The Abominable Doc Brown
By Flaming Trails
A Back To The Future: Trilogy Story
Disclaimer: I don't own the BTTF trilogy. If I did -- Well, Clara would look VERY different. . . ;)
Note: This is a story based on the full BTTF Trilogy. A quick explanation -- Doc and company moved back to Hill Valley officially in 1986, although they picked out a house in 1985. They've been in the future again for about 5 months when this story takes place.
Sunday, July 6th, 1986
1: 10 P. M.
Clara stood hands planted firmly on hips, glaring at the young man in front of her. "Listen, Martin Seamus McFly, those are my children. I gave them life. Therefore, if I say something concerning the way you play with them, I believe that you should respect it!"
"Sure, but I think you're making a big deal over nothing! When have your kids ever gotten hurt playing with me?"
"Well, it's a distinct possibility, the way you act sometimes! You do dangerous things on your skateboard, you watch scary and bloody movies, you have a volatile temper--"
"Well, it's true! You get angry at the slightest provocation, Marty."
"Not at Jules and Verne. I've learned my lesson about my temper. And I never do that other stuff around your kids. Do you really think I'd put your kids in danger after I've been through?"
"If you continue to rough-housing with them like you do, yes!"
"They're boys! Who spent the first years of their life in the Old West! A little rough-housing ain't gonna kill them, Clara!"
"You're not careful enough around them! This is a new time for them, and they could get hurt! Until we find out more about this place, no rough-housing! End of story!" She folded her arms stubbornly. Marty opened his mouth to make another point. "END OF STORY."
Marty glared at her, steamed. "Perfect," he spat out. "Just perfect." He turned and started up the stairs. Halfway up, he paused and looked back. "But you know what? Sometimes I wished you had stayed in the Old West."
"Sometimes I wish that too. In fact, sometimes I wish I never had to see you again," Clara said venomously. Marty just snarled, then stalked up the rest of the steps and slammed the door.
Clara shoved some clothes into the washer. That kid, she thought, her face red with anger. Doesn't he understand I just want to keep my children safe? We've only been here four months. I don't want Jules or Verne to fall prey to a danger they never encountered back in the 1880s and 1890s. We're still not totally used to this time. But, stubborn jerk that he is, he doesn't understand that! He just struts around like there's nothing to worry about!
She stared at the trembling washing machine for a few moments as dark thoughts passed through her head about the teen. After a few minutes, though, she started to feel a little bit of regret over the fight. Well, how could he understand? He was born and raised in this century. He doesn't see anything to worry about. He's used to it all.
But why does he always have to be so stubborn?! This would be so much easier if he could see things from my point of view. She sighed and leaned on the washer. I'll let him cool off, then try to explain my side. I'm sick of all this fighting. Marty really is a nice kid. Too darn stubborn, but nice.
Sunday, July 6th
1: 13 P. M.
Marty stormed into the kitchen of Doc's new house. What is Clara's problem? She acts like she can't trust anybody from the twentieth century, least of all me! I mean, the first couple of months were great. I got to know Doc's family. But lately all we do is fight. I try to understand her, but sometimes I just get sick and tired of her.
Doc was in the kitchen, making himself a sandwich. A glass of milk sat beside his plate, filled to the brim. He glanced up as Marty stomped in. "Not another fight," he sighed.
Marty nodded, leaning heavily on the stone-topped counters. "That Clara really gets on my nerves sometimes, Doc. You know what she just accused me of? Playing too rough with Jules and Verne."
"Well, Marty, sometimes you do seem a little rough with them," Doc admitted, laying a few slices of ham on his bread.
Marty's anger transferred from Clara to Doc. "Damn it, Doc, you always take her side! No matter what, Clara has to be right! Especially when it comes to me! You don't give a shit about my feelings anymore!"
Doc turned and looked at him steadily. "That's not true. I care very much about how you feel. I thought my behavior concerning you when I arrived home would convince you of that. But Clara is my wife, and unused to this century. I care about her feelings as well." Marty sulked, his face dark. "I think the problem is that you're coming at these problems from two radically different viewpoints. Clara's lived the majority of her life in a world without many of the technological advances you and I are used to. Everything is new and strange. Of course she's going to be afraid. It's the same for Jules and Verne, although not as severely." He patted Marty on the shoulder. "I know it's not sinking in now, but when you cool off, I'm sure you'll understand. Deep down, you like Clara and she likes you."
Marty shrugged. "I try to understand where she's coming from, but -- She's annoying, Doc. I hate to say that, but she knows exactly how to push my buttons."
"You're in a transitional phase. It's normal to feel that way." Doc sighed, his face relaxing into mild sadness. "It hurts me to see you two fight. I want my wife and my best friend to be friends. Either tomorrow or the next day I think we'll have some sort of mediation period. I'll listen to both your concerns and try to think of a satisfactory solution. All right?"
"I just gotta do something!" Marty said, not having heard a word Doc had said. "Get it out of my system." He looked at Doc, then abruptly gave him a shove. Not a hard shove, but a shove nonetheless. "Come on, let's duke it out! You and me!"
Doc was astonished. "You want to have a fight???"
"Not really a fight. Just shove each other around a little. We can't hurt each other if we don't shove hard. Come on, you chicken, Doc? Afraid Clara won't let you?" Marty goaded him.
Annoyed, Doc accepted Marty's challenge by shoving him back. If it makes him feel better, what the hell. They continued shoving each other, trading a few weak insults and challenges. One of Marty's shoves managed to jar Doc's arm against the glass. It tipped over and spilt its contents all over the floor. In the heat of their battle, neither noticed.
After a few minutes of moderately hard shoving, Marty felt a little better. "I'm heading out," he told Doc, giving him one final shove. He turned on his heel and prepared to leave.
Doc, however, wanted to get in the last word. "Just remember what I told you, Futureboy," he said, giving his best friend a shove toward the exit.
And into the milk puddle.
Sunday, July 6th
1: 19 P. M.
Clara was preparing to load the clothes into the dryer when she heard the scream. Startled, she dropped the laundry and dashed upstairs. "Emmett? Marty?" she called, running from room to room. "What's going on? What happened?!"
The scream continued, gaining an inhuman quality in it's length. Clara felt a chill run up her spine. Where is it coming from? "Emmett? Is that you?"
She finally tracked the scream to its source, the kitchen. "What in the name of--"
Her voice died as she walked in. Doc was pressing himself back against the cabinets on one side of the narrow room, hands clenched, eyes wide with horror. The scream was issuing from his throat. Across from him was Marty. The teen was slumped against the other row of cabinets, his head bent at an odd angle. A pool of blood was slowly spreading out from the base of his skull.
Clara screamed too, clutching her dress collar to her face. "EMMETT! Oh, God! How did it happen?! My God, Marty. . . ."
Doc turned haunted eyes on her, the scream finally being choked off by violent sobs. "He -- he slipped. We got into an argument and he slipped. . . . Call a doctor, Clara." He collapsed onto the floor and curled up into a ball, tears streaming from his eyes.
Clara gaped at the scene for a moment more, then flew to the nearest phone. She struggled with it for a few moments, but managed to dial 911. "Help! There's been an accident at my house! A friend of ours tripped and hit his head. There's blood everywhere. You've got to send help immediately! Please, you have to help us."
The woman on the other end tried to calm her down. "There's an ambulance ready to go if you'll just give me your name and address."
"Mrs. Clara Brown, 1233 Zemeckis Road," Clara sobbed. She could still hear her husband's scream, echoing in her head. "Please, God, don't let him die," she prayed, the first of many tears tricking down her cheeks. "I didn't mean it."
"Excuse me, Mrs. Brown?"
Clara didn't hear. "I didn't mean it."