Work Text
Marty had learned a lot since becoming a fossil hunter (“Palaeontologist, Marty, palaeontologist!”) but the thing he was the most sure about after near on three weeks hopping around the desert with chunks of long-dead animal was that Doc was a bit of a weird dude.Not at all that that was a bad thing! In fact, Marty probably wouldn’t like Doc quite so much if he were just like everyone else in Hill Valley. He dressed funny and used strange Old States slang, and when he wasn’t doing that he was still saying weird things that made no sense. Then he’d see the look on Marty’s face and try to explain the weird thing with even weirder stuff that made less sense so that Marty would, somehow, be less confused.His success rate was pretty low.Marty loved it. He wondered if everyone on the East Coast dressed and walker and talked like Doc did, or if Doc were unique. He hoped it was the latter, ‘cause Marty was kinda weird too.To be sure, Doc’s unquestionable weirdness was not the only thing he had learned in that time. Like he’d said, he’d learned a lot. Maybe even more than he’d ever learned in Hill Valley’s creaky little schoolhouse. He knew the difference between a rock and a mineral, he could tell apart rock and petrified bone, and how to remove a fossil from its matrix (and, of course, he now knew what a matrix was!). He understood what tool to use and when, and could kinda guess now what part of the mosasaur a bone might be from and actually be correct. Doc had just taught him how to make up a weak acid to dissolve dirt and grime from a fossil and—crucially—he knew when to just abandon a fossil and get Doc to tackle its extraction instead. Some things Doc just wanted to do his way.Like Marty had decided: he was a bit of a weird dude. His parents agreed too. It was just about the only thing they all agreed on.It was early in the morning; early enough that there was only a faint haze of yellow floating, cloud-like, above the horizon. He’d managed to crawl out of bed when the nail clattered onto the dish beneath his candle, and was pleasantly surprised to find he’d slept in his clothes again. That was good. It meant he didn’t have to fumble around blindly and piss Dave and Linda off with the noise he was making as he tried to force uncooperative limbs through sleeves and trouser legs.He got to the kitchen without crashing into anything, and sat down at the table to pull on his socks and boots. As his fingers tugged at the dense wool—the heel thinning at a rate that had him thinking he should turn them over to Ma for darning sooner rather than later—he marinated in the silence of the McFly farm.It was a little unnerving. But much of the time it was better than the alternative. Dinner had not been a pleasant experience last night. Clearly the others agreed, because there was a nondescript bottle sat on the table that had not been there last night.Marty picked it up; turned it over in his hands. A wiggle of the court released the strong smell of liquor.He grimaced. So it had been one of those nights.“And what are you doing up so early?”Marty startled. “Ma!”Lorraine McFly was fully dressed—she’d probably woken long before him in order for that to even be physically possible with the number of layers he knew girls wore—but there was a weariness to her movement present. Even with the urgency that she approached him and took the bottle from his hands. He let it go, unresisting.She probably didn’t mean to sound accusing. He hadn’t done anything wrong by picking up a bottle.His mother cast him a look as she propped the bottle on a high shelf. “And a good morning to you too, Marty.”Her hair hadn’t been arranged for the day. Even in the dim light and her hasty trot over to the stove, the huge purple marks under her eyes were obvious.“Uh, morning,” said Marty quickly. He sat up straighter and made a go of hurriedly buttoning his waistcoat. “Did you sleep well, Ma?”His mother didn’t look up from rummaging among the saucepans. “Well enough.”Lie. Eyebags and the bottle always went hand in hand. He fiddled with a small hole in his cuff, sneaking looks as she propped the kettle up on the hotplate.“You didn’t answer my question.”“Huh?”“Why are you awake so early on a Saturday? She paused, and the look rose to her face. “You’re not seeing that Parker girl—”“I got work,” he said quickly.“She isn’t good for you,” she continued like he hadn’t said anything. “I don’t like her, Marty.” There was a tone threading her voice now, that slightly tremulous undercurrent that always made him feel bad that he was going to immediately ignore her wishes. “Any girl who puts that much stock into a silly job instead of finding and keeping a respectable husband is asking for trouble.Oh boy. Best not to tell her that ‘that Parker girl’ wanted him as that respectable husband, and he’d already agreed to it.Not for a few years, mind you. Teaching was a busy job, and Jennifer couldn’t do it if she wasn’t giving it her all. And she couldn’t be a schoolteacher if she were a wife. And someone needed to teach the kids how to read, or the next generation would be a generation of miniature Mad Dog Tannens.He’d argued that to his mother the first time she’d thinned her mouth out, ready to bring the heavens down on Jennifer. He’d learned since then it was best to weather these things out than try put up a fight. His mother could holler real loud when she wanted to.Marty let himself drift a bit as Ma dove into her ‘that girl spends too much time working and not enough time simpering’ rant. He was very good at letting it wash over him. And her points were always the same. She was too proper, or she wasn’t proper enough. She paid too much attention to the wrong things (teaching children to read), and not enough to the right things (Marty, apparently).(Ma had clearly never been around when Marty visited the schoolhouse after the pupils left, and it was going to stay that way).Jennifer would probably be in the schoolhouse, even though she wasn’t teaching today. He might visit after he finished up with Doc that afternoon. He needed to ask if she was going to the Working Bee anyway, and she still had that dinosaur book he’d borrowed from Doc, then—A cup of steaming tea slid in front of him. He startled back.“Did you hear me?”
No.
“Ma,” he said cautiously. He pulled his thumb from the now much-larger hole in his cuff to take the teacup. “I think Miss Parker is a real nice girl—”His mother waved away talk of Jennifer. Naturally. If they spoke about Jennifer it had to be on her terms, and—“There’s no bread for you this morning. Nor cheese.”That wasn’t what Marty expected. “Huh?”“No bread. No cheese.”He frowned. “The grocer had nothing?”“Mister Stevens had plenty,” said his mother. Her expression wasn’t quite disdainful. It sat somewhere between that and resignation. “Your father lent Mister Tannen some money, and things will be tight until he pays us back.”Ah.If he pays us back. That went unsaid, but Marty could read between the lines. This was worse than he thought. Down to the blanket, yet again.“He lent money to Mad Dog? Don’t he know lending Mad Dog somethin’ is the same as giving it? For free?”“Don’t you call him that.” His mother said, but without any real bite. She absently petted his hair. “Drink your tea. I’ll cook you some eggs.”“Naw, it’s alright, Ma.”“Don’t be silly.”“Really, I got an apple in my bag—”Her eyes narrowed. “Martin—”
Oh shit, it’s a Martin—
The clatter of approaching hooves floated through the window.Marty sent up a quick thanks to whichever saint was patron to those about to get scolded at by their mother. He leapt to his feet, downing all his tea in one go. That ended up being a colossal mistake. Once he managed to swallow it and the several layers of skin that came off the roof of his mouth, he gasped out:“That’s Doc, Ma.” He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Unlikely he’d able to taste for the rest of the day. “I gotta go—” he seized his hat, his canteen. Then he looked back his mother.Lorraine McFly was adept at conveying disappointed in the lines etched in her face. He’d seen all the varieties, and all different levels of intensity. He’d experienced all of them at one time or another. The disapproval when Dave cussed, or when Linda complained bitterly about everything and nothing, or when the vicar absently informed her that he’d seen Marty talking with the schoolteacher again.Disappointment was all good and expected, it was resignation that was the bad one. That was the one Marty hated the most. It was never him that caused that particular expression of defeat. Always his father. His father was so good at disappointing people.Marty took a step to the door, then another, then shuffled to a guilty stop.His father wasn’t there to take credit for this one.She jumped a little in surprise as he took her hand. Her skin was very dry beneath his fingers. “Thanks, Ma.”Her mouth curled into a smile. Not a big one. But better than nothing.“You’re a good boy, Marty.”He squeezed her hand, and the smile grew a tiny bit bigger.“I’ll see you sundown,” he promised.“Don’t be late.”“Aw, you know I never mean to—”She smoothed his collar down and pushed him gently towards the door. “Off with you, now. You’ve silver mines to find.”That was the running story (otherwise known as a blatant lie) about his and Doc’s activities, so he nodded assent and disappeared outside.The air was cool, but with the weighty feeling that assured him it was going to become a truly revolting day. He trudged up past the stables, with a quick detour to visit Sheriff.The colt looked up happily, and harumphed.“Hey there.” Sheriff eagerly pressed his face into Marty’s hands as he scrubbed at his snout. “Morning to you too!”Sheriff made a snuffling noise in assent, and shoved his face into Marty’s bag.“I don’t got any sugar for you,” he said. “I got an apple, though—”The apple was deemed acceptable. Then it really was time to head up to the gate, leaving behind the happily crunching horse, to where Doc’s silhouette waited atop his buggy.“C’mon,” Marty said, hoisting himself up. “Let’s go.” It was possible that not waiting for his mother to cook him breakfast and feeding his apple to a horse was not the smartest move.Like the morning air had promised, the day heated up tremendously. By eight o’clock Marty had lost his jacket; by nine o’clock his waistcoat had joined a growing pile on the buggy; by ten he was debating whether peeling off a few layers of skin would help him cool down.Doc, inexplicably, was still in his huge leather coat. For an East Coaster, Marty thought as he watched Doc dart around the dig with too much energy for an old guy, he seemed immune to the weather. Maybe it got hotter out east than he’d originally believed.The heat was bad, but it wasn’t the worst thing. That title was reserved for the hunger to which he remained happily oblivious for some hours.The sound of some kinda monster roaring was what shook Marty out of his stupor. He shuffled back in shock and fell on his butt. The world reinserted itself into his personal universe. He blinked. He looked wildly around.There was Doc muttering over by a shoulder blade as big as Marty was tall.Normal.There was Gino sprawled on his belly under a scrub.Also normal.The monster bellowed again, and this time he tracked it to his stomach.Ah, man. He was hungry.He’d been so focused on extracting a small collection of bones that he thought might belong to a fin that he had forgotten everything else. A quick glance at his watch confirmed it was getting closer to noon.His stomach complained again, and he remembered, with a nasty shock, that he hadn’t eaten yet. Bread and cheese normally comprised his rushed breakfast before work, but since his father had so-considerately ensured it was off the menu …Nastier still was rummaging through his satchel and realising, like an idiot, that he’d given his only food to a horse.“Everything alright, Marty?” Doc called from across the dig-site.“Uh,” said Marty. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “Yeah. All fine here.”It wasn’t terrible, he thought a little miserably. It was nearly noon, and Doc always packed lots of food. Marty usually ended up eating the excess anyway. He just had to wait—he checked his watch again— seventy-five minutes.He could last seventy-five minutes. Definitely.Don’t even think about it, his stomach warned him.Marty ignored it. He was good at that. He carefully walked back over to the fin. Now that he was aware he was hungry, his legs thought it best to start up their complaints too. A few stumble recoveries later, and he was crouched back over the bones.His calves squawked.Grow the hell up, he chastised, and took a swig of his canteen. Maybe if he drank more water, it would trick his stomach into thinking he’d eaten.It didn’t.His stomach was proving itself a hardy opponent. He hadn’t got a headache—the amount of water he’d drunk practically guaranteed that—but his skull felt unpleasantly light. Worse still, he couldn’t focus. That wasn’t something he generally considered unusual, but he’d found himself able to lock into the fossil stuff with an ease that had surprised him.Bones, he told himself sternly. Think about bones.Ham bones? His stomach asked hopefully.He checked his watch again.Seventy-three minutes.Jesus.Instead of flinging his hammer and chisel into the ether, he picked them up and got back to work.This, too, ended up being a mistake.His hand chose that moment to shake, and the hammer slipped. For one horrified moment, Marty was sure his thumb was going to end up broken. But fortunately, his other hand decided to move. Unfortunately by moving, it meant that the chisel also moved. And tragically, despairingly, inconsolably terribly, by that, it meant that the cutting edge moved from some sandy matrix right into the middle of a precious fossilized metacarpal. The hammer smashed down on its butt.Crack.Marty dropped the instruments. A huge split ran through the bone. A few chunks splintered away with the caked sandstone.He’d smashed the stupid thing in half.“Shit!”Doc’s head jerked around towards him like that of an attack dog. The actual dog behaved similarly. Then they both were up and running as Marty hovered over the destroyed fossil.“Shit!” he said again. “I broke it—” he jumped back onto his feet, ready to apologise and then the world was all very wobbly.He only had time to think huh, before he was inexplicably back on the ground.There were two hands in his armpits holding his shoulders up off the dirt. Gino was staring into his eyes, or maybe his soul.“Huh.”Gino licked the side of his face.“Great Scott! Marty, what happened?”“Nothing,” Marty lied.Doc stared at him. His face was upside-down from where Marty was lying. It was hard to make out the expression. It might have been aghast.It was probably aghast.“Well, okay, something,” he amended.He felt bad enough about the metacarpal that he went unresisting as Doc hoisted him upright and tugged him over to a scraggly Joshua tree. Then two firm hands pushed him down until he was sitting in the dirt. Gino followed obediently, and laid his head on Marty’s thigh to slobber affectionately.The heat was less intense in the shade there, and while he didn’t feel thirsty, he still gratefully accepted the canteen shoved into his chest.“Thanks,” he managed between mouthfuls of water. “I just need a sec.”It was Doc’s canteen; he could tell from the taste. Doc was a bit weird about his water; another thing he’d learned.Doc didn’t like Hill Valley water and always insisted on treating it with some long process that was described with even longer words (“An East Coast eccentricity?” Jennifer had suggested when Marty first commented on it). Stuff like ‘flocculation’ and ‘filtration’. Marty had unintentionally drifted off a little when Doc explained the process in detail, and only tuned back in when he’d missed all of it and it would’ve been rude to ask Doc to repeat everything all over again. This water was apparently superior to all other water in Hill Valley. If Marty were ever working over at his barn, Doc insisted on emptying his canteen into the horse trough and refilling it with the filtered stuff.“It’s more sanitary,” he would say. “The likelihood of your developing cholera has significantly reduced by drinking filtered water.” And then, as an afterthought: “I have also introduced a small quantity of fluoride, which should be beneficial for your teeth.”Marty decided not to ask about that. But he didn’t mind the filtered water. He liked that it didn’t taste muddy, and that it didn’t leave a filmy layer over his teeth he always found difficult to remove with a rag and baking soda.He also enjoyed not having cholera.Back in the present, Marty rested the canteen against his collarbone and closed his eyes. Even in the shade, the sunlight was intense. It illuminated the backs of his eyelids in a bloody glow. His head was still light, like a hot air balloon floating away from his body. Jesus, he could do with a sleep.The balloon abruptly landed as something dry slapped onto his forehead.“You’re too warm.”“Get outta here,” he said, swatting Doc’s hand away. “I’m fine.” He squinted upwards.Doc hovered above him anxiously. Marty closed his eyes again and grimaced.“And ‘fine’ means close to collapse, does it?”His eyes shot open again. “I wasn’t gonna swoon, Doc!”His employer looked extremely unimpressed. “You toppled like a tenpin.”Well. That would explain the strange gap in his memory that acted as the barrier separating ‘standing upright’ and ‘lying on the ground’.“Huh.”“Have you consumed sufficient water?” Doc demanded.“Sure.” It wasn’t even a lie.“Have you? Haven’t I told you, time and time again, that you should be drinking at minimum a gallon a day with this kind of exertion—”“Aw c’mon, Doc, it’s fine, really!” Marty shook his own canteen. A tiny bit of water sloshed about in the mostly empty space. “See? Good and daisy.” He forced it into Doc’s hands. “I ain’t dying of thirst or anything, I just didn’t eat breakfast.”As if deciding finally to be helpful, his stomach chose that moment to chime in with a loud gurgle.Doc’s disapproval did not disappear from his face as he had hoped.“Great Scott! Marty, breakfast is the most important meal of the day!”“Oh boy—”“If you fail to replenish your glucose stores, you can hardly expect your energy levels—”The conversation (if you could call it that) devolved into a string of long and complicated sounding words and flapping arm movements.“I’m fine, I just—”“—the effects on your metabolism could be—”“—it’s not a habit, it was just today—”“—hundreds of calories, Marty, thousands, even—”“—look, one skipped breakfast—”Marty tried to climb back up onto his feet. Doc pointed a severe finger in his direction. “Don’t even think about it,” he warned, and threw his hands up in the air.Marty settled back down into the dirt. Gino took the opportunity to climb more fully into his lap.Physically, he felt a lot better for being in the shade. Being able to run his fingers through Gino’s patchwork fur did a lot, medically. There was, however, a creeping embarrassment settling over him. Swooning like an old maid because he missed one meal? And now he was being flapped over, as though Doc were his mother and not his employer. Jennifer would never let him live it down.He privately made a note to never speak to her about this incident.Doc paused in his rambling over the perils of improper digestion. He panted, eyebrows all bushy and mad, and then turned and strode to the buggy.“Doc?” said Marty warily.“Where’s your satchel?”He had a nasty feeling he knew why Doc was looking for it. “There’s no food in it,” he said.Doc spun on his heel to look back, appalled. “You didn’t bring any food?”“Uhh,” Marty replied. “I forgot?”Doc’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared like a horse’s. “For goodness’ sakes.”“Look, I’m sorry, okay?” Marty watched as Doc searched furiously through the buggy. “Couldn’t buy any bread or cheese, and I already gave my apple to Sheriff.”“The grocer had nothing?”“Aw, mister Stevens had plenty; don’t be silly, Doc.” Then: “My father lent money to Mad Dog.”Doc ceased his rummaging. “I see.” “He’d give him his first-born if Mad Dog asked,” he said quickly. He didn’t know why he felt compelled to explain. It just came out. “Though I don’t think he’d do that; even Mad Dog knows Dave is kinda hopeless. McFlys are all kinda hopeless, honestly. You oughta seen Ma try teach me and Linda how to milk a cow.”(It hadn’t gone well. But honestly, Ma shoulda known better. If Marty was bad at stuff, Linda was worse).Doc didn’t say anything else, but he did shove a handkerchief-wrapped object in his direction.Marty took it, feeling both relieved and a bit guilty. He pulled away the cloth; a sandwich. Looked like a nice one, too. Beef, with cheese. “Thanks.”He pushed Gino’s curious nose away.“You’re welcome to it.” Then Doc lowered himself onto the dirt beside Marty and stared at him.His face prickled at the attention.“Can I get back up now?”“Certainly not,” said Doc flatly. “Eat the damn sandwich.”At the first bite, he instantly felt better. His stomach shrieked with joy, and Marty tried to surreptitiously jab it with his elbow to make it shut up. He reminded himself to take his time with the sandwich. It would do him no good to make himself sick.“You know, Marty,” Doc announced, just as Marty had crammed most of the sandwich into his mouth.“Yrrgh?”“You’re really rather good at palaeontology.”Marty swallowed, with extreme difficulty. “Yeah, yeah, a natural, right?” he answered, mostly as a joke.“Yes, actually.”Marty stared. Doc’s face was perfectly serious.When he felt up to replying, he said cautiously, “I smashed that metacarpal, Doc. To smithereens.”Doc scoffed. “Two pieces does not a smithereen make. Fossils become damaged all the time from entirely unpredictable occurrences. Any palaeontologist needs to be able to adapt to such events. There’s more to learn from a broken metacarpal than there is from no metacarpal.”“I guess.” While doubtful, at least he could tell Doc wasn’t mad about it.Marty was pretty mad about it.“And I didn’t tell you that was a metacarpal, did I?”Weirder.“I guess not.”“Well, there you are. You worked that out by yourself. No college education, and you can tell apart a metacarpal from a phalanx and a carpal! Not so hopeless now, are you?”Marty elected to remain silent on the fact that he didn’t know any of those terms until two weeks ago when he and Jennifer went through the borrowed textbook. Somehow, he didn’t think Doc would consider that an effective rebuttal.In fact, he seemed unreasonably smug about it, if the arm that shot out and gave Marty’s shoulder a friendly jostle was anything to go by.This was all deeply confusing.“You see, Marty,” Doc continued. “I think once we’ve finished up here … you would be a valuable asset to any excavation. You could do a lot down at La Brea.”“Right.”This was a lot. Too much, in fact. Marty itched to get up and go back to work.“You’ll think about it, won’t you?”“Sure,” he found himself agreeing. He didn’t have the brainpower to even begin thinking about this. This was something to digest as he stared at the ceiling in the middle of the night.It seemed kinda ridiculous that someone as smart as Doc could see something in someone like Marty.“Sure,” he repeated. “Let’s—uh, let’s get back to work.” Marty still felt a bit dazed when he walked into his house some six hours later to see his father twitching nervously over by the fireplace. Not a particularly unusual sight. It might have been his father’s regular nervous twitching, or it might have been the more severe variety. It was hard to tell them apart now. Either couldn’t be good for his heart.Marty worried about that sometimes when he woke up in the middle of the light and his mind wouldn’t stop whirling like a spinning top. If his father got sick and died, what would happen to his mother. If Dave was then in charge of the farm, what would happen to Dave. Dave was just like his father, and if his father had a heart attack from stress, then Dave would probably worry that the same thing would happen to him and eventually have a heart attack from stress. Then Marty would somehow have to run the farm, and he didn’t know shit about running a farm. He would do such a bad job of it that they’d run out of money and crops and animals and all starve, and then he wouldn’t be able to marry Jennifer at all. Or worse, he’d marry Jennifer first, and then she’d starve when he did such a bad job of running the farm that—Well. You get the picture.For a moment Marty wanted to go up and reassure his father. Then he remembered the whole stupid embarrassing incident and following conversation today happened because of this man, and his sympathy shrank sharply.“Dad,” he said, dumping his satchel onto the table. He didn’t quite manage to keep the curtness from leaking into his voice.“Martin,” his father replied, somewhat desperately.Oh no. If his father was calling him Martin, then there really must have been wrong, and Marty didn’t think he could bear that kinda conversation right now.“I gotta feed Sheriff,” he blurted, and turned around and walked face-first into a wall of smelly leather.The wall of leather shoved him back. “Watch it, shote,” said the wall in Mad Dog’s voice.
Well.
Shit.
“I can help you feed yer horse,” added the wall, then seized the front of his shirt and dragged him outside.Marty tripped as he went, but it didn’t matter. He could have gone boneless and it would have made no difference. Mad Dog dragged him all the way to the stables, where he released his grip on his shirt——thank God, Marty thought, albeit too soon——and immediately seized Marty’s bandana and used that to hold him up against a wooden post.Mad Dog leaned in so close he could see every bead of dirty sweat on his face. His breath was putrid from the smell of rotting teeth, and maybe Marty’s preservation instincts were a bit slow ‘cause all he could think was that Mad Dog could really use some of Doc’s filtered water.“Listen here, guttersnipe—”“C’mon, Tannen, I can’t be a guttersnipe; you were just in my house—”Mad Dog tightened his grip. Marty shut up, and tried not to squirm.“I wanna know what the hell yer game is.”Game? What game?“Huh?”“What’s the deal, McFly?”“The deal for what? The hell are you talkin’ about—?”Mad Dog used his free hand to wipe away some spittle leaking from the corner of his mouth. He tracked the movement with his eyes, and grimaced as Mad Dog wiped it on Marty’s sleeve.“Yer deal with the weird old dude.”“The weird old dude,” Marty repeated. “You mean Doc?”Mad Dog grunted. “Don’t care what his name is. You think I’m stupid?”Yes.Marty stayed silent.Thankfully, Mad Dog didn’t care about waiting for a response. “You come scuttlin’ round my dig-site like a disgusting little bug, next day yer working for some old yack? It’s been weeks, and yer still out there each day, so where is it?”“Where’s what?”“Where’s the dinosaur? Where you hidin’ it?”Marty froze.Mad Dog moved in so close his forehead knocked against Marty’s. “I said,” he growled, “where’s the dinosaur?”His stomach churned, but he was able to say, completely truthfully: “I ain’t got a dinosaur.”Mad Dog yelled and stepped back to shake him. A gust of breath whooshed out of him as his back slammed into the pillar.“I know yer lyin’! That old dude’s one of those fancy city-folk fossil hunters, you mark me—”“I ain’t got a dinosaur,” Marty repeated. “And Doc’s no palaeontologist. He’s a surveyor.”Mad Dog looked blank.It took physical effort to rid his voice of disdain. And a little extra to get rid of the tremor that threatened to run through his words. It would do him no good to get his light punched out by a guy holding him up by the bandana. “A geologist?”“Don’t go using all fancy Old States words—”“He looks at rocks,” said Marty, “and decides if we oughta stick a mine there.”Mad Dog scoffed, but his grip loosened fractionally. “Yeah? You expect me to believe he’d hire some ‘twixt hay and grass scrub to—”“Now, Mister Tannen,” said his father, and both Marty and Mad Dog jumped.He stretched out his neck to look around Mad Dog’s enormous chest. Yes, there he was, silhouetted by the open door to the house. Still twisting his hands together and avoiding eye contact like the plague. Had he followed them out? How long had he been there?“Doctor Brown’s an old man, and surely a surveyor needs an assistant to—” his father took a step forward, and came to a halt almost instantly as Mad Dog’s ferocious glare settled on him. How long had his father been there, Marty wondered again. Had he been there the whole time? Only deciding to intercede after his son got roughed up a bit?Marty hated his father sometimes.He shuffled awkwardly as Mad Dog turned back to him and wet his lips. “He looks at rocks, honest.” True. “We write down the types of rocks we see and what kinda stuff might be in them.” Also true. “You could come with us if you really wanna.”
Don’t you goddamn dare.
Marty could practically see the gears in Mad Dog’s tiny brain grating together as he thought about all two and a half piece of information he’d gathered. It looked like hard work. But something must have clicked, because his grip tightened, and he pulled Marty up onto his tiptoes. Just in time too, because Marty’s brain was steadily melting and after a few more second he might’ve done something stupid, like acquainted his knee with Mad Dog’s groin.“I’m watchin’ you,” he promised.Didn’t know you could do that ‘n breathe at the same time is what Marty would have liked to say. But his father was more visible over Mad Dog’s shoulder. Shaking like a shorn lamb and frantically shaking his head. He settled instead for, “Right.”Mad Dog’s gaze moved to something in the stable behind him. “Nice horse.”Chew gravel. “Thanks,” Marty replied.Mad Dog released him, and Marty’s heels slammed into the dirt.He didn’t both looking behind them as he swaggered back up to the gate and mounted his horse. And honestly, Marty thought bitterly as he rubbed at his throat, why the hell would he? McFlys weren’t threats to men like Mad Dog.Like he’d told Doc: McFlys were all hopeless.Shaking with something that might have been leftover adrenaline, possibly rage, Marty turned to head back to the house. His father was still there. Hovering. Fingers twitching.“Marty.”Marty shouldered past. “Good night.”It made him even angrier that his father didn’t even try to stop him.