Work Text:
"Sitting on my bed, lying wide awake,
there's demons in my head and it's more than I can take."
- Gotta Get Away, The Offspring
It was the nightmares that got to him in the end. Not the numbness that would creep up on him sometimes, or the explosive anger that would temporarily take control. Not the prickly anxiety that haunted his every waking hour or the mood swings that occurred out of nowhere. No, it was the cruelty of his own subconscious mind that eventually pushed him over the edge.
And it was so stupid.
Marty had had nightmares before. Plenty of them. He’d had nightmares about Biff Tannen murdering his father, the exact details unknown to him so his mind created frightening conjecture, distorted, gory images that couldn’t possibly be true but seemed so real in the moment. He’d had nightmares about Biff beating him half to death as his mother watched on with a glazed, disinterested expression, her fingers trembling around the whiskey glass in her hand. He would beg her to do something, say something, but she’d remain silent.
That, at least, had its basis in reality.
So it made no sense why, after everything, it was the nightmares he was having now that were slowly picking apart his sanity. At least, it felt like it.
Marty lay awake on the cot in Doc’s garage, listening to the sound of the pattering rain and the old man’s snoring. It was almost pitch black. The only light came from a distant streetlamp through the window.
Marty was exhausted. His eyelids kept fluttering shut but he’d force them open after a few seconds. He didn’t want to sleep. This would make it the third night, and he knew Doc was getting suspicious, but he didn’t want to face the images he knew his brain would concoct the moment he fell asleep.
How childish.
Marty huffed and rolled onto his side. The cot creaked beneath him, echoing much louder than it had any right to be. But Doc snored on. Einstein, however, heard the noise, and the jingle of his collar indicated he’d raised his head.
“Come here, boy,” Marty whispered, reaching out blindly.
Einstein got up and trotted over with soft sound of claws tapping against the concrete floor, and moments later, Marty felt soft fur beneath his fingertips. A smile crept across Marty’s lips as he ran his hand up and down Einstein’s neck. Einstein’s tail thumped.
Marty liked dogs. One of his friends had had a dog, a labrador named Cecelia. She was an active thing, always up for a game of fetch or tug-of-war. The memory made Marty’s heart clench. That had been before Biff Tannen had intruded on his life and ruined everything.
But now the man was gone. He didn’t have to worry about him now.
Because Marty had killed him.
Letting his hand fall away from Einstein’s neck, Marty rolled onto his back again and stared through the darkness at the ceiling. He tried to keep his breathing under control as Doc had taught him, as his heartrate began to speed up all on its own. His fingers clutched tightly at the thin bedsheets. Calm down. Calm down. Get a grip on yourself, McFly!
Marty screwed his eyes shut. Held his breath, counted to four, and released it.
The bastard deserved it, he reminded himself. He had it coming. He deserved it. That didn’t make him feel better. It never did, no matter how many times Doc repeated it.
Closing his eyes had been a mistake. He could feel himself drifting off now, and he found he couldn’t fight it. Two nights spent awake had taken their toll, and Marty reluctantly fell hard into sleep.
The nightmares were different each time.
Sometimes he would repeat the moments where he pushed Biff down that flight of stairs. He would watch in mixed satisfaction and horror as the older man tumbled, listen to the unmistakable crack of his neck breaking. Marty would stare at his unmoving form until the police burst in to take him away.
Other times he dreamed he was on the street again. These ones were never as detailed, always a little fuzzy around the edges, but the feelings of nausea and disgust would be so very real every time he woke up.
Tonight, he dreamed of prison.
It was just like the prisons he’d seen on those dramatic television shows. Grey and dreary, with dripping ceilings and glass windows and telephones. It seemed deserted. Marty stood there, looking around, and he abruptly froze as his eyes landed on her.
His mother. Waiting expectantly at a booth on the other side of the glass with a telephone to her ear.
Marty felt as if he was floating on air as he approached. His feet didn’t touch the ground. Slowly, he sat down in the seat and unhooked the telephone on his own side. “Mom?”
“How are you doing, sweetie?” Her sickly-sweet tone didn’t match her blank expression. “Are you holding up okay?”
“Yea,” Marty breathed. “Mom, are you- are you okay? Are they treating you alright?”
“Oh, fine,” she said. “You would like it here, Marty.”
Marty drew back. “Wh-what?”
“It’s where you should be, after all, isn’t it?” She cocked her head and her voice lowered. “You should be in my place.”
“Mom-”
“You’re the reason I’m in here, Marty.” She stood up. “How could you do this to your poor old mother?”
Tears began to gather in Marty’s eyes. “I’m sorry, mom. I didn’t mean to.”
“No, of course you didn’t, didn’t you? But it happened anyway.” She echoed Marty’s own words to Doc that he’d spoken those three weeks ago. “And just look at your hands, Marty. You’ve got blood all over them.”
Marty looked down at his hands in shock and discovered she was right. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I’m sor-” But when he looked back up, it wasn’t his mother staring back at him—it was Biff Tannen. His neck was twisted awkwardly to one side and blood trickled down his forehead.
Biff smiled.
Marty screamed.
“…rty. Marty!”
Marty jerked awake, drenched in sweat, to the sight of Doc leaning over him. A small yelp escaped his lips as he lurched upright. At the same time, to avoid colliding heads, Doc leaned back.
“Doc,” Marty gasped.
“Marty,” Doc said calmly. “Are you alright?”
Marty ran his hand through his damp hair. “Yeah,” he panted. “Fine. I’m fine.” He flung his legs over the side of the cot, fingers gripping the edge, shoulders tense and shaking. After a beat, he hoisted himself to his feet and staggered slightly. “I’m fine.”
“Did you have another nightmare?” Doc asked.
So Doc knew after all. Marty debated lying, but he knew Doc wouldn’t believe him. Especially since he’d apparently been yelling in his sleep—his throat was sore. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I was, um… visiting my mom. It was fine at first. Almost normal. Then she began to blame me for what happened—and why wouldn’t she? It was my fault—and then suddenly my hands were- were covered in blood and…” He bit his lip, then shook his head.
Doc looked on in concern. “I’m sorry to hear you’re having such a difficult time.”
“Difficult!” Marty scoffed. “It’s more than that, Doc. It feels like I’m in purgatory. Which is worse than hell, by the way. At least in hell I knew what to expect.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” said Doc.
“Before, I could trust myself, Doc!” Marty hugged his arms tightly around himself. “I may not have had anyone else, but I had me. And now my own brain’s turned on me, and I know you say it was self-defence and he deserved it or whatever, but I still killed Biff. And mom took the fall for me. It’s all my fault. And now I’m having these nightmares on top of things?” Marty thrust both hands back through his hair. “I can’t deal with this, Doc! I can’t-”
“Breathe, Marty.” The Doc held up his hands in a placating gesture.
Breathe? How could he do that when his lungs were constricting and his throat was closing in? He felt like he was being strangled. Marty leaned hard against the wall, his hands coming to tug at the hem of his shirt collar which was suddenly far too tight. He struggled to gulp in air, and was dimly aware of a faint buzzing in his head.
It took a moment for him to realise that the buzzing was a voice. Doc’s voice. He homed in on it, using it as an anchor to draw him back to reality, and soon he became aware of the words Doc was saying in an almost unbearably soft tone.
“…Breathe. That’s it, Marty. In through your nose, out through your mouth. You’re okay. Take it easy.”
Marty lifted his head and realised in shock that his vision was tear-blurred. He quickly wiped them away. “Doc?” he rasped.
Doc seemed relieved. “You back with me, Marty?”
Marty paused, then nodded.
“Good.” It was then that Marty noticed Doc had a steadying hand on his back. “I can’t pretend to know what you’re going through, Marty. But I’ll offer any support you may need.”
“God, Doc,” Marty said, turning to face him, “what if I’m like this forever? What if I’m gonna be this whole mess for the rest of my life? I-I don’t think I can deal with that.”
“It won’t last forever,” said Doc firmly.
Marty sniffed. “Can you promise that?”
“I can.” Doc nodded.
Marty nodded back, then slowly, he crept into Doc’s arms and wrapped his arms around his waist, leaning his forehead against the older man’s chest. Doc did not hesitate to bring his own arms up to encircle Marty.
The warm, familiar embrace wasn’t quite enough to chase the images of the nightmare away, but for Marty, it was good enough for now.