Guess what, guys? Tomorrow is my last Sunday checking in kids for summer camp! I get my Sundays back after tomorrow, along with all the evenings and Saturdays I'm working at home! Summer Camp 2016 comes to a close this Friday, and while I'm excited to get some "me" time back and work on notes to improve everything next summer, I'll be sad to see all the great summer staff and happy campers leave. But bottom line is: way more time to write!

The beautiful patheticpisces is to thank for her exceptional beta-ing!
And to the reviewer early on who dubbed the Marty/Emma pairing "McBrown": I'm officially on board with that ship name. :)

I'm off to compile my last check-in sheet of the summer! Enjoy!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Of The Essence

Friday, November 11, 1955
7:41 AM

By the next morning, Emma had reverted back to the "talk George up" scheme for her final lunch room rendezvous with Lorraine and her friends. Marty didn't understand how this was, even remotely, a good idea, especially considering how spectacularly wrong it had gone the first time around at the café on Tuesday. Emma was clarifying the territorial logic and behavior of girls to him enough that he was following, but still not quite understanding, how this all made perfect sense to females.

Okay, yes, shame on them for not realizing that Emma chatting nonstop about George made it look like she was interested in him. Of course that's what Lorraine thought. That's what any normal girl would think. Clearly, it just hadn't come across the way they had intended it to.

"So, what makes you think you're going to do it right this time?"

Marty zipped her dress, and she let her hair fall over her back as she turned around, adjusting the thin belt at her waist.

"I have a date with him now. She doesn't. And girls always want what they can't have." She put on a sweet, overdone pout and batted her eyelashes coquettishly. "When I talk about how sweet and generous and creative my Georgie pie is, her pretty brown eyes are going to turn green."

Marty made a face, handing her the books from the corner of her nightstand.

"Please don't ever talk about my dad like that again."

Her face deadpanned. "I'm going to have to, Marty. At least around your mother until she gets wise."

Doc suddenly leaned into the doorway. Marty and Emma jumped.

"Are you two ready yet?"

"Yeah, Doc."

His looked at Emma. "Did you remember your medicine?"

"Like I need a reminder," she muttered as they filed out of the bedroom and down the stairs. "I'm starting to regret not sitting this week out like you suggested."

Marty feigned surprise. "Really? Just now?"

Doc cast him a stern eye. He was not about to put up with these two arguing again, let alone forty hours until the lightning strike. Marty read as much on his mentor's face and backed off, but Emma still glowered at him as he held the front door open for her.

"If only to avoid being in your mother's gossip gaggle, yes."

Emma had rehearsed and trained for this covert operation since Lorraine went on the offensive like it was a decathlon, and her preparations did not go unwarranted. Sure, Marty had lines of his own in this little play act, but his appearance was brief. He didn't have to do anything but swing by, confirm his date with Lorraine, and make his interest in her seem convincing for two minutes.

Emma, on the other hand, had to put up a front of how excited she was to be going to the dance with George, not to mention enduring a whole forty-four minutes of being grilled by Babs, Betty, and their ring leader.

'Where were you the past two days?'

'Were you sick?'

'Did you just skip to miss the unit test in Geometry?'

'What color is your dress?'

'Is George picking you up?'

'Is he really as weird as he seems?'

'Or weirder?'

'Are you his girlfriend yet?'

Emma tried to smile at Betty's speculation. These girls were ruthless. And this kind of conversation made her feel like the students she tutored must when they showed up in the library after school – helpless, desperate, and uncomfortable.

Next to her, Lorraine sighed dreamily.

"I hope Calvin asks me to be his girlfriend at the dance."

"What about me?"

The four girls looked; Marty was there, his sleeves rolled up and jacket slung over his shoulder. While Lorraine's cheeks colored and Babs and Betty grinned, Emma rolled her eyes at how long it had taken him to show up, let alone in some 'cool guy' get-up. She bit back her annoyance as Marty picked up her apple, tossing it in his hand.

"You gonna eat this, sis?"

"All yours."

Lorraine finally had the courage to look up again when he took a loud bite from the apple.

"Hey, Lorraine."

"Hi."

"How about I pick you up at your house tomorrow night around eight?"

She tucked her hand under her chin, beaming at him. "That would be perfect."

"Oh, and Em? George says he'll be picking you up at seven. He wants to treat you to Lou's before the dance." Emma played along and perked up in surprise at Marty's wink. Betty slapped her arm playfully as the girls dissolved into laughter.

"I knew he was going to ask you out!"

"Hey," Marty said, pointing at Betty, "he has to go through me first."

"Aw, let her, Calvin! He's all she talks about!"

Marty and Emma shared a quick glance, confirming they were still under the radar. Emma firmly looked away, signaling his exit. With another bite of his apple, he winked again, this time at Lorraine.

"See you tomorrow, Lorraine. Eight o'clock sharp."

It is often said that there is nothing more intimidating than the blank page.

Frayed threads of possibility weave into endless chains of ideas, and the perfectly crafted thought on the tip of the tongue is ever-evasive. This in itself either fuels determination or causes it to wane. Second guessing, pen tapping, eye strain, brain fog – they happen to the best of those in search of the most effective opening.

This isn't hard. You just don't want to do it.

Emma nodded to herself. That's true.

After getting the first sentence out, she was sure there'd be no issues filling the page. But the first sentence wasn't even in question yet; how does she open the letter? Is it a letter? Or just a note? Does it need addressing?

The answer is yes, only because now he was formal with them as far as informalities go. And he was still somewhat of a stranger to her. So, yes, this was a letter. That much she could confidently say.

Now, does she start by addressing it "Dad" or leave it for the end?

At the beginning, it's a fabulous attention-getter. Surely, every word he read after that he would take seriously. But then again, with a bomb like that dropped on him one word in, he might find it hard to focus on whatever she wrote after it. Or even mistake it as a letter to someone else that had somehow ended up in his possession and discard it. Not that that was likely, but "endless possibilities" was a big thing with him.

No, putting it at the end seemed the better option. He'd read it, find out that she was his daughter, perhaps do a bit of reeling, but then reread the letter several times to make sense of it. Maybe.

Still, while that was the biggest of her debates, others nagged at her incessantly.

How does she say what needs to be said?

"Shot by Libyans?" "Killed by terrorists?" "Gunned down?"

Is it a long explanation or short, simple thing?

Authoritative and imperative? Pleading and apologetic?

"Dad,"

Okay! This was good. A good, solid start.

Well, no. Because if he read it bef—?

But wasn't the whole point t—?

Emma grunted, balling up the sheet from the legal pad. She knocked it away with the back of her hand, and it rolled to the other side of the desk where a small pile of freshly crumpled paper teetered on its edge.

For real this time. This was the one.

She put her pen to the paper and stopped.

She couldn't call him "Doc." It didn't sound right, not even on paper. This was her father. She'd forced herself to skirt around calling him by any proper name all week, and now that she was confronted with having to choose one, she took the easy way out and continued on, sans greeting.

"On October 26, 1985, you, me, and Marty are conducting the first temporal experi-"

That was too detailed.

But maybe the big science words would keep him from thinking this letter was for anyone but him. Maybe that was the hook she needed to keep him reading instead of calling him "dad" outright.

…How detailed should this thing be? Would telling him that he dies during the initial run of and as a result of the DeLoreon and flux capacitor end up discouraging him from ever pursuing it?

Oh, hell.

She sent the pen flying and sat back in her chair, huffing at the paper.

What were the rules when it even came to this kind of stuff?

"I can't do it."

Marty looked up from the television as Emma fell into the couch next to him, defeated.

"Can't do what?"

"I can't write the letter!" she half-whispered in frustration. She grabbed the throw pillow at the far end of the couch and pushed it into her uneasy stomach as she tucked her feet up under herself. "I don't know what to say! What do I say? Should I tell him everything or be as vague as possible? Do I tell him who I am? Is that even relevant to the whole thing? I don't know if it should be short or long or scolding or sorry or just…euragh!"

Her overwhelmed nerves sent her forehead between his shoulder and the couch with a helpless, muffled grunt of resignation. Marty's eyebrows raised at her outburst.

"I need your help," she practically whimpered.

Marty sighed, calmly looking over at her crinkled mass of loose waves spilling over his shoulder. The television's light gave her rounded back and calves sharp contrast, but the firelight touched her wild tresses with all of the soft warmth of an oil painting.

He swallowed.

…What the hell, McFly?

Suddenly, her breath found that exposed part of skin where his shirt had ridden up against the cushions, and he blinked at the sensation, rolling his neck slowly to ward of the goose bumps travelling up his spine.

Now was not the time to be dwelling on such things - such things as Emma recently being able to desensitize him as easily as throwing a switch, for example. And when exactly had "recently" started?

He should not have even entertained acknowledging this stuff right now. Whatever "this stuff" was. Not when she was on the verge of legitimately wigging out. You'd think the girl had misplaced her organic nomenclature notes to the point of searching the freezer again.

The situation at hand, however, was way more serious. Doc didn't get shot by terrorists because Emma couldn't find Chemistry notes. And regardless of what involuntary thoughts, feelings, and reactions he had "recently" been having towards the girl stuffed into his shoulder blade, she was a friend that needed him above all else right now.

Carefully, Marty shifted his right side into the arm of the chair.

"Em."

Already emotionally numbed from her escapades at the writing desk, Emma hadn't the mind to do anything but bat her eyelashes as Marty laid back into the corner of the sofa, took the throw pillow from her, and dropped it to his lap. Emma hazily stared at Marty's arm outstretched beside her. He nodded to himself, the fingers of his left hand extending a quick, fluttering invitation to come closer. Her eyes met his in a wordless exchange, and he simply reached for her.

Before Emma could let herself overthink more things than she was already overthinking, she boredly told herself to shut up, stretched out on her right side, and let her head settle into the pillow. The curve of her neck relaxed as black and white flickers from the television danced along it. In some other state of mind, she would be incredibly proud of herself for not flinching as Marty's arm draped over her, fingertips barely touching the pleated waist of her silken nightdress.

Right now, his contact seemed a necessity, not a desire. She needed somebody, something to reassure her that all three of them were going to come out on the other end of this thing okay. It seemed to be all catching up to her after being bombarded with the questions posed while writing the letter to her father; one wrong move was all it took. Emma putting one word out of place, Marty pushing his father out from in front of a car, Doc miscalculating by a single decimal place – everything hung in the balance of the simplest things that shouldn't require any thought or no-never-mind.

Instead, she folded her knees up over her churning stomach. She sighed again as Marty's thumb grazed a small spot on her arm. Rin Tin Tin came back from commercial break.

"What do we do?" Emma asked at length.

Marty looked down at her, lowering his fist from the side of his face. Her rosy nightgown and Doc's oversized robe cascaded over her and off the couch, much as her hair had sprawled into his lap. He couldn't count how many times they'd hung out on the couch at the end of a long study session or because they simply didn't want to do anything for the rest of the day. And, yes, they'd sat shoulder-to-shoulder occasionally and dozed off that way, but having her laying at his side with his arm around her like this?

Friendly casualness, comforting, what have you; everything aside, this was a first.

And it felt like they'd done it a hundred times.

Wow.

Swallowing, Marty gently clutched the excess of robe at her waist. "We'll write it together tomorrow."

"Do you think we're going to be okay?"

Marty's heart sank. Emma, who had been barreling headlong through this week so very brave-faced, was finally beginning to show the hope wilting within her. He sat back into the couch. Of all the difficult questions she had ever asked him, this was one of the hardest.

"Of course we are," he whispered, trying to convince himself as much as her. He curled his hand over hers. "We're going home tomorrow night, Em. Where your dad is alive and waiting for us."

Emma's throat thickened. Her lips shook.

"I miss him, Marty."

He squeezed her hand and didn't let go.

"So do I."

Emmett let out a long withheld sigh as he shut the front door.

Tomorrow's the big day.

The biggest day of his life.

And as much as he felt prepared for it – after all the checking and double-checking and losing sleep – the nerves in his stomach trembled like far-off rolls of thunder.

Succeeding meant happily working towards something he'd always wanted for the next thirty years, knowing that it would work and impact the very core of science across the board. But more so, it meant that Marty and Emma got their lives back.

He could only imagine himself standing in that mall parking lot thirty years into the future expecting their return, only to have lost them at his expense. He could only imagine the repercussions of them missing this lightning bolt.

Soft voices drifted through the foyer from the living room. Deciding to put off his late dinner a while longer, Emmett passed the tower of the Brain Wave Analyzer and paused in the entryway of the living room.

A peaceful, peculiar scene greeted him. Ethel and Albert was just starting, their banter being the voices he had heard. The room was on the verge of being too warm, but the fire was now reduced to coals and embers glowing like molten light in a pile of ashes. And between the dying fire and television set, his two charges for the week were fast asleep on the couch.

Marty was sitting up, his side nestled into the crook of the sofa while his knees jutted out from the sofa's edge at opposing angles. One hand cradled his lopsided chin, smooshing his cheek enough that his mouth was opened. The other, Doc was intrigued to see, held Emma securely around her waist. The small fingers of the arm she was laying on poked up through the spaces between his limply. She had a pillow in Marty's lap and took up the length of the couch, her body lost under a pale pink nightdress and his silver snakeskin robe.

Emmett let a smirk through.

He wasn't one to openly encourage such things. And it was entirely none of his business. But it wouldn't be very honest of him not to admit – to himself, at least – that he wasn't surprised.

Again, until 1985, this was none of his business.

His business dealt with getting them back to 1985 tomorrow. And, in the meantime, giving Emma her nightly dose of morphine, no matter how serene she looked tucked in next to Marty.

Emmett shut the television off. Rolling it off to the side, he turned back to the silent, synced breathing of the teenagers. With a gentle touch of her forearm and softly speaking her name, he roused Emma. She took a deep breath and held it, flexing and wriggling her toes. Her eyelids opened fractionally.

"Hmm?"

"Emma, it's time for your injection. We need to change your bandage, too."

She groaned dismissively, hiding her face in the pillow.

"I must insist," Doc urged. "You need it before it gets too sore for you to sleep well."

Still half-asleep, Emma took stock of her shoulder. The burn was moderate and the stiffness severe. In about half an hour, she wouldn't be able to bear it.

Doc patiently waited for her eyes to meet his. When they did, the clouds in them began to clear. She yawned; the muscles in her neck tensed and left her with a sour grimace. Emmett smiled sympathetically. He tugged on the edge of the robe's sleeve, giving a wink.

"I was wondering where this went."

Emma dug the heel of her hand into her eye. "Sorry."

"You're quite welcome to it. I'll go get your shot and meet you upstairs."

"Okay. Thank you."

"Okay."

Her father's footfalls had died away at the top of the stairs by the time she made herself open her eyes again. She looked at Marty's knee just beyond the edge of the couch. The weight of his arm around her blossomed a tired smile over her weary features.

Couldn't she just lay here forever? It seemed worth losing a limb.

Until sharp pain seized her at random moments out of nowhere.

Okay, no, it wasn't.

Ow.

Ow, ow, OW. Ow.

Reluctantly, Emma slid her right arm underneath herself and began to get up. Marty stirred, but Emma was able to slip away without waking him. He wet his lips and repositioned his face in his hand, promptly falling back asleep.

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