Chapter Text
For a little bit, they walked in silence. Marty felt weird talking to his dad. This wasn’t the seventeen-year-old George he had spent the last week with; this was the man who had been his father when he was alive. What were they supposed to talk about? In his timeline, Marty barely interacted with his father. Would that have been the case in this timeline?
They passed only a handful of people on the street; most walked at a hurried pace and didn’t make eye contact with Marty. No one took notice to George.
“So strange, only I can see you,” Marty said, as they passed a third person. “I wonder why no one else can.”
“Maybe because both of us technically don’t belong here,” George suggested. “This isn’t your timeline, and I’m supposed to be six feet under.”
“So then how are you a ghost in the first place?”
George thought for a moment. “Maybe because I’m supposed to be alive right now, but since the timeline changed, it confused reality? I don’t know, but that’s how I would write it.”
“What?”
George sighed. “I’m supposed to be alive, but I’m not. This is the universe’s way of remedying that. And I’m sure your existence isn’t helping either.”
Marty nodded. “Right…” Science fiction was never his forte. Rather ironic, considering his time travel adventures.
There was another silence before George spoke again.
“So… what do you like to do in your free time?” he asked. “I remember you played the guitar at the dance in ’55.”
“Yeah, I like to play. I’m in a band. The Pinheads.”
“I take it people like your music more than we did back then?”
Marty made a so-so gesture. “Depends on who you ask.”
“I see. Any other interests?”
Marty suddenly realized what his father was doing. He was trying to get to know his son.
In a sense, they both had missed out on being in each other’s lives. George- had been shot. And Marty, he missed growing up with a confident dad who didn’t let people walk over him. Instead, he only had memories of a spineless coward who was too afraid to try his best, one who never believed that Marty could have a career in music.
Would there be a day where those memories would fade, and the moments created in the new timeline would replace them? Would they feel like his memories, or would they feel like if he were to watch his life on the TV, having no say in the moment, watching as if it weren’t his life. Only time will tell, I suppose.
“I like to skateboard,” Marty said.
“Right, you did that back then too.”
Marty laughed. “Yeah, I did.”
The two chatted more, Marty talked about Jennifer and how he planned to take her to the lake. George hung onto his every word, actually eager to learn about his son. The old George McFly never seemed interested. He would nod occasionally as his wandered off, and then he would tell Marty to give up on whatever he was talking about.
Finally, they reached the library.
The building looked like no one had visited it in years. At least, by no one with the intentions of borrowing books. All the windows were boarded up, some looked to have been shattered, stray glass was scattered along the sidewalk. Graffiti covered the brick walls, most words spelt incorrectly.
Marty went up to the front door and tried to open it. “It’s locked,” he said.
“We can go through the back door,” George said.
“Won’t that be locked too?”
“Yes, but there’s a pin pad.”
“How do you know this?”
“Before I died, I used to protest against BiffCo. Me and a few other activists would meet in the library. We would go in through the employee’s door to make sure no one saw us.” He laughed quietly. “I thought we were being dramatic, no one would care about our meetings, or at least no one would want to hurt us because of them.” He looked down at himself as he pressed a hand to the side of his stomach. “Now I can see that I was wrong.”
The pair made their way to the back of the library, sure enough, there was a door with a pin pad on it.
“What’s the pin?” Marty asked.
“1885,” George said without hesitation.
Marty punched in the code and turned the doorknob. The door opened slightly.
“There must be something behind it,” he said as he slammed his body into the door.
After ramming into the door a few more times and hearing something crash behind it, Marty eventually got it open. It seemed that some cardboard boxes filled with books had been in the way of the door, as they were littered across the floor.
George led the way, taking Marty to the newspaper archives. They reached a room lined with bookshelves that housed giant binders. A dusty table stood in the middle, with a lamp and a few book-related utensils on it. Marty stood at the table while his father began to wander around, looking at the books of newspapers.
“Alright,” Marty said. “Where do we start?”
“By coming up with a list of things that have changed. Then we find articles relating to them and… try to figure out what caused them to change.”
“That’ll take forever!” Marty said. “This is hopeless, we’re never going to fix the timeline.” He collapsed into a chair, his hands holding his head.
George stopped in his tracks. He turned and looked Marty. “Don’t say that,” he said. “We will fix this.” He gave his son a grin. “Some kid thirty years ago once told me that I could achieve anything if I put my mind to it.”
Marty groaned, suppressing a smile. “Dad…”
“C’mon, Marty. Tell me about your timeline.”
“Well, you’re alive in it.”
George nodded. “You mentioned that.”
“So how did you die in this timeline?”
George looked uncomfortable. For the first time since returning from 1955, Marty caught a glimpse of his old father.
“Dad, you don’t have to give any details, just the cause-”
“It was Biff.”
Marty sat up, his hands no longer supported his head. “What? Biff murdered you?”
George nodded grimly. “He shot me in an alley. I was on my way to an award dinner.”
Marty gaped at his father.
“Okay, well,” George said, still looking uncomfortable. “Clearly Biff didn’t kill me in your timeline, so something in Biff’s life changed in this one.”
Marty nodded. “He got rich,” he said, remembering the Biff Museum he saw. “Really rich. Before he worked at the same company as you did and then had an auto-detailing business after I time travelled.”
“Right! In this timeline, Biff made a ton of winning bets!” George said. “Then he legalized gambling and started to use his money to buy out giant companies.”
“That must be it!” Marty said. “But how did that change?”
“We find out by going through all these newspapers,” George said as he gestured to the bookshelf.
Marty began to pull out books that were dated around and before George’s death. He flipped through them, scanning for any headline mentioning Biff. George had come to peer over his shoulder, not being able to open any other book and turn pages.
“This one is about his seventh win in a row,” Marty said while going through a third book.
“Here, let me read it, you keep looking.”
Marty pushed the open book to the side and grabbed another.
“I remember seeing this in the papers,” George said. “Me and Lorraine wondered whether his luck would run out when he placed his thirteenth bet.” He sighed. “We were pretty disappointed when it didn’t.” He looked back up at Marty. “Anyway- there doesn’t seem to be anything suspicious in this article.”
They looked through a few more books, until they came across a paper dated Friday, March 25th, 1958.
“Look this is the first time he won!” Marty said, holding up the paper. “There has to be a clue here somewhere.”
George came over and peered over Marty’s shoulder as they read the article. On the surface, it didn’t look promising. The text was mostly about an interview Biff gave where he listed all the things he was going to do with his new fortune. Nothing about what made him place the bet in the first place, other than him saying that he wanted to celebrate his birthday.
“This isn’t telling us anything,” Marty said.
“Keep looking,” George urged. “Check the photo.”
“Why? This blurry black and white photo won’t…” Marty’s voice trailed off.
“What do you see?”
Marty didn’t answer him. Something in the image had caught his eye.
At first glance, it looked normal. Biff held a large check over his head, surrounded by people. He had an almost smug look about him as he looked off to the side of the camera. Nothing looked suspicious or strange.
Until one noticed the book-shaped object in Biff’s pocket.
Marty grabbed a magnify glass that had been on the table. He peered closely at the image.
“Oh my god, Dad, it’s the almanac!” Marty yelled. “Look!”
George looked through the glass. The 2015 almanac looked unassuming to the average person, just a book in Biff’s pocket. Maybe someone who knew Biff would question why on earth he had a book on him, the boy hated reading, but other than that, nothing was off.
“What almanac? What are you talking about?”
“Right, I forgot.” Earlier Marty hadn’t mentioned the almanac from 2015, deeming it an unimportant detail in his story. “In 2015 I bought a sports almanac and was planning to bet on some stuff and get rich. Doc was against the idea and made me throw the thing out. Someone must’ve gotten a hold of the book! And they stole my idea!”
“But who?”
“Who else? Old Biff probably snuck into the time machine while me and Doc were trying to find Jennifer…” His voice trailed off at a realization. “Aw man,” he said. “It’s all my fault Biff got his hands on that almanac.”
“Don’t say that,” George said.
“No Dad! You know that Biff has never had an original idea in his life. He used to copy your homework; he was even worse in the first timeline. He wouldn’t have thought about giving himself the almanac if I hadn’t bought the book and told Doc about it.”
“It doesn’t matter if you made a mistake, Marty,” George said. “Just as long as you make it right. And we’ll do it together.”
“But we still don’t know where- when he gave himself the almanac,” Marty said. “How are we supposed to figure that out?”
George thought for a moment. “You talk to him. You said he’s your stepfather, right?” George made a face at the word stepfather.
“He is, but why would he tell me where he got the secret to his riches?”
“You’re forgetting something, son. He’s Biff. Don’t overestimate him,” George said. “There’s no harm in trying.”
"Says the guy who was shot by him."
"Yeah, right. But what other option do we have? Travel to every day before 1958 and stalk Biff?"
Marty nodded. “Alright. We’ll go to his penthouse.”
Despite the library being trashed, George still insisted that Marty cleaned up after himself. Marty began to put the books back onto the shelves he found them. He slowly flipped through the pages as he closed books.
“Oh, here’s an article about your death,” Marty said. A black and white image of his father stared up at him, looking strikingly similar as the man next to him. “It says the police found you at 9:35 PM, how long did it take them?”
Once again, George looked like the father Marty had grown up with, awkward and nervous. “Didn’t take them long,” he said. “I left the house around 9:10.”
“9:10? Weren’t you on your way to your dinner party?" Marty asked. “The party wasn’t at 10, was it?”
“No, it wasn’t,” George said slowly. “It had been going on for a while.”
“Don’t tell me you were late to your own award dinner,” Marty joked.
“I was taking you home, Marty.”
“What?” That was not the answer he was expecting.
“You were a little boy, and it was way past your bedtime,” George explained. “So I brought you home. I was on my way back when…” His voice trailed off.
“Oh God,” Marty said. Tears began to form in his eyes “So it’s my fault you died, not only by screwing up the timeline but even in this reality-”
“Marty- No,” George said firmly. “Don’t blame yourself for it. I’m sure Biff would’ve got me some way or another. It wasn’t your fault; you were just a tired kid.” He looked Marty straight in the eye. “I would lay down my life for you, your mother, and your siblings.”
“But you shouldn’t have to.”
“Then we’ll fix it. We’ll put everything back to normal, I promise Marty, it’ll be okay.”
Marty laughed, wiping his eyes. “Damn, my old old man would’ve told me to give up ages ago.”
George smiled, reminding Marty once again of the old George. “Well, I’m here now, and I have a certain Clein to thank for it.”