A/N - Reviewers, I thank thee.
La Pamplemousse - Wow, I haven't seen that movie in forever and ever.
Sweet775 - I love Emmet Brown. I dunno why. He's just so **** cool. And that transparent tie he wears in the second movie . . . just makes me wanna write a fic about him and his hair. *pouf*
Elyse3 - Okay, this doesn't count as soon, but . . . close enough?
Freakyfairy - Ahh! Go rent it now! You haven't lived till you've seen Marty Mc - I mean Back to the Future. Yeah. That's what I mean.
Disclaimer - We all know that I don't own Back to the Future (sadly). And poor, poor, poor Michael J. Fox has Parkinson's Disease. *Sob* Excuse me . . . Talk amongst yourselves. *Bursts into tears*
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
When Cosette arrived at the barn, she found Doctor Brown standing over the time machine, rather confused.
"Monsieur?"
"Hmm? Ah. Hello there. I am afraid I won't be needing your services. Run along now, go on."
Cosette looked at her torn dress and bared shoulders. "No sir, that isn't what I'm here for. You see, you sent me here in that machine. It's-"
"My time machine, I know. But I had hoped I wouldn't be in Montreuil-sur- Mer this long. They called me crazy, Mademoiselle, but I was sure it was true. I knew that it wasn't just a wonderful book. It had to be true, all of it."
"Monsieur? I am from the year 1832. I live in Paris, and I need to get back there before tomorrow."
"And why are you in such a hurry, mademoiselle?"
"Well . . ." Cosette flushed. "I spoke with a young man the other day, a Monsieur Marius Po-"
"Marius Pontmercy? Great Scott!" cried Doc Brown. "I told them, yes, I told them that even Victor Hugo could not have conceived a story so real, so . . ." he trailed off.
"Monsieur?"
"I am sorry. You are Cosette, of course. You say that you do indeed live in Paris? Wonderful! My location indicator is a success. Tell me, did you set out from Paris? But why did I send you here? Of course, if I met my future self it could cause a major paradox! I assume I wrote myself a note?"
Cosette blinked and cleared her throat. "Ah . . . I set out from Paris, you didn't send me, and you did not send a note. It was an accident. You see, you-"
"How could I have been so careless? Of course! It was the Libyans, right? I can't believe I would try to trick the Libyan terrorists again! Especially after what happened with Marty!"
"Monsieur? Are Libyans from Poland?"
It was the doc's turn to blink. "Say what?"
"If Libyans aren't from Poland, then they aren't responsible."
"Responsible for . . .?"
"Why, your death, or course," Cosette said simply.
"I knew it! I knew that was why you were here! I'll have to- oh no!"
"What's wrong, monsieur?"
The doc began to run his hands through his hair, which Cosette correctly interpreted as a gesture of anxiety. "Have you interacted with anyone else since you arrived in Montreuil-sur-Mer?"
"Well . . . an old man with my father's name and my father with another man's name . . . but that was all. Why?"
"Make sure, Mademoiselle Fauchelevant, that you do not interact with anyone else during the course of your stay. Do you understand? The consequences of that could be disastrous!"
Cosette frowned, trying to think. "What do you mean? Why would it be bad to talk to people?"
Doc Brown seemed rather exasperated. "You could change the course of history! And the course of the novel, which would destroy the musical, which would send the entire world of crazed teenage fans down the tube! They love it for its tragedy, you see. If you change a single thing-"
"Monsieur, may I inquire as to what story you are referring to?"
"I am sorry, my dear, but you wouldn't know of it. And what a dark, dark world that must be. To summarize, there is a great masterpiece where I come from, well-loved, that claims to revolve around fictitious characters. I, out of mere curiosity, used my time machine to travel back and prove that the story was real, if only to myself. And- wait, do you happen to know of a clocktower struck by lightening?"
"Actually, yes. I have a bit of paper here that tells about it." Cosette produced the paper that she had been keeping in the same place she kept Marius's love letter in the real book, but I forgot where that was and am too lazy to check, so use your imagination. "But be careful, monsieur. Marius's-"
"Phone number is on the back, no doubt?"
"What?"
The doc smacked himself in the head, causing Cosette to wince. "Of course! You see, my dear, I've only been in the nineteenth century for a year, and I tend to forget myself." He turned the letter over. "The Gorbeau Tenement? Ah, yes. I would dearly love to go there someday."
Cosette began to tune him out, worrying instead about her empty stomach.
"To see the actual room of the Thénardiers - well, to see the Thénardiers themselves - and Gavroche! I always did love his song."
He began to hum a tune that sound suspiciously to Cosette like "C'est la faut à Voltaire," one of the songs she had heard the horrible Madame . . . Thénardier . . .
"Monsieur! Do you know the Thénardiers?"
"Know them? I've half a mind to rescue you right now and bring you to Fantine, if it wasn't for Valjean."
Cosette's eyes widened. "Who are Fantine and Valjean?"
"My dear," said the doc impatiently, "Fantine is your mother, and Val- oops."
He fell silent.
"My mother's name was Fantine. Fantine," Cosette repeated, trying out the name. "But who is the other you mentioned? Valjean?"
"Did- Did I say Valjean? No, no. I said . . . Mad-lohn. Mad-a-lohn. Madeleine. Your father, the mayor of Mon- oops."
"I already knew that, monsieur. I met him earlier."
Cosette's stomach let out a particularly loud growl.
"Here then," said the doc, handed Cosette a few coins. "Go and get something to eat in town. But don't steal any bread!" He began laughing hysterically.
"Monsieur! I am surprised at you! Laughing at awful thieves!" Cosette scolded.
When this only caused Emmet Brown's hysterical fit to grow worse, Cosette turned on her heel and stalked out of the barn.
La Pamplemousse - Wow, I haven't seen that movie in forever and ever.
Sweet775 - I love Emmet Brown. I dunno why. He's just so **** cool. And that transparent tie he wears in the second movie . . . just makes me wanna write a fic about him and his hair. *pouf*
Elyse3 - Okay, this doesn't count as soon, but . . . close enough?
Freakyfairy - Ahh! Go rent it now! You haven't lived till you've seen Marty Mc - I mean Back to the Future. Yeah. That's what I mean.
Disclaimer - We all know that I don't own Back to the Future (sadly). And poor, poor, poor Michael J. Fox has Parkinson's Disease. *Sob* Excuse me . . . Talk amongst yourselves. *Bursts into tears*
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
When Cosette arrived at the barn, she found Doctor Brown standing over the time machine, rather confused.
"Monsieur?"
"Hmm? Ah. Hello there. I am afraid I won't be needing your services. Run along now, go on."
Cosette looked at her torn dress and bared shoulders. "No sir, that isn't what I'm here for. You see, you sent me here in that machine. It's-"
"My time machine, I know. But I had hoped I wouldn't be in Montreuil-sur- Mer this long. They called me crazy, Mademoiselle, but I was sure it was true. I knew that it wasn't just a wonderful book. It had to be true, all of it."
"Monsieur? I am from the year 1832. I live in Paris, and I need to get back there before tomorrow."
"And why are you in such a hurry, mademoiselle?"
"Well . . ." Cosette flushed. "I spoke with a young man the other day, a Monsieur Marius Po-"
"Marius Pontmercy? Great Scott!" cried Doc Brown. "I told them, yes, I told them that even Victor Hugo could not have conceived a story so real, so . . ." he trailed off.
"Monsieur?"
"I am sorry. You are Cosette, of course. You say that you do indeed live in Paris? Wonderful! My location indicator is a success. Tell me, did you set out from Paris? But why did I send you here? Of course, if I met my future self it could cause a major paradox! I assume I wrote myself a note?"
Cosette blinked and cleared her throat. "Ah . . . I set out from Paris, you didn't send me, and you did not send a note. It was an accident. You see, you-"
"How could I have been so careless? Of course! It was the Libyans, right? I can't believe I would try to trick the Libyan terrorists again! Especially after what happened with Marty!"
"Monsieur? Are Libyans from Poland?"
It was the doc's turn to blink. "Say what?"
"If Libyans aren't from Poland, then they aren't responsible."
"Responsible for . . .?"
"Why, your death, or course," Cosette said simply.
"I knew it! I knew that was why you were here! I'll have to- oh no!"
"What's wrong, monsieur?"
The doc began to run his hands through his hair, which Cosette correctly interpreted as a gesture of anxiety. "Have you interacted with anyone else since you arrived in Montreuil-sur-Mer?"
"Well . . . an old man with my father's name and my father with another man's name . . . but that was all. Why?"
"Make sure, Mademoiselle Fauchelevant, that you do not interact with anyone else during the course of your stay. Do you understand? The consequences of that could be disastrous!"
Cosette frowned, trying to think. "What do you mean? Why would it be bad to talk to people?"
Doc Brown seemed rather exasperated. "You could change the course of history! And the course of the novel, which would destroy the musical, which would send the entire world of crazed teenage fans down the tube! They love it for its tragedy, you see. If you change a single thing-"
"Monsieur, may I inquire as to what story you are referring to?"
"I am sorry, my dear, but you wouldn't know of it. And what a dark, dark world that must be. To summarize, there is a great masterpiece where I come from, well-loved, that claims to revolve around fictitious characters. I, out of mere curiosity, used my time machine to travel back and prove that the story was real, if only to myself. And- wait, do you happen to know of a clocktower struck by lightening?"
"Actually, yes. I have a bit of paper here that tells about it." Cosette produced the paper that she had been keeping in the same place she kept Marius's love letter in the real book, but I forgot where that was and am too lazy to check, so use your imagination. "But be careful, monsieur. Marius's-"
"Phone number is on the back, no doubt?"
"What?"
The doc smacked himself in the head, causing Cosette to wince. "Of course! You see, my dear, I've only been in the nineteenth century for a year, and I tend to forget myself." He turned the letter over. "The Gorbeau Tenement? Ah, yes. I would dearly love to go there someday."
Cosette began to tune him out, worrying instead about her empty stomach.
"To see the actual room of the Thénardiers - well, to see the Thénardiers themselves - and Gavroche! I always did love his song."
He began to hum a tune that sound suspiciously to Cosette like "C'est la faut à Voltaire," one of the songs she had heard the horrible Madame . . . Thénardier . . .
"Monsieur! Do you know the Thénardiers?"
"Know them? I've half a mind to rescue you right now and bring you to Fantine, if it wasn't for Valjean."
Cosette's eyes widened. "Who are Fantine and Valjean?"
"My dear," said the doc impatiently, "Fantine is your mother, and Val- oops."
He fell silent.
"My mother's name was Fantine. Fantine," Cosette repeated, trying out the name. "But who is the other you mentioned? Valjean?"
"Did- Did I say Valjean? No, no. I said . . . Mad-lohn. Mad-a-lohn. Madeleine. Your father, the mayor of Mon- oops."
"I already knew that, monsieur. I met him earlier."
Cosette's stomach let out a particularly loud growl.
"Here then," said the doc, handed Cosette a few coins. "Go and get something to eat in town. But don't steal any bread!" He began laughing hysterically.
"Monsieur! I am surprised at you! Laughing at awful thieves!" Cosette scolded.
When this only caused Emmet Brown's hysterical fit to grow worse, Cosette turned on her heel and stalked out of the barn.