Day 7 - Suffering in Silence

A/N: One doesn't get nearly hanged and walk away with no consequences. Can be read as a sequel to Day 1 'Helpless'.

Holy shit, I'm not dead.

That's great.

That's really great.

Dammit Doc, why'd you have to cut it so close?!

Marty massaged his throat profusely, quietly observing the tense stand-off between Doc and Buford.

"Doc!"

"Marty," Doc's voice carried a slight hint of disappointment. "I specifically told you not to come back for me, but to return directly to 1985!"

Dammit, I knew he'd start off with a lecture. Marty opened his mouth to retort, but found he couldn't even defend himself when his attempt to speak faded into a squeak, resulting in a prolonged coughing fit. Geez, this is heavy…

"Marty?" Doc's face quickly morphed into one of concern. He placed a hand on the young man's back, mentally shuddering at the hoarseness of Marty's cough. "Get it all out, Marty. You'll probably be doing this for a while."

Marty weakly raised his head, allowing Doc to get a proper look at the young man since his chaotic arrival. His face was streaked with enough dirt that he looked like a different person, with strands of hair sticking up all over the place. What concerned him the most, though, was the ugly red blotching that ran around Marty's neck.

"Marty, let me look at your throat," Doc didn't wait for a response from his friend before gently pushing the young man's chin upward. He forced himself to ignore the hisses of pain from Marty as he gently felt along the rapidly-forming bruises. Tiny splotches of blood decorated his fingertips as he pressed on Marty's tender skin.

"There's already some palpable swelling around your trachea, and without a CT scan to determine the-"

Marty grabbed Doc by the shoulder and gave him an exasperated expression. English, Doc! How bad is it?!

Realising he had to switch his language, Doc paused for a moment as he though of the best way to translate his diagnosis into layman's terms. "I think it would be best if you rest your voice for a while, Marty. I can't tell how much swelling there is in your throat without a scan, and I'd rather you didn't engage with the town's doctor if we can help it. We don't want to risk altering the timeline any further than we already have!"

Marty's face fell. No! He tried to engage his vocal cords, only for a hoarse whisper to escape his lips. Doc, I have to tell you!

"Marty," Doc's voice took on a gentle warning tone. "It'll only make things worse. I'm not a medical doctor, but this is the only thing I can think of that will help."

But Doc, you've gotta know! You die on Monday for Christ's sake!

Marty was surprised to feel tears beginning to trickle from his eyes. I can't let you die!

His disbelief quickly morphed into embarrassment as he realised his best friend was now seeing him cry. Geez McFly, you're turning into a bigger wimp than your old man was-

Doc placed a hand on Marty's shoulder, giving it a comforting pat. "It's alright, Marty. It's alright. You're safe now."

He wasn't sure what came over him in that moment, but Marty felt the sudden urge to throw his arms around Doc, which the older man reciprocated.

"We've both been through a lot, Marty," Doc said quietly. "I'm not surprised at your reaction, and I'm not angry, either."

The teenager nodded silently, but Doc could tell he wasn't convinced. He took the opportunity to gently extract himself from Marty and gesture towards his workshop. "How about we go get you cleaned up? Besides, you can't be walking around in that outfit! People will start asking questions! Who dressed you like that anyway?"

It took a second before Marty smiled tiredly, poking Doc directly in the chest. You did.

The walk through town wasn't a long one, given that Marty was used to a much bigger version of Hill Valley. He kept stumbling on the unpaved and rough pathways, the sound of his sneakers scraping against the dirt quickly becoming irritating. Deciding it would be wise to follow Doc's advice, he wisely kept quiet and allowed his friend to ramble on about various aspects of the town's history as they arrived at the workshop.

"I know it's not exactly as comfortable as my lab, Marty," Doc shouted over his shoulder as he unlocked the barn doors, "but unfortunately this is the best place I've been able to get around here!"

Marty craned his neck to observe the workshop. Technically, it was an old barn house, but Doc had spent most of the last nine months converting it into a primitive laboratory, whilst keeping a small space available for his blacksmithing business and horses. His nose crinkled as the doors opened and the glorious smell of farm animals hit his nostrils. Wonder if Doc could invent air freshener a bit early?

As soon as Doc secured the barn doors, he turned to find Marty gesturing for a pen. The teenager's desperation to communicate was beginning to worry him. "Marty, I promise I'm not angry-"

Marty threw his hands up in frustration before an idea seemed to cross his mind. He held up a finger at Doc before he began desperately fishing around in his filthy pockets for something.

Doc found himself growing increasingly concerned. "Please, Marty, let's at least get you cleaned up first-"

The scientist was interrupted as a photograph was violently shoved under his nose, with a suspiciously-teary Marty holding it with trembling hands.

Doc briefly recoiled before grabbing the photo. "Marty, what the hell-"

His retinas finished processing the visual information of the tombstone in the photograph.

Here lies Emmett Brown.

Died September 7, 1885.

His stomach dropped. He gazed up at Marty with eyes as wide as saucers. "Marty-"

"I had to come," Marty mouthed sadly, his eyes almost welling up with tears.

Doc looked back at the tombstone, the pit of despair in his stomach growing deeper by the second. He found himself re-reading his name on the grave, ignoring the nausea that had suddenly appeared in his throat. "…Did you find this in 1955?"

Marty nodded. "With you," He mouthed, pointing at Doc.

An icy sense of dread came rushing over the older man. He forced himself to look past the top of the tombstone and read the lower part of the inscription.

Shot in the back by Buford Tannen over a matter of eighty dollars.

Erected in eternal memory by his beloved Clara.

"September seventh?! But that's this Monday!" Doc yelped in surprise, running a hand through his hair. "Now I wish I'd paid him off! And who's this Clara? I don't know anyone called Clara!"

Marty shrugged. He thought for a moment before pointing at Doc and making a love heart with his hands. Girlfriend of yours, maybe?

Doc scoffed nervously. "You know perfectly well how determined I am to keep the future intact! Becoming attached to a woman of this period could potentially endanger the entire fabric of reality!"

Rolling his eyes at Doc and praying that he was exaggerating, Marty decided he'd had enough of masquerading as a half-dead Westerner for one day. He looked around the workshop, his eyebrow raising at Doc as he mimed taking a shower. Where's the bathroom in this joint?

"Oh! Oh, yes, Marty, we need to get all that dirt off of you. There's not much in terms of hygiene facilities in this time period, as I'm sure you're aware, but I've done my best to rig up a primitive version of the plumbing we're used to. Just be careful to not cut yourself on the tub," Doc gestured towards the far end of the barn. "Chuck those clothes in front of the curtain and I'll bring over some spare ones for you. That outfit isn't good for anything now except kindling."

Marty sighed and nodded wearily, walking to the back of the barn for what he hoped would be the best bath of his life. I would also kill for a nap right now.

Doc felt an intense pang of sadness in his heart as he watched his injured friend pull the privacy curtain across. He almost died trying to warn me about this! What have I gotten this kid into?…