marty; he simply shrugs Doc off and carries on despite the old man's intervention.
A sudden, sharp kick to his chest sends Buford careening backwards. He lands on his back with a shout; a cloud of clay-dirt erupts from the ground upon impact.
As the dust settles, Buford sputters and flails at the sight of a rapidly-approaching Marty. He flips onto his hands and knees and scrambles to put distance between Marty and himself.
Marty follows suit with a leg raised in the air, in an apparent attempt to bring his boot down on Mad Dog's spine.
Before he can act on it, Emmett quickly snatches Marty up by the scruff of his poncho, and pulls him in against his chest. Doc embraces him tightly from behind, effectively trapping the younger man.
There’s a brief moment of stillness, before Marty grabs a hold of Emmett's wrists.
Though an escape attempt is what Doc had been initially prepared for, in lieu of fighting him, Marty simply squeezes Emmett’s wrists and shuts his eyes, before deflating in his arms–presumably and understandably exhausted after nearly beating a man three times his size to death.
Now once idle, frightened passerby's move in and crowd around the outlaw. They gasp and retch at the sight of him–yet Emmett's attention is wholly drawn to Marty's bloodied, swollen knuckles.
They'd need to be iced.
“Oh, Marty,” Emmett whispers. “Look at your poor hands…”
Alerted to the commotion by the townsfolk, Constable Strickland and his officers soon arrive on the scene.
"Serves you right," the Constable scolds, after being given the full story by a bystander. "–Grabbing a child like that. You ought to be ashamed."
Strickland's men haul Buford to his feet, and handcuff him. The outlaw hoots in glee and whips around to grin at Marty; his rotted, stinking teeth red with claggy, dirty blood.
"Praise the lord for Constable Strickland!" he exclaims. "–For saving my behind from this demented harlot!"
With a snort, Mad Dog spits at Marty's feet; a glob of greenish, red-tinged phlegm nearly lands on Marty’s boot. To Doc’s surprise, contained within the clot of mucus is a tooth!
Buford appears to be just as shocked by this as everybody else is. He tongues at the freshly exposed gum the wayward molar leaves behind.
“Damn. Seems ya got me good, Eastwood.” Tannen mutters. Then, the outlaw’s swollen face breaks out into a downright ghoulish grin. He wets his lips and blows a sloppy kiss at Marty. “Looks like I'm outta here. See ya for our next date, toots!”
Marty’s hackles rise and in turn, he hisses an obscenity at Buford. Emmett’s grip on Marty tightens by a modicum; more so out of protectiveness than anything else.
“Oh, hush up, Tannen!” Strickland says, indicating with a hand to his men that he wants the outlaw gone. “Take this unruly beast away, I'm tired of looking at im’!”
After Mad Dog’s dragged away, Doc releases Marty, and the Constable dismounts his horse before approaching them.
“Thanks for apprehending Buford, yet again, Mr. Eastwood.” the Constable claps Marty on the shoulder with a single nod of gratitude.
Marty visibly flinches at the contact, and gives the officer a half-grimace in return. “Huh? O-Oh yeah, uh… no problem.”
Though there is no visible unease to be seen on Strickland’s ever-stoic visage, his mustache twitches slightly–an indication of the Constable’s concern.
“...You ought to go back home and rest up now,” he says. “You appear a little rough for wear yourself, dear boy.”
Marty glances at his knuckles after Strickland points them out to him.
“–Go on home and tend to your wounds. We’ll take good care of Tannen, don’t you worry, son.”
“Uh, yeah,” Marty says, limply dropping his hands to his sides as the Constable remounts his horse and rides off. “–Yeah, I’ll do that.”
In the absence of the bloodied and bruising Mad Dog, the only person left for the townsfolk to gawk at is Marty.
Eyes begin to turn to look at them; some are filled with reverie, and others…
"Come on," Doc takes Marty’s hand in his and gives it a gentle squeeze. "Let's go home."
After fetching Darcy and returning to the smithy, Doc sits Marty down in bed, and has him soak his hands in a pail of cool water.
Marty hisses as his sore knuckles come into contact with the icy water, and damn-near bursts into tears after Doc asks him what had happened.
"Buford spotted me before I could react. When he saw that I had Darcy in my arms, he asked me who she was. I told him it wasn’t any of his business, but he knew. He knew she was our daughter,”
Emmett glanced at Darcy, who was sleeping soundly in her twin bed, no more than a couple feet away.
He had tucked her in upon returning to the smithy; assuring her that Marty was alright after the little girl had asked about her mommy.
His heart ached at the thought of Darcy getting caught up in a fight with that no good mongrel, Tannen.
Marty continues.
“–He asked me if I was gonna cooperate, or if he’d be ‘forced to resort to drastic measures’. When I turned to walk away, he grabbed Darcy by the arm and tried to yank her out of my grasp.”
Emmett frowns as tears begin to spill down Marty’s cheeks.
“I–I hadn’t meant to lose my cool like that,” Marty sniffles. He wipes his nose off on his arm and squeezes his eyes shut, as if the memory of it alone was enough to incite pain. “But, when she began to scream, I lost it. I know I shouldn’t have, but I set her down and got back in his face, because…”
As he rests his hand on top of Marty’s, softly, Doc inquires: “Because?”
Marty lifts his head to look at him.
“Because I was gonna kill him,” he bites out; eyes aflame with a fury like no other, though they soften relatively quickly. Delicately, Marty interlaces his fingers with Doc’s. “If… If it weren’t for you, Doc, I… I think I would have.”
Marty bows his head, as if he were ashamed of what he’d done. They sit in silence for a moment, as Doc attempts to find the words to convey his thoughts in an eloquent manner.
"I don't blame you," Emmett says. "He could've torn her arm out of its socket–if it weren't for you, it's likely we'd be dealing with a very injured toddler. I say, ‘Good on you for protecting our daughter.’"
Doc releases Marty’s hand and indicates for him to offer him his other–the one soaking in the ice beside him on their nightstand.
“Like any mother, you’re a force to be reckoned with when faced with matters involving your child,”
Emmett towels off Marty’s chilly hand after he extracts it from the pail, and begins wrapping it in bandages. Marty winces as he submerges his other hand in the icy water.
“Though, I can’t say I've ever seen you so furious…”
“I crossed the line,” Marty sighs. “You saw the way they looked at me out there–like I was a monster. Our neighbors are afraid of me now.”
Emmett frowns.
"Yes,” the old man says, prompting Marty to look up at him. "Well… If it weren't for all the good the Tannen's buffoonery has done, I…”
He swallows thickly. “–Admittedly, I'd have let you kill him for what he did. And who knows? Perhaps he’ll succumb to injury and perish after all. I’d say, ‘good riddance–serves him right!’”
Marty’s face contorts into a pinched expression of confliction, to which Emmett quickly shakes his head. "Worry not, my dear. I'm sure he'll make a full recovery..." Doc scoffs. "He always seems to."
Following this comment, an odd quiet settles over them.
Emmett wraps up Marty’s other hand after it, too, is done soaking.
"You don't think I'm a bad person for what I did... right, Doc?" Marty whispers, as Emmett places twin kisses on his bandaged hands. “I can’t get the looks on our friends faces out of my head…”
"Of course not," Doc affirms. "You're anything but.”
As Doc coerces Marty to lie down in bed, he plants a gentle kiss on Marty's lips and holds his hands in his. "Rest up now, my dear. Worry not about what others think. I think you’re an amazing person–and an even better mother.”
Marty breaths an audible sigh of relief at that. “Thanks, Doc.”
Doc gives him another kiss. “–I'll tend to Darcy for the evening. Just lie back and relax."
“Are you sure?” Marty says. He makes a half-hearted attempt to sit up. “If you need me, I can–”
Before Marty can do anything, Emmett puts a stop to it by placing a hand on his shoulder and gently shushing him. “We’ll be fine,” he assures Marty. “Rest,”
Then, Doc puts on his best impression of a stern look. “–That’s an order.”
For what seems like the first time in hours, Marty smiles, and does as he is told and lies back down. With a final squeeze, Marty reluctantly releases Emmett’s hands.
"Kay'," he quietly replies; his eyelids visibly heavy with sleep. "Y–You're the Doc, Doc.”
After Marty’s fallen asleep, Doc removes the pail from his bedside table and snuffs out the candle that’d been illuminating them.
Bidding a final goodnight to their daughter, Emmett crawled into bed beside Marty, pulled him in against his chest, and promptly fell asleep, anxiously awaiting a new, and hopefully much better day.
…
Funny thing is, though, a dreary thought persisted in his head even after Emmett closed his eyes.
A thought that disturbed the scientist to no end.
After an hour or so of tossing and turning, Doc gets out of bed and, after ensuring Marty and Darcy are still soundly sleeping, slips out of the smithy and makes his way to Chester’s.
The saloon goes quiet as he enters; news of Marty’s showdown with Buford has surely made its way through town, by now.
“Hiya, Emmett!” Chester says from behind the bar. He’s got a washcloth in his hand and an empty mug in the other; a row of freshly wiped glasses sit neatly atop the counter.
“I'm guessing you’ve all heard about Marty’s spat with Mad Dog?” Emmett asks as he approaches.
“Heard of it?” Chester snickers. “Ain’t a single person shut up about it since this afternoon.”
Emmett grimaces, an expression which does not go unnoticed by the barkeep.
“Something I can get ya’, Emmett?”
“Sarsaparilla,” the old man sighs. “And, perhaps, a thimble of cider to accompany it.”
“Cider, eh?” Chester raises a wry eyebrow; mirth tugging at the corner of his lips. “You sure you wanna drink tonight, Emmett?”
Emmett waves off the bartender’s concern and indicates to him that yes, he will indulge in the consumption of alcohol tonight.
“In fact,” he says aloud. “Why don’t you upgrade it to a malt?”
“Easy there, Emmett,” Chester sets his glass of apple cider on the counter and tops it off with sarsaparilla. “–I ain’t wanna be the one responsible for sending you back to Marty boozed up. But I ain’t your papa, Emmett, so… Here you go,”
He slides the glass over to Doc with a smile. “One spiked root beer, on the house. On account of yer’ boy kicking Mad Dog’s sorry behind.”
With a grimace, Emmett takes the glass in hand and throws it back, before setting it back down. “Another,” Emmett says.
Chester’s brows go up at that.
“Only if you promise not to down this one,” Chester mutters as he takes the glass and tops it off again.
“I promise,” Emmett says. And as promised, he only takes a sip from it this time as Chester hands it back to him.
As Chester leaves to tend to another customer, Doc nurses off his glass and allows his mind to wander. Memories of today’s bizarre encounter with Buford play out in his mind.
Marty did a number on the guy. Any sane person would take the hint and keep their distance.
But the Tannen’s were anything but sane.
“You look pensive, old timer,” Chester comments with a mild frown. “What’s plaguing you?”
Damn, Doc hadn’t even registered that Chester had returned. The old man blinks hard at him, then averts his stony gaze to the half empty glass sat on the counter.
“It’s Marty,” Emmett says after a pensive moment with a sigh. “I'm worried that Hill Valley isn’t a safe place for us to live in anymore.”
“Why? Cuz’ the locals are a little shaken up by his display of violence? Don’t you go a-worrying’ about that, now, you hear? He did what any mother would’ve done for her children. Ain’t nobody gonna run you out of town–save for Buford Tannen, that is.”
“That’s what I'm afraid of.” Emmett whispers. As that grisly thought from earlier rears its ugly head again, Doc squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “What are we gonna do if he manages to skirt custody again? He’ll no doubt come after Marty, and who knows what’ll happen? I mean, just think, what if he catches the kid off guard…?”
Emmett bows his head. “–I don’t think I have the strength to even give the thought of Marty getting killed any energy.”
Chester watches him with sad eyes as Emmett tosses back another swig of his drink.
“I feel you, Emmett. I really do,” Chester mutters. “Marty’s a good kid. You’ve gone and made him into a mother. And a good one, at that. I’d hate to see him get gunned down.”
“Oh, Christ,” Doc palms at his forehead. “–Jesus, anything but that…”
“I'm sure nothing will come of it,” is Chester’s sore attempt at reassuring Doc, but ever the realest, he then says: “But… He will escape again, you know,”
Emmett glances up at Chester; the bartender’s expression is abnormally grim. “–He always does. Either by sheer force of will or bribing the police. Marty’s got a target on his back. If I were you, I’d figure this mess out before something bad does happen.”
Emmett visibly recoils at that. He isn’t sure if it’s the alcohol, or Chester’s words that have his stomach churning, but either way, Doc is sure that if he doesn’t leave right now, he will throw up on the floor of the saloon.
Doc hastily rises to his feet. “I–I've gotta go,” he says.
He tosses a coin at Chester for the second cider before turning on heel and booking it out of there.
Instead of returning to the smithy, Emmett’s feet carry him all the way to the edge of town, where Clara’s humble cottage stands.
He raps on the door for a solid 20 seconds. As soon as it is opened by the pajama-clad Clayton, Emmett blurts: “–I want to build the time-train.”
For a long moment, Clara simply stares at him. She rubs the sleep from her eyes, before uttering a “Huh?”
Doc grabs her tightly by the shoulders. “Remember what we talked about?” he says. “About converting that old steam train we found by the tracks into a time machine, just as I had done with the DeLorean before it was destroyed?”
“I–Well, yes, o–of course I remember, Emmett, but what is this–?”
“We have got to build it. I don’t know what else to do. The only viable option that we have is to return to 1985.”
“Emmett,” Clara says gently. She coaxes Doc into releasing the grasp he has on her. “Now, I don’t know what’s got you spooked, but think about what you’re saying. That project is a pipe-dream–you said so yourself! As happy as I am to help you with your experiments, using a time machine to avoid your problems is not realistic.”
“You…” Emmett considers Clara’s words. “You are right, of course. It’d take at least a year for us to gather our materials, let alone begin to work on the train itself… Oh, dear.”
Dejected, Emmett takes a seat on Clara’s porch-bench and places his head in his hands.
“Oh, Clara, what am I going to do?” he mutters.
Clara follows suit and takes a seat down next to him. She pats Doc on the back and offers him her hand with a squeeze. “Why don’t you fill me in as to what’s happened?”
After Emmett’s finished telling her about Marty’s fight with Mad Dog, the aftermath, and what Chester had warned him about, the younger woman sinks into the bench.
“Boy, I sure did miss a lot,” she mumbles. “I'm glad Marty’s okay. And Darcy, too.”
Emmett nods. “Yeah…”
Recounting the events out loud had proven too much for the old man, who dabs at the corner of his eyes with his sleeve and sniffs.
“–They’re okay. But I'm still afraid for them, Clara. That’s why I want to build the time-train, to take us back to 1985; there’s nowhere we can go now where Buford couldn’t track us down–save for the future…”
He continues.
“I don’t want anything bad to happen to my family…” Emmett bows his head with a sigh. “You are right, though. Using time travel to evade your problems is not practical. Or necessarily smart…”
“Perhaps not,” Clara says, before tilting her head to look at Doc. A mild grin graces the younger woman’s tired face. “But I wouldn’t entirely mind seeing the future.”
“Wait–” Emmett’s head snaps up to look at her in shock. “You mean–?”
“Tell you what,” Clara pats Emmett on the knee before standing. “We’ll start looking into finding the materials tomorrow. You ought to run this plan by Marty first, though. I’d hate to make him feel left out.”
Doc leaps to his feet and throws his arms around Clara in a tight embrace. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, Clara!” the scientist exclaims. “You’re a life-saver!”
Clara pats Doc on the back and chuckles. “Don’t give me too much credit, Emmett. It’s always been your idea. You ought to go back home now; check in on your family for me, hm?”
“Will do, Ms. Clayton,” Emmett breathes, smiling as they part. He tips his hat to her and bids the younger woman goodnight, before going on his way.
Marty is still sleeping by the time the scientist returns, but Darcy is alert in bed and blinks her owlish eyes at him as he enters.
“Where’ve you been, daddy?” his daughter whispers as he approaches her.
“Talking to your auntie Clara,” Doc tells her in a hushed voice, grinning as he ruffles her unruly hair. “Say, what are you doing up?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Darcy answers. She gives the plush rabbit in her arms a squeeze. “–Heard a noise and thought it was a monster!”
Doc arched a brow at that. “A monster, eh?”
Emmett takes a seat on Darcy’s tiny cot. The wood creaks beneath his weight as he settles in. “–What kind of monster?”
“A big, mean, ugly one!” Darcy raises onto her knees, and bares her teeth at Doc, as if imitating said monster. “Who stinks and drools a lot!”
“Ahh,” Emmett smirks a bit. “He wouldn’t happen to be named Tannen, would he?”
Darcy sits back on her haunches and gives him her answer in the form of a solemn nod.
Sighing, Emmett grabs her by the armpits and places Darcy in his lap, before embracing her. “Buford is a dastardly character,” he says. “I can see why you’d consider him to be a monster. But, I assure you, Darcy, he’s just a very ugly man.”
Considering this, Darcy’s tiny brow furrows and she says: “Ugly-faced?”
Doc can’t help but laugh at that. “That, too. But he’s even uglier on the inside.”
“Nuh-uh. Not after mommy beat him up! Now he looks like a butt.” Darcy affirms with a nod.
“Indeed,” Doc chuckles.
Reluctant to return to bed, Darcy asks her father for a bedtime story. Never one to deny his daughter, Doc recounts a tale from his youth that his mother often told him before bed.
As Darcy begins to nod off in his lap, Emmett lays the girl back down in bed and kisses her goodnight.
Predictably, as soon as Doc has turned away, Darcy springs back up in bed and latches onto Emmett’s arm, in an attempt to prolong their nocturnal engagement.
“Sleep, darling,” Doc coos, after coaxing her into lying still. He pulls the covers up to her chin and tucks them in around her shoulders. “Have sweet dreams. In the morning, I'll make you some slotted hotcakes.”
“They’re called waffles, daddy!” Darcy giggles.
Emmett hums as the little girl leans up and plants a sleepy kiss on his right cheek, before abruptly turning over and passing out.
For the second time that night, Doc takes a seat on the edge of his and Marty’s bed and unlaces his boots. The first falls to the floor with a bigger clatter than anticipated.
Emmett winces. Behind him, Marty mumbles something incoherent in his sleep and shifts, before falling still again.
Doc takes off his other boot and gently places it on the floor beside the first. He takes off his coat, strips off his pants and shirt, then lays down in bed beside Marty.
Again, the younger man shifts, groans, and turns over, before slinging an arm over Emmett’s chest.
“Mmn… –M-I’mm… I love you, Doc…” he mutters.
Softly, Emmett smiles, gathers Marty up in his arms, and gives the 20-year-old a kiss before shutting his eyes and drifting off to sleep.
“I love you, too, Marty.”