CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tick Tock

Wednesday, November 9, 1955
7:33 AM

Emmett was determined to stay out of it.

Marty moved through the kitchen that morning with a hot scowl, shutting the cupboards and sitting his cereal bowl down a little harder than necessary. Marty had asked if she'd left already or intended to stay and pout, immediately declaring that it didn't matter; she'd loused up enough, and he didn't need any more of her help since he was already doing a fine job on his own of making sure he didn't exist in four days.

From one of the riveted armchairs in view of the dining room, Doc flipped his newspaper over. He could understand the kid's ire, and seeing him that mad at himself made Emmett pity him. Marty may have outwardly projected all of his resentment toward Emma, but Emmett knew that kind of anger only manifested from a collection of long-silenced, festering frustrations, usually self-harbored until the shouting started. And as the shouting hadn't extended to him, it was safe to assume for now that he was neutral ground, what with Marty venting at him between mouthfuls of cereal and toast.

Though Marty had dismissed openly caring about anything concerning Emma, let alone her whereabouts, Emmett paused; since he'd been awake, he'd seen no signs that Emma had set foot out of her room yet. He didn't look for her to, either, as upset as she was. Least not to skip along to the schoolyard with Marty.

He heard the height of her sobs through her door the night before with her morphine in hand, but he'd thought it best not to enter, certain she would come to him when her shoulder reminded her how fresh of a wound it still bore. Perhaps she was just mourning her late father, but even he couldn't convince himself of it. Not with the way Marty had fumed away to his own room that night, and now around him this morning.

He didn't get it, though. They were clearly good friends. Even when the other was being insufferable, they seemed to have a word or two about it before casting their disagreement's shadow away and carrying on with their lives. Though, the events in the lab yesterday left little to the imagination as to why this argument was rather cataclysmic.

Still, there was just enough excess spite radiating from Marty that Emmett knew there was something else he wasn't privy to.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. I do not need two teenagers at war in my house right now.

After Marty left the mansion, Emmett put down the newspaper and quietly went upstairs to the eastern wing. The door to Emma's stay room was closed, emanating a threatening heat from the way the early morning light hit it. He glanced over at the vacant bathroom to confirm her location and silently approached her door again, leaning near it.

"What?" her voice came sharply.

Emmett blinked at the off-putting tartness of her tone and cleared his throat. "I, uh, just wanted to administer your morphine. You missed your injection last night."

"I'm fine."

"I really must insist."

"I said I'm fine!"

Doc stepped back from the door, eyeing it cautiously. A sigh came from the other side.

"I'm sorry. I just want to be left alone right now."

He nodded. "Alright. I'm going out for a bit. I'll be back shortly."

No reply.

With that, Emmett wet his lips, left her to her solitude, and headed downstairs.

Kids.

Marty moved through the halls with purpose, weaving through students as if he had heat-seeking radar vision on his father's locker. His lips were pursed, shoulders tense, and the look on George's face when he saw him said it all. Marty tried to relax his stance a bit, striding up to George as the poor kid shoveled his things from his locker. Marty clapped his hands together, still trying to work the anger out of his voice.

"Good morning, George."

"G-good morning…Marty…"

He flinched when Marty threw his arm over his shoulder.

"George, I think you have something to tell me."

"I do?"

"About what happened in the café yesterday?"

George swallowed as they turned the corner past the cafeteria. The words soon rushed out of him. "I meant to ask Lorraine out! I did! But –"

"'But' nothing, George!" Marty pulled him to the side of the flow of gingham dresses and leather loafers, and George started when his shoulder hit the wall. "Didn't your Vader friend tell you it had to be Lorraine?"

Marty watched George go pale. "But… I still got a girl to go with me! I should be okay, right?"

"No, you got my sister, and it's not okay. You're meant to be with Lorraine, George! It's not about just getting a girl – it's all about Lorraine, you got it? Do you want your mind melted by that ray gun?"

"No!"

"Alright, listen," Marty said, guiding him towards the Chemistry lab. "We can still fix this. What are you doing after school today?"

Emmett paused halfway through the entrance of the lab. From within his spacious garage, dark, rich layers of orchestral music patiently blossomed with a steady motif and sweeping harmonies, its graceful tension mounting against a deep, string bass undercurrent. Curiosity piqued amidst the ebb and flow of the piece's grandeur, Emmett surrendered to the entrancing pull and let it guide him to its source.

The phonograph was set up next to his model of Hill Valley's courthouse square, and Emma, perched on the stool next to it with a few tiny jars of paint in front of her, was painting the stationary shop.

Emmett laid his overcoat on the hood of the DeLorean, observing the hypnotic turbulence of the music dancing behind her eyes. She was fully engrossed in her work, humming along with the idyllic modulation as she painted one of the matchbook awnings on the front of the building a pale pink. Her left forearm was carefully tucked into her stomach as she leaned over the little, now-yellow building, teasing the last of the paint from the tiny point of the brush.

"He is a marvelous composer, isn't he?"

Emma looked up calmly as he smiled and moved towards her. He sat his bag of hardware supplies on top of the television set next to the camcorder and rabbit ears, and she gave a half-hearted nod.

Keeping the air amiable, Emmett maintained his polite smile, forging ahead with conversation as he took his lab coat from the coat stand next to her.

"What is your favorite composition of his?"

A sadness crossed her face that he didn't see. But, determined not to let the cold shoulder she was giving Marty extend to her not-yet father, she nodded to the phonograph. "Seventh, Allegretto."

She took in a few measures of the movement as he pulled up a stool on the opposite side of the model, staring at him momentarily.

Despite multiple warnings, despite telling her to stay in the house from the get-go, despite her being headstrong and making a bigger mess of things, he wasn't yelling. He was likely not happy with her, she knew, but it did wonders for them both that he didn't bring any of it up – she didn't have to talk about it, and he didn't get the butt-end of her wrath.

He was always rather good at not saying 'I told you so.' When it came to life stuff, anyway.

Put the decimal point in the wrong spot one time, though, and you'll never hear the end of it.

At length, she swallowed and began painting the second awning, adjusting her moodiness to allow him some proper space at the table.

"What's your favorite piece?"

"I have a feeling that you already know," he said casually, plucking a paintbrush from one of his pockets. He reached over the town square for one of the paint jars, settled his elbows on the edge of the tennis table, and began lacquering a lamp post olive green without looking up. "I imagine that I tell you at some point in the future."

"Do you want me to confirm or deny that? It is information about the future."

Their eyes immediately met. She knew his opinion on the matter before she'd even asked - trivial matters like preference in Beethoven compositions didn't really alter reality the way knowing the details of your death or meeting your future daughter might. She saw it in the lines of his irises, the spaces between them just as she remembered them being when he turned to her after putting that plutonium in the cab.

"This is it, Emma. This is the one."

She suppressed a shiver and lowered her paintbrush. Unable to trust herself with prolonging their wordless conversation, Emma reached for the small stack of albums on top of the beige armchair behind her. She pulled the second album to the top of the pile and switched the records, retuning the stack to the armchair and her paintbrush to the model.

Emmett waited, smiling when the strong, four-note motif of the Fifth Symphony thundered its way into the room. He gazed at Emma brightly, but she remained diligent in completing the third and final awning and did not look up or speak again. His smile waned somewhat at her silence, but it lingered at how matter-of-factly someone knew him. In all honesty, it nearly took his breath away.

He was content to simply share the duration of his favorite symphony with her when she sat up out of her hunch with a wince. He paused at the flash of pain on her face; she did a miserable job of masking it, and they both knew it. Emmett rinsed his brush.

"Would you like your injection yet?"

No.

…Fine.

Emma sighed, dropped her paint brush, and slid off her stool.

Emmett smirked.

A slight November chill had worked its way into the Californian breeze by the time Marty left his father's house in time for Grandpa Arthur to come home. It was still somewhat warm, and it was still California, but the last hour and a half settled on him discouragingly, and another lead weight was added to his stomach. He felt so disoriented despite how focused he was to resolve this situation – to get his father to shut up about Emma and fight for Lorraine on Saturday night. To save Doc from a horrible death. To make things right with Emma.

To get her back.

Get his future back.

As he wearily came to the brick driveway of Doc's mansion, the early evening sky was fading, wisps of deep, cool color on the pastel horizon. He looked up at the windows, wanting nothing more than to fall face-first into his pillow and sleep. But two windows down from his, Emma's were lit up, the shades half-drawn. He felt a little heat on his face and scowled in its direction. She was probably tucked in with a giant textbook, pampered with a ton of pillows and a cool, brimming glass of iced tea.

Marty looked at the lines between the bricks at his feet. He considered for half a moment that he was thinking too harshly of her, but he was still too upset with the things she had said.

Maybe the drugs were making her irrationally angry.

You're making excuses for her now, McFly? Come on, man.

With that, Marty cast her window one last glance before heading into the lab in search of the armchair, still aching for rest. Doc was over the back of the DeLorean, digging his arm down into the plutonium chamber.

"Hey, Doc."

"Hi, Marty. Ah! Damn."

Marty went to the refrigerator in the back of the lab and quickly piled a sandwich together. "Everything okay, Doc?" he asked with his mouth full, plopping down into the armchair by the Town Square model. A stack of records fell off the back, and he hid his wince before Doc came his way.

"Just a small nick," he said, holding a towel to the back of his hand. "Dare I ask how did things went with your pop today?"

Marty sighed, taking another bite of his sandwich. "I don't know, Doc. I don't know if he's got it in him. You heard my mom – she said she likes a guy that protects his girl, so I made up this plan to be the bad guy and let George protect her."

Doc nodded. "From what I observed Monday morning, he does not strike me as the aggressive type."

"I thought getting him to hit me in front of Lorraine might get him pumped up, you know? Considering he's all upset about not getting with Em? But no. He's even afraid to hit the guy nice enough to take it."

"Regardless, you must make this work for your sake, Marty. Your siblings continue to fade in that photograph."

"I know! And it would have been a hell of a lot easier if Emma hadn't messed this whole thing up," he said, waving in the direction of the mansion. He pushed the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth.

Doc's face softened. "Marty, you cannot blame this solely on her."

Marty huffed out a laugh. Emmett checked his cut and leaned against the stool Emma had occupied earlier that day.

"She can't be held entirely responsible for what's happened. You interfered with a crucial part of your timeline. All on your own."

"Come on, Doc!" Marty said, leaping to the edge of his seat. "I know what I did, but you're trying to tell me she didn't make it worse?"

"That's not what I said."

Marty spoke through gritted teeth. "How could she do this to me? I need to get my parents together before I evaporate and she agrees to go on a date with my dad? You know, she's always had my back, and this one time when I really need her…What is wrong with her?"

Emmett regarded the boy with mild amusement. He could attest wholeheartedly to the frustration women caused, especially at such a young age. Hormones and emotions were the devil. But Emmett felt that this wasn't so much what was driving the girl's actions in this case.

"I agree their interactions have made it an exponentially more complicated matter," Emmett said calmly. "But did you ever think to ask her why she accepted?"

"I-!"

Marty paused. He…He hadn't. He just assumed she had said yes out of guilt or something, but…Emma knew how serious this situation was. She lost her father at the beginning of it all, and if that doesn't set the tone for a serious situation, Marty didn't know what did. He didn't know what had caused her to accept going to the dance with his father, but then again, he hadn't bothered to ask, had he?

Damn.

He looked up at Doc, and the scientist raised his eyebrows with a thin smile. Another lead weight dropped into his stomach. Blinking, Marty lowered his head.

"I… I guess I didn't."

Emmett tried to reason kindly with him; the epiphany seemed to be a little more than the kid had expected. He sighed, laying the rag on the edge of the model.

"She just lost her father, Marty. She is a thousand miles away right now. Give her some time and some sympathy. It will be alright."

"That's just it, Doc – we don't have time. We have no time. I know she's hurting. I am, too," he admitted quietly, slumping back the chair. "But I can't just ignore what's happened. It's huge, Doc. I'm in real deep right now. Real deep."

Emmett shook his head. "Marty –"

"I don't even know why I bother," Marty groaned, rubbing his face. "You two are just alike."

"Alike?"

Marty dropped his hands to his legs. He quickly gave a nonchalant shrug and half-hearted chuckle. "Well… yeah, Doc. You two always pair off against me."

"Why's that?"

Jesus, do I really have to spell it out?

"She's your faithful apprentice, Doc. She loves wires and test tubes and electricity, and it's like watching a film in a foreign language when you two talk about a project. I help, yeah, and I think it's all really cool, but I don't get it the way Em does. I don't know any of the science lingo or theories. But I… like spending time with you guys."

Emmett watched Marty stand, stuff his hands in his pockets, and head back towards the refrigerator. For a time, he looked at the ground, the sounds of cellophane and a spoon in a mustard jar muted in the back of his thoughts.

"What is Emma's last name?"

The spoon clanged back into the mustard jar. Marty turned around, and Emmett gave an innocent shrug. "You never said."

Marty's reply wasn't too fast or too hesitant, much to his own surprise. "Klein," he said. "Her last name's Klein."

Emmett repeated it, feeling how it rolled off his tongue. "Emma Klein."

"When we first ran into my mom and told her that we were siblings, I used Emma's last name to protect mine." He swallowed at Doc's stillness. "Why?"

Emmett stared at the ground a moment longer before feigning disinterest with a purse of his lips. He shook his head nonchalantly. "No reason."

Marty bent his brow. That contemplative look on the scientist's face made him feel like all the air had just been squeezed out of him.

Son of a bitch.

Marty pocketed his hands again."Where you going with this, Doc?"

Emmett inhaled deeply, leaning off the stool. He was going somewhere he shouldn't be. Treading on treacherous territory with no answers to show for it, and now Marty was picking up on the question between the lines. Emmett looked over at the kid; all he had to do was ask. He just had to ask if he really wanted to know. And an insatiable mite of curiosity nipped at him to do so. But he squashed it as quickly as it came about.

"Doc?"

He looked up and gave Marty a tightlipped, subdued smile.

"I'm going to work on the DeLorean," he said with a nod, pushing his sleeves back up to his elbows. "Perhaps you should make amends with Emma."

He took several long strides back to the vehicle without waiting for an answer. For a few minutes, Marty shuffled around the back of the shop, finishing his second sandwich before he stopped at the DeLorean on his way out of the lab. Doc kept his eyes down, praying that Marty wouldn't press the issue further, continuing to tempt him.

And Marty tried to make himself walk on by, continue on his way; but his conscience wouldn't let him do so. He was tired of feeling so conflicted about everything – the shoulds and the should-nots and the desire to just scream occasionally. It was exhausting and will-breaking, and he just wanted to be home so much.

Turning back to his future mentor, Marty rubbed the back of his neck and sighed.

"Doc—"

"Marty, would you please walk Copernicus for me? I'm very busy."

Marty nodded. He could take a hint. Despite his and Emma's situation, he realized Doc was under the same amount of pressure. They had given him the task to put them back in 1985 with limited technology and knowledge; given him, the crackpot scientist, the chance to prove that he could contribute to the scientific community in a way no one thought possible. And now, even after repeatedly saying he didn't want information about the future, Doc was wondering about one of the biggest pieces of his future. Marty trusted him not to go beyond wonderment, but he wasn't sure he trusted himself not to cross that line for him in that moment. He had almost done so yesterday anyways, hadn't he?

But like himself and Emma, Marty was certain Doc needed reassured in this mayhem, too.

"I'm not ready to talk to Emma yet," he said quietly. "But I will. And Doc," – he clapped him on the shoulder once – "let me know if you need anything? You're doing a hell of a job."

Emmett nodded, his smile tired but sincere.

"Thank you, Marty."