APRIL
All Kinds of Time

Wednesday, April 1, 1885
2:22 AM

Emmett closed the door on the pot belly stove. His eyes traced its glowing outline before falling to the plank floor. Between his boots, shadows danced from board to board. The patter of rain came and went. His eyes stung, dry from staring beyond his realm; in the aftermath of Emma's tornadic fury, he couldn't sleep.

To say the DeLorean wasn't important to him was a low blow. Then to accuse him of replacing Marty! He'd spent thirty years building the time machine for them. So they could find him 1955 in their hour of need. He was to prevent a paradox first and foremost, but they were his responsibility above all else.

And that was just the point Emma had been trying to make.

Weeks ago, he knew there was no hope for the shorted microchip. Then he discovered that the cabin's atmosphere control regulator was crushed behind the driver's seat, somehow avoiding his scrutiny for two months. Now he'd have to go over every inch of the DeLorean again to be sure he missed nothing else.

He couldn't focus on the time machine with their never-ending workload, and the more the people of the town distracted him, the more he let himself be distracted. He was on a first-name basis with public officials, he got a rise in entertainment from the students at the schoolhouse, and more than once he'd been guilty of fraternizing instead of fixing.

Clarence's assistance would give him time to step away and work on the DeLorean's repairs, especially if Emma kept him company. He could see that boy coming a mile away. Emma wasn't having it, though, which meant they wouldn't be having him in the shop. How could he take Clarence on after she had so vehemently expressed her disapproval? Talking Mr. Livingston into letting Clarence leave the family business would be difficult enough. In fact, the more he thought on it, the more the risks outweighed the benefits.

She'd been trying to tell him that, too.

Doc leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands.

Emma was right. He hadn't made the DeLorean a priority in some time. He'd worked on it here and there, but everything was put on hold when she got sick. Then he had piles of orders to catch up on, and Mrs. Ward asked them back frequently for their father-daughter science lessons.

But while they lived a life each day, Marty remained in limbo. Would he have let his heels drag if Marty were with him and it had been Emma that was stranded in 1955? Was he so arrogant with his infinite knowledge of the space-time continuum that he assumed Marty would still be there when they went back for him? That his and Emma's presence in 1885 had little to no bearing on the future?

The rain intensified.

Emmett shut his eyes and let the sound cleanse him.

While Emma's ire ran its course, perhaps he could make up for lost time.

The weather was finally starting to hint at spring with fleeting, mild breaths of wind, but the chill still clung to the skin well into the mid-morning hours. For the second day in a row, Emma was out of the shop the moment her father stumbled out of bed; she wanted him to see her leave.

She hadn't spoken to him in four days. She vacated the shop during the day without a word of where she was going just to aggravate him, but she did him the courtesy of not wandering too far and staying secluded. Keeping to a large rock under the shade of some trees behind the courthouse, Emma angrily scrawled in her journal until her residual irritation diminished enough to shift her focus.

By the time the lukewarm sunlight softened the crispness of the air, she had upended a pouch of stones into a dip in the boulder's face. She counted them, confirming she had collected exactly forty-four stones the day before. She then separated out the twelve largest stones from the pile, picked up her bag, and took out two small jars of paint.

Emma was deeply engrossed in the task, lining up the green-painted stones on a sunny patch of the boulder for them to dry. She pinched her seventeenth rock with a small pair of forceps when a voice permeated her concentration – the happy holler of Clarence Livingston wishing her a good morning. Emma fought to keep the grin from her face, amused at how quickly his spindly legs changed direction.

How many "coincidences" did this make? Fourteen?

Look at your rocks. Now.

Right now!

"Ain't this a sight," he said once he got closer. "Don't get to see you outside the stable very often."

Emma leveled her brow at his overly casual tone, lowering her brush when he pocketed his hands and asked, "What're you doin' all the way over here by your lonesome?"

"Are we pretending that I don't know that my father sent you?"

"No, no," he said too quickly, eyes on the ground. "I just… saw you back here. In passin'."

"Behind the courthouse."

Clarence mouthed wordlessly in search of an answer as his shoulders rose to his ears.

"W-Well, it's supposed to rain, see, and –"

Emma held up another paintbrush.

"Sit down."

Clarence gave a breathy chuckle, needing little else to prompt his acceptance of the brush. As he sat down on the other side of the drying stones, Emma put the red jar next to the twelve large ones.

"Paint those, and I might forgive you."

Clarence did as told. Emma smoothed her blue-grey skirt, leaned over her knees, and resumed painting the stone between her forceps. She swallowed another threatening smile as they fell into companionable silence, stealing glances at him out of the corner of her eye.

"In passing". Adorable.

She decided to conduct another round of an ongoing experiment: how much could Clarence's presence distract her in ways she shouldn't allow it to? His brushstrokes were precise and delicate, and the ends of his hair innocently fluttered at his bearded jawline in the breeze. But his devout attention to detail only made her miss how oblivious Marty could be, and his obedience robbed her of control. For all they had in common, her attraction to him remained hollow.

Emma frowned at her little green rock. What was she doing? She gets into an argument with her dad, so she makes a Monopoly board? What she should be doing is rescuing Marty since she couldn't stop comparing poor Clarence to him. Maybe she'd give Marty the Monopoly board as a rescue present. And let's face facts, she told herself, you aren't getting Marty back without your dad's help.

Eventually, she'd have to stop being mad at him.

Eventually…

A drop of rain splashed on the back of her hand.

Emma held out her arm. Dark spots began to dot her sleeve.

She looked skyward at the calm roll of thunder.

"I told you it was gon' rain."

They scrambled to collect the painted rocks and ran for the shelter of the courthouse's scaffolding. Clarence dropped one and went back for it, then lost his hat and went back for it. Emma realized she'd left the forceps on the rock, too, so she dashed for it, yipping as the rain picked up and plastered her dress to her back. By the time they got under the scaffolding together, they wore a pair of soggy smiles.

Clarence threw the rain from his hat and sleeves. Five more seconds in this downpour, and he would be soaked through. Feeling Emma at his shoulder, he turned, taking care to shield her from the blowing rain.

"May I have my house, please?"

Emma chuckled at his wrinkled brow. She reached for his closed hand, raised his fist between them, and smiled when it flowered open to reveal the rescued green rock. Some of its paint had transferred to his palm. Widening her smile in thanks, she plucked the stone from his hand and put it in her pouch. Clarence didn't lower his hand immediately; he wanted to reach out. He wanted to touch her as casually as she did him.

Clarence blinked a raindrop from his view of her. He admired the depthless heavens of her eyes, a complex spectrum of hickory and burnt umber. Wet hair swirled along her cheekbones like scrollwork. She was soft with fire and brimstone and beaded with bright notes of citrus peel. The world was not enough her; how could it be?

And yet, it was all he had to offer.

"Miss Br— Emma?"

Emma's heartbeat filled her ears; he'd never called her by her first name before.

Oh, no.

She flashed a hesitant smile. "Clarence?"

"I don't like to see you melancholy."

She swallowed and put forth an unconvincing, "I'm not."

"You are," he insisted gently. "You don't have to say it, and I don't gotta know why. You smile plenty, but I know the real ones when I see 'em." He took her hand. "You're much too lovely for anything less."

Emma shut her eyes. Should she just say it? Tell him he's got no chance because she's in love with someone from another time period that she may never see again? Because their potential relationship could destroy the universe? What if Clarence was the great-great-great-grandfather of the person that cured cancer? Even if it was an absolute fact that she would never see Marty again, there would be a period of mourning before she'd even entertain moving on, and she wasn't going to make Clarence wait for something that couldn't happen.

This isn't fair.

"Clarence, there's a certain way… things have to be, and," – she heaved a sigh – "I can't be swayed from that."

To her confusion, Clarence slowly nodded. He released her hand with a tight smile.

"Alright. I think I understand."

Emma wanted to double over from the cramp in her stomach. She didn't know how he could possibly understand when he didn't even know the whole story. Maybe he didn't understand at all and was just being kind to save them both some dignity. She was giving him the mitten, and he was complimenting its color.

"Can I see you home?"

In perfect sync, Marty and Emma reached for one another. Her feet floated beneath her as they stumbled back into the DeLorean, and Marty secured her around the waist with both arms as they sank to the pavement, weightless. Her radiation helmet fell sideways over her head. It amplified the distorted shouts of her father as the plastic face shield fogged in the humidity created by her rapid, panicked breaths.

Marty's hair was already wet with perspiration. Suspended in a surreal moment of timelessness, she watched a single bead of sweat swell on the tip of his hair and fall to the bridge of his nose. It traveled into the deep curve of the nostril, greeting a shaving nick on its way into the corner of his mouth.

The helmet was gone.

Her father went the wrong way.

Emma willed the yellow plutonium chest, yards away, to stay silent so the Libyans would not proceed to build their bomb after what was about to happen.

His hands were up. A black silhouette against the strobing muzzle flashes and headlights. The chaotic, involuntary movements slowed, a flip book that sped up as image after image was imprinted on her soul.

Every crease of the white radiation suit, every divot in the asphalt. The way his hair moved and the hollow tinkle her brain blotted out when the pencil rolled away from his body. The gun, the van, Marty, the bus, the black sky endless above the aura of the JC PENNEY sign; it was all crushingly real.

Then, she was abruptly on her knees in front of the van with her shoulder exploding with the sensation of pain — though pain was notably absent. The inferno of the Libyans hitting the photo booth filled her periphery, and then Marty was there, lying her on the ground. Her not-yet father knelt over her in his silver snakeskin robe and the sprawling Brain Wave Analyzer helmet.

"Emma. You should be at home."

Emma started in the darkness, inhaling sharply through her nose.

Cold dread raked through her veins. When she couldn't breathe on her back anymore or ignore the demands of her conscience, Emma rolled to her feet, threw the curtain open, and hurried down her ladder. She ran straight for the dim light of the oil lamp on the private workbench, grabbing the post at the top of the stairs and swinging to a stop. He lungs collapsed with relief to see her father there. His eyes were large, blinking at her through what looked to be a pair of magnifying glasses he had fashioned for himself.

"Emma? What's the matter?"

She was doing so well. Her time shooting at the lake was helping; she didn't feel a panic attack coming on every time she heard a gunshot anymore. Some days, she didn't think about it at all, but some days, it was all she could think about. For the ten months she remained underage, she would have easily been granted status as an emancipated minor, given her maturity and capabilities. She would have gotten a job for after school and the weekends just to keep her out of the lab as much as possible.

Marty would be there, too, to alleviate what emptiness he could with their shared experience. She would spend Thanksgiving and Christmas with the McFlys at Marty's insistence, not just because they were dating but because she would need it. They would trade small gestures to pull the other back on bad days – a jar of peanut butter, a mixed tape. He'd hold her hand when they visited the cemetery.

"Emma?"

"Just a bad dream," she said. Her voice dropped below a broken whisper. "I had to make sure you were okay."

Emmett put down the tachyon pulse generator and turned up the flame of the lamp to see her. She was weary and laden with the weight of her nightmare. His shoulders fell as she came up behind him and hugged him tightly, resting the side of her face on his back with a great sigh. He wrapped his forearm over her hands and squeezed her elbow, stroking his thumb at its crease to soothe her.

"I'm sorry I got mad."

"I'm glad you did."

"I just don't know what I'd do without you."

Doc loosened her hold and brought her around to sit on the stool beside him. A tear fell from her eye before she could wipe it away.

The hypothetical scenario she posed last Tuesday night cut deeply; if something did happen to him, what would become of his daughter? She laid out a few likely options during her tirade but spared him the immediate imagery of her desperate, destitute, and alone. He didn't want to leave this world knowing he'd failed her. The only option was to fix the time machine.

Doc removed the bulky glasses from his head and gathered her hands in his.

"I'm right here," he assured her quietly, "and I'll say it as often as you need to hear it. Someday, I won't be," – he lifted her chin to meet his eyes– "but that day comes long after you and I return home with Marty."

When Emma nodded, Doc smiled fondly at her. He held up the magnifying glasses and gestured to the project on the workbench.

"Would you like to give me hand with this?"

Emma's lips pulled to the side as she looked from the glasses to the pulse generator and back at her father. She'd gained decent ground in this battle but so had he; there needed to be other pursuits alongside this undertaking. Repairing a time machine was quite the marathon, and water breaks were a good idea.

Emma got up from her stool and walked to the other side of the bench. She carefully pushed the pulse generator and magnifying glasses aside, leaned in on her elbows, and drummed the tabletop in thought.

"How about," – she blew a raspberry – "a slice of banana bread and… a round of cards?"

"Clarence, m'boy!"

"Good morning, Mr. Brown."

Emmett smiled as the young man ducked out of the spring sunlight and into the livery, removing his hat. He raked his overgrown waves out of his face and tugged the hem of his coat straight in his approach. Emmett wiped his hands and met him on the other side of the anvil.

"What brings you? I don't believe your pa left anything with me this week."

"No, sir, he didn't," Clarence said. He glanced down at his hat and discreetly squared his shoulders. "I'm here on my own business."

Emmett raised his eyebrows in earnest. The lad was usually here at the behest of his father, but sometimes he got caught up in helping him or Emma. Doc humored the idea of this secret meeting, that Clarence was here of his own volition for the first time. He even held himself differently, a man with a purpose rather than a boy on an errand.

"What can I do for you?"

"Well, it's nothin' to do with smithin' and the like," Clarence said, nodding to the oven. He looked Doc in the eye. "I came today to ask your permission to court your daughter."

Doc's chin tilted up in question. He surveyed the boy's posture again and the sincerity of his request, baffled that he'd missed it after anticipating it for over a month.

Clarence was a fine young man, able-bodied and patient. A gentleman if there ever was one. He had at least three years on Emma and so was mature enough to keep up with her. They were likeminded, their chemistry mechanical yet compassionate. Had Doc been a father of the times to an eligible young woman, he would not hesitate to make this match for his daughter. She would be loved by a hardworking man that would move mountains for her happiness.

But Clarence's request was one Emmett knew he could not honor.

All Emmett had to offer was a thin, apologetic smile.

"There's someone else, Clarence."

Clarence's modest show of fortitude slowly wilted. Though there was no arrogant certainty in the boy's stance, he seemed adrift at the unexpected news and took a deep breath.

"Oh."

He revisited Emma's words to him last Saturday; he thought she wanted him to do this properly by speaking to her father first – the "certain way things had to be" and how she would not be swayed from that. Here she was trying to tell him her heart was set on another.

Clarence pulled back his distant gaze, reestablishing eye contact.

"I'm sorry, sir. I did not realize she was spoken for."

She may as well be.

"Forgive my assumptions."

"Perfectly understandable," Emmett allowed. He let Clarence take another moment to absorb the rejection before asking, "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No, sir," Clarence said. He replaced his hat on his head. "Thank you for your time."

With a cordial smile and short nod, he saw himself out. Emmett watched him leave. Once Clarence was gone, Doc's eyes drifted up to Emma's loft. Her head popped out from between her drapes, dumbstruck to the point that her mouth hung open. He was rather amused by this; she couldn't have been that surprised.

Emmett picked up his hammer.

"I hope you'll forgive me for speaking on your behalf." He raised his eyebrows with a less-than-innocent curiosity that his tone implied. "That is, unless…?"

"Finish that sentence. I dare you."

Emmett smirked as she closed her curtains.

You're welcome.

"Alright."

Emma carefully accepted the tray from her father and sat it on the desk. On it were a dozen clear bottles filled with colorful water, and each bottle contained a daisy sunning itself. The students craned their necks, and Doc ushered those in the back half of the class to the aisles so they could get a better look. Tiny gasps and murmurs hissed amongst them to see that their once-white daises were streaked with light orange, purple, and deep yellow.

"Quiet, please," Mrs. Ward reminded them.

When they settled around Emma, Doc, and the results of their experiment, Doc proceeded with the lesson.

"Now, as we know, capillary action is a process we cannot observe with the naked eye," he said. "But," – he tapped his eye and pointed at the daisies – "if we add some pigment into the water, we can observe that the orange water has been absorbed by the flower's stem and distributed into the petals by their change in color.

"If you look closely at the purple flower, you'll see the stamen also have a touch of color now. It doesn't show up well on the orange and yellow, of course."

Emma saw a few blank faces as her father continued; he was getting excited and forgetting his audience. When Emma piped in asking for their questions, a hand went up.

"Elanor?"

"Could I have an orange daisy? Orange is my favorite color."

Emma glanced sideways at Doc as he checked his pocket watch. He raised his eyebrows; their botany lesson had clearly run over. Emma smiled, lifted an orange daisy from its bottle, and handed it to Elanor.

"You're all welcome to one," she said, laughing as they took turns choosing a colored daisy.

"Perhaps you could all thank your teacher for the lesson with your flowers," Emmett suggested, pointing his eyes at Mrs. Ward.

Before she could object, the students formed an excited line in front of their beloved Mrs. Ward and proudly thrust their flowers up at her. Caught in the afternoon sun pouring through the window next to her, she graciously accepted each drooping daisy with a warm smile and soft-spoken thanks.

Emma felt a tug at her skirt.

Amos held up his purple daisy.

"Thank you, Miss Brown."

That night, Emma pressed the daisy into the back of her journal.

"Thank you, Miss Brown."

Amos Mitchell, age 5

April 16, 1885

Seamus dropped an armload of firewood by the front door of the house. After four days, the rain relented, but the sun needed a couple of days to dry the mud. It was particularly slick by the woodpile on the side of the house, and he didn't want Maggie to have to go clear over there and risk a fall.

A wagon caught his eye on the road. He furrowed his brow with a smile, recognizing Doc and Emma as they drove closer. He waved them down and started toward the road.

"Hello, Seamus!"

"Aye, hello!" he called as they pulled over. "Something I can do for you, Mr. Brown? Surely you didn't come all this way to deliver my tools again?"

"Business is slow on Tuesdays," Emmett said, nonchalant. "Emma and I felt a bit cooped up from all that rain, so we decided to enjoy the nice weather and bring back your tools while we were at it."

Seamus looked over the side of the cart. Amongst several barrels and sacks were the five scythes, two grass hooks, and pair of grass sickles he left with them before the rain spell. They were all repaired, clean, and sharp, ready to harvest hay in the summer.

"Mr. Brown, you shouldn't have gone to the trouble," Seamus admonished genially. "I said I'd be back for them after the baby arrived."

"It's no trouble," Emma said, accepting Seamus's hand to get out of the wagon. "Becoming a family is exhausting. The least we can do is drop off your tools after our picnic."

"Tools," — Emmett climbed into the back of the cart and lifted a barrel — "and provisions."

"And a gift or two," Emma smiled. She and Doc couldn't help but to dote on Marty's ancestors when given the chance. And what better excuse to do so than a new baby?

Seamus looked between the two of them. He put his hands on his hips, surveying the eclectic collection of items in their cart. Yards of cloth, a sack of sugar, birdshot; he opened the nearest crate to find jars of fruit preserves and bobbins of embroidery thread.

"You mean for us to have all this?"

"Yep," Doc said, handing Emma the oil lamp over the side of the cart.

Seamus huffed out a laugh as he accepted the sugar. "Why?"

Doc could say it was because they helped calm Emma after her encounter with Tannen the last time she was here. He could say he was just getting rid of excess from their own stores. He couldn't say it was because he'd befriended his great-great-grandson, but the truth stood resolute on the tip of his tongue.

Doc pressed his lips together with a sly grin and shrugged.

"We like you."

Before Seamus could object to their overwhelming generosity, a distressing gasp came from the house. In the doorway, Maggie held the side of her swollen stomach with her eyes wide with pain. She braced herself on the doorframe with the hand that had been reaching for a piece of wood.

Seamus tossed the sugar back up at Doc and took off towards his wife.

"Maggie!"

Doc put a hand on Emma's shoulder when she went to follow Seamus. His eyes were fixated on Maggie's face, analyzing her body language with a trace of concern.

"Help me unload the cart. Now."

"But Maggie –"

"—needs a doctor. Soon. And I have a feeling that if we don't go now," he said, urgently passing her the grass hooks, "I'll be the one delivering that baby."