Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Biff, stop it! Stop, please! Let him go!"

There's fear in his mother's voice. Rage. Marty wants desperately to beg her not to come any closer—not to try anything that might end with her getting hurt—but with his face held to the carpet and Biff's cronies flanking him on both sides, he's helplessly pinned in place. He only hopes she's lucid enough to read the situation and keep her distance. This was his own doing, after all. No reason for her to suffer on account of his big mouth.

"Little bastard needs to learn a lesson in respect," Biff growls. 

The force on Marty's back increases, and he resists the urge to fight even though his muscles and his lungs are screaming at him to. There was no point in doing so when he was so massively overpowered. There was a time to fight and a time to shut up and take it, and the three pairs of arms gripping him tightly enough to bruise serve as a firm indicator of which option to choose. 

"What do you say, kid? Got any more wisecracks? You wanna back-talk me some more?" 

Yes. The word settles onto the tip of Marty's tongue, threatening escape. He swallows it back down, needing the weight to ease up—needing to breathe. 

Marty sucks in what little air the current position will afford him and releases it in a muffled grunt against the zebra-pattered carpet. Biff lets up just enough for him to turn his head and catch sight of the wry smirk in his line of vision.

"No," he spits out, the word sour in his mouth. 

Biff lifts an eyebrow. His hand returns to rest at the base of Marty's neck—a threat. 

"No," Marty tries again, with less bite. "I'm sorry." 

For several long seconds, Biff's hand continues to hover, his eyes drilling into Marty's as if waiting for a quip. Searching for even the slightest twitch of an expression that betrays the apology. Marty keeps his face mechanically neutral, though his heart hammers against the floor. 

Lorraine takes a tentative step forward, her hands clasped and held to her chest. "Biff…"

"I wouldn't have to do this if you got your kid under control, Lorraine. He never seems to learn."

Neck aching from the awkward angle, Marty lets his head rest back on the carpet. In a way, he agrees with Biff; he never does seem to learn. How many times had he been told that growing up?

Above him, Biff chuckles—a low, deep sound from the base of his throat. Marty's sure there's more coming, but the goon on his right mutters a quiet, "We gotta go, boss," and Biff heaves a sigh before reluctantly standing. He's clearly annoyed at being interrupted, but with a snap of his fingers, he signals his guys to cease their hold, and Marty basks in the sudden release of pressure. He rolls to his back and takes slow, deep breaths, drinking in the cigarette smoke-tinged air. 

Biff stalks from the room without another word, the door slamming heavily behind him.

"Marty! Oh, Marty!" His mother is at his side in an instant, looking him over with red-rimmed eyes, strands of her curled hair having escaped their clip and dangling above his face. "Are you hurt?" Her fingers flit nervously over his torso as if worried about broken ribs but afraid to check. 

Each breath brings a dull ache, but he doesn't think it's anything serious. "I'm okay, Mom." 

She blinks at him and then snakes an arm under his back, gently helping him to a sitting position. Her hands tug at his shirt sleeves as she inspects the skin, which Marty is sure will start to turn purple soon. He can still feel the hands wrapped tightly around his upper arms, immobilizing him the instant Biff had instructed. They had it down to a science at this point—a few well choreographed moves, and he was on the ground. He'd only managed to ever outmaneuver them twice, and both times had only ended up working out even worse for him in the end.

Lorraine shudders with a sob, and she gathers Marty close to her gently, like anything more might break him. He brings his own arms around her, careful of the movement, and presses his chin to her shoulder. 

"I'm sorry, Marty. I'm so sorry."  She begins to rock him, and a strangled sound escapes her throat. "I tried—I tried to talk him down before he went after you."

Yeah, he'd heard her pleas and the slap that promptly silenced her from the other room. "I know. I know, Mom. It's okay." He rubs circles on her back.

"You shouldn't talk back to him," Lorraine says, breaking from the hug and wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand—mascara smearing across her cheeks. "Don't give him a reason to lash out at you, Marty. It isn't worth it." 

He refrains from pointing out that Biff certainly doesn't need a reason to do any of the things he does. Marty could decide never to speak another word to his stepfather again and still manage to infuriate the man. 

They've had this talk before, and Marty knows they'll have it again, but he nods. "I'll try, Mom." 

Lorraine sniffles and takes his hand in hers, giving it a squeeze. "Good." A serious expression crosses her face then. "And—and maybe I'll try to talk to him later as well."

"Don't."

"Well, if he's in a better mood, and if his event goes well, he might—"

"Mom, no. Don't say anything, please."

She drops her gaze, grip tightening on his fingers. "What kind of mother am I to say nothing?" 

Marty looks down at their joined hands—her bright red nails and the collection of expensive bracelets that adorn her wrist. 

When he thinks really hard, digs far back through his memories, he can recall pieces of who she was before Biff. Before his father died and everything fell apart. She was happy back then. When did it leave her? Had it slipped away all at once or been slowly eroded?

Sometimes, he tried to pinpoint the specific moments that shifted things. The events that chipped away at the mother he had for the first almost five years of his life and left her a glitzy, hollowed-out shell. He supposes he'll have no way of ever knowing; most of his childhood is a blur to him—a handful of scattered memories between long stretches of nothing. 

Maybe it was better that way. 

"You're a great mother," Marty says, to which she shakes her head. 

"A great mother protects her children. I can't protect any of mine."

Marty swallows hard past the lump in his throat. He can see her beginning to retreat inward to that dark, solemn place she sometimes goes to on bad days—a place deep enough that he often can't reach her once she's there. It's stolen her away frequently enough over the years, sometimes for days at a time, rendering her little more than a ghost of a woman merely going through the necessary motions. It scares him every time, not knowing if he'll be able to pull her out again. Not knowing if one day she'll go far enough in that he's no longer worth climbing out for.

This wouldn't be happening if he'd kept his mouth shut. He knew better than to talk back to Biff.

"I say you've done a pretty good job, all things considered," he offers.

Lorraine laughs bitterly. "All things considered," she repeats. Her eyes sweep slowly across the expanse of the luxurious room, but Marty doesn't want her to linger on whatever thoughts his comment has planted.

Rising to his feet, he pulls her up with him. "I'm gonna order dinner," he says, making a move toward the phone. "What do you want?"

"Marty, wait, come here; let me check you over."

"Mom, I'm fine. Wouldn't I tell you if I was hurt?"

"No, you would not."

"You want steak, Ma? I'm getting steak." He presses the button for room service. "And an ice cream sundae."

****************

Metal legs scrape against the patio's concrete floor as Marty drags over a chaise lounge chair and settles beside his mother. The night air is muggy and heavy with the haze of pollution, blotting out the moon and reducing it to a dull smudge in the sky. Down below, raucous crowds of people fill the streets, doing their part to contribute to the never-ending roar that surrounds the Pleasure Paradise—a symphony of debauchery that was familiar after all these years. 

"They're extra loud tonight," Marty notes, listening to some particularly enthusiastic hooting and hollering. 

"There's a convention going on."

"Which one?"

Lorraine waves a hand dismissively. "I haven't the slightest clue. All I know is that it was important Biff attend."

In that case, Marty would take a noisy convention every single night. These evenings without the guy around were a much-needed respite.

"You know where I wanna go?" he asks, "To the middle of nowhere, someplace totally off the grid. I want to see the stars. I want the only sounds around me to be from nature—wind in the trees and birds singing and things like that."

"You'll get there, Marty. You'll be free of all this soon enough. Once you turn eighteen, you can get far away from here; Biff won't fight you about leaving." The corners of her mouth lift in a sad smile. "Neither will I." 

Marty shakes his head, not even allowing the notion to settle there. "I'm not going anywhere without you."

"You can, and you will."

"Mom—"

"Marty." The ice in the drink gripped in her right hand clinks against the glass as she swivels to face him more fully. "You know how complicated it would be for me to leave. But you—you can just pick up and head out, have that fresh start and a life that's entirely your own. Someplace where you can see those stars." She swirls the amber liquid around and takes a long drink. "Sometimes, it's the only thing that brings me comfort—the thought of you getting away from here." 

Further protests die in Marty's throat. There was no way he would ever leave unless his mother was beside him, but if thoughts of him escaping Hill Valley comforted her, he'd let her hold onto them. He nods, and Lorraine's demeanor lightens. She reaches out and sets a hand on his cheek. 

"My sweet boy."

Something inside Marty knots together tightly, tugging at him ferociously in all directions. He can't bear the mixture of defeat and hope in her features—resigned to a life under Biff's reign while he breaks free—and the love held in her tired eyes. 

If only things had turned out differently. 

Lorraine breaks the contact just as Marty's throat begins to burn with a warning of oncoming tears, and she settles back into the chair with a sigh. Down in the street, the ruckus continues in earnest. 

"I never see you with your guitar anymore, Marty," she says after a while. "Do you still play it?"

"Yeah."

"Would you go get it?"

Though unsure as to where the request had suddenly come from, Marty nods and promptly retrieves his acoustic guitar from his room—a gift given to him by Linda a handful of years back after Biff had destroyed his original one in a rage one night. This one was even nicer than his old one had been, undoubtedly expensive, and he could still so clearly picture the conspiratorial grin Linda wore as she presented it to him that evening. 

He wished he could give Linda a call. He could use a dose of her snark right about now.

Marty pauses before exiting his room, giving the instrument a strum before making the proper tuning adjustments. Lorraine meets him with a lazy smile as he returns to the balcony, and she sets her glass, now filled with just the remaining ice, onto the small table beside her.

"Play something, Marty. Anything."

So he plays, rotating through a selection of some of his favorite songs, as well as a melody he makes up on the spot, and watches as his mother sinks down against the chair's cushion and closes her eyes. Marty closes his too, focusing solely on the music emanating from beneath his fingertips. He sends everything else to the background, softening the noise from the boisterous convention-goers until it's no more than a barely perceptible hum. The balcony gets sealed off—encased in a bubble—and Marty plucks himself and his mother from Hill Valley. They're someplace else. Someplace quiet and open and glowing with starlight. 

They're together. Safe. 

Marty loses track of how long he plays for. The music rolls one into the next in an uninterrupted stream. He's afraid to break it. Scared to open his eyes and sever the connection to the place in his head where Biff can't get to them—where he can melt away reality at will and put in something better.  

"Marty?"

"Hmm?" Reluctantly, he returns to the twenty-seventh floor. 

"Do you know 'Only You' by The Platters?"

Marty tips his head to the side, searching his mental inventory for the request. "I don't think so. I recognize the group name, though. They're from the fifties?"

Lorraine nods, her eyes taking on a dreamy, far-away look. "That was one of our special songs—mine and Dad's. It played at the diner one day; it was a few months into us dating, and he just took my hand and pulled me right from the booth. We danced together right there with all those people around, except it felt like we were the only two there." 

Though his memories of his father are few and foggy, it's a scene Marty easily pictures unfolding. His dad was like that—doting and attentive, bold yet gentle. He was a good man who had done all he could to protect his little family as Biff's increased influence slowly closed in around them. A man who would have eventually helped to free them from it if not for that fateful, horrible night. 

Sometimes, it made Marty so mad that it was all he could do to keep from losing himself entirely to the fiery anger. If not for his mother, the fact she needed him, he feared he could easily let it consume him and be his driving force. It'd be a quick spiral, and on more than one occasion, he found himself thinking of how good it would feel to give in to it. To unleash everything that he fought to keep so securely pent up. To make everyone who had a hand in Biff's rise to power and the destruction of Hill Valley pay. 

But what good would it do, really? He'd seen what anger—what hatred—did to people.

With a measured exhale, Marty unfurls his clenched fingers and brings his roiling emotions to a low simmer. What's left of his ruminations come to a swift end as his mother begins to sing, her tone soft but strained under the weight of such a treasured but long-gone memory. 

Marty thinks he could probably pick up his guitar and manage to play along, but he doesn't want to interfere with the moment. Instead, he sits back and lets the whiskey-scented words wash over him, the lyrics fitting for a relationship he knows was so abundant in love. 

When the tune comes to a close, it leaves behind a dense silence. There's an emptiness around them, a reminder of a reality now lost to time, and Marty catches a glimpse of his mother sneakily swipe a tear away before it can fall. 

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to wall off the balcony again, shrink the world back down to the two of them, but he can't. The somber atmosphere has infiltrated even the private escape of his mind, and he huffs out a breath of frustration. 

"It's a lovely song, isn't it?" Lorraine asks. 

"Yeah. Beautiful." 

"Sometimes, Dad would get out the records, and we'd slow-dance in the living room to the song 'Earth Angel,' too. Do you remember, Marty?"

"No."

The disappointment in his voice must be evident. "That's okay," she says reassuringly. "You were so little." She rises from the lounge chair then, taking her glass from the table. "I think I'll go to bed. Are you sure you're alright?"

Marty swallows hard and forces a nod, ignoring the soreness in his back and arms that's made itself a steady presence already. "Fine, Mom."

She studies him for a few seconds, then leans down to place a kiss to his forehead. "Goodnight, baby. I love you."

"Love you, too, Ma. Night."

The glass door clicks as she returns inside, and though Marty feels the lure of his own bed, he stays put, doubting he could sleep even if he wanted to. He plays his guitar some more, then goes to stand at the balcony's railing and observes the street below. There are the usual groups of rowdy motorcyclists and drunk casino patrons, plus some roving groups of gangs looking for trouble. The majority of the crowd has died down, though, likely because they had all moved inside as the evening's events got underway. If he focuses, he can hear the dull thump of music from the convention. 

Marty experimentally rolls his shoulders, and his muscles protest at the action. But still, he does it a handful more times, each small burst of pain a reminder to himself not to make any more stupid mistakes. He knew what pushed Biff's buttons, and as much as he enjoyed doing it, it usually wasn't worth the consequences—both to him and his mother. 

The night wears on, and the din below noticeably increases as people pour back into the streets and disperse, the majority certainly in no shape to drive, though that does nothing to stop them. The festivities are evidently over, and Marty's mind turns to anticipation of Biff's return. He considers quickly hurrying to bed and going to sleep, but he'd rather be awake and fully alert on the chance Biff barges into the penthouse looking to pick up where he left off. 

Sweat pricks the back of Marty's neck as he waits on the balcony—from the humid summer air, he tells himself. When the penthouse door finally swings open, he watches as Biff saunters through the room before catching sight of him through the glass. The man's expression darkens, and Marty wipes his palms on his jeans, then steadies himself against the rail. The door opens with a sharp squeak. 

From the way Biff sways slightly, he's had his fill of alcohol this evening, and the smirk he wears makes Marty's pulse kick up a notch. But the man doesn't make any move toward him, and for a long while, they merely stare at each other until Biff breaks the silence with a deep chuckle. 

"Found a new boarding school for you. A nice one in Switzerland—real prestigious and all that." He winks. "Nothing's too good for my stepson." 

Out in the distance, a gunshot rips through the air. 

"Enjoy the Alps, you son of a bitch."

Chapter Text

Marty pressed himself against the wall next to the sliding glass door and peered out onto the back patio. His mother still sat in the worn wicker chair—the spot she'd been in for over an hour now—but at least her shoulders weren't shaking anymore like the last time he'd checked. He hated it when she cried, and she'd been doing a whole lot of it ever since Dad died. Dave had said to leave her alone during times like this, so as much as Marty wanted to, he didn't run outside to wrap her in a hug. Instead, he just watched for a minute, staring hard at her curled up on the chair's cushion. She'd be out there for a while still; she usually was.

Stepping away from the door, Marty took in the silent house. It felt like he had been left home alone, even though he knew Linda and Dave were in their rooms. But there wasn't a peep from them—as if someone had pressed a button and frozen everything and everybody except for him. It was wrong. Lots of things seemed wrong lately. His house wasn't supposed to be like this.

Hesitantly, Marty forced a small sound from his throat, just to make sure there were still sounds. Maybe someone had turned the sounds off too, or maybe he'd suddenly lost his hearing; but no, he could hear just fine. It was just quiet everywhere around him.

He wondered if it was quiet in Heaven. He hoped not.

Deciding to leave his mom alone, Marty crept down the hall to his parents' room, hoping nobody would sense what he was up to and come inside to stop him. It wasn't like he was doing anything bad—at least he didn't think he was—but part of him still worried he might get scolded. Maybe it was wrong to be snooping around, looking at and touching things that belonged to Dad.

It was strange in a way, because the room looked just like it always had—like Dad was still alive. His slippers were still on the floor by his side of the bed, and one of his shiny, silver watches lay on the nightstand. The desk against the wall held a pile of notebooks, all filled to the brim with story ideas. A half-empty bottle of cologne sat perched on the edge of the dresser. Everything was where it was supposed to be, like it was all just waiting for his dad to get home from work. Like the room had no idea that George McFly wouldn't ever walk through the doorway again.

The thought made something twist inside Marty's stomach. Would they miss him—the slippers and the watch and the countless other things that belonged to his father? Would they wonder where he disappeared to and get lonely as they sat there, untouched and collecting dust?

Briefly, Marty considered letting the room know of the horrible thing that had happened. Telling it the truth: Dad is dead. But he didn't. He couldn't. He liked it better this way, looking how it was supposed to, like Dad could walk in at any moment. Even if it was all just pretend.

Something sticking out from a corner of a drawer caught Marty's eye, and he reached a hand out to brush the soft, dark green fabric. It was one of Dad's favorite sweaters; he could tell just from the touch. And before he knew it, his fingers were wrapped around the drawer's handle, pulling it open with such force that the entire dresser rattled, and the little bottle of cologne, along with a picture frame, fell to the floor.  

The next thing Marty heard was someone running across the hall and then the door being flung open.

"What are you doing in here?!" Linda demanded, hands on her hips and face scrunched in a way that Marty thought looked a lot like how Mom's did when they were in trouble.

Before he could reply, his sister dove for the items on the floor and scooped them into her arms. Her gaze lingered on the framed photo for a moment, then she stretched on her tiptoes and set it, along with the cologne, back atop the dresser. She didn't look any less upset when she turned back to face Marty, who shrank under her glare, the forest-green sweater clutched to his chest.

"It still smells like Dad," he said by way of defense, fearing Linda was about to insist he return it to its rightful spot. Instead, she sighed and took his hand, pulling him from their parents' room and into hers. Without a word, she crawled into the fort she had built—the sheet from her bed draped over two chairs taken from the kitchen table.

Marty fought his way into the sweater, then crawled in hesitantly beside Linda. Usually, she didn't want him in her blanket forts and shooed him from the room. But this time, she'd been the one to bring him into the room. So he figured it was okay this time.

There were extra blankets and a couple of pillows inside the fort, and a lava lamp in the middle cast a blue-green glow across the fabrics. It was perfect for playing underwater treasure hunter, and Marty nearly suggested the idea before catching sight of Linda's solemn expression. She didn't look like she was in the mood for games.

For a long while, they sat quietly, and Marty focused very hard on keeping his body still so that he didn't annoy Linda and end up getting kicked out of the fort. He watched the slowly moving globs inside the lamp and kept his sleeve-covered hands planted in his lap.

If they were playing underwater treasure hunter, he'd pretend the shiny, gold treasure chest was way at the bottom of the ocean. Maybe tucked in a cave that he'd have to swim into, and he probably wouldn't even have his diving gear because it fell overboard and a shark ate it. So, he'd just have to hold his breath long enough to get the chest and bring it back. And even though Linda didn't feel like playing now, that didn't mean Marty couldn't practice for when she did want to. He took in as big a breath as he could and then held it, imagining himself diving deep down into the water. Past schools of fish and sunken ships until, at last, he spotted the glint of the shiny lock on the treasure chest.

His lungs began to burn.

"What are you doing?"

The air left Marty all at once, and he took in several hurried gulps before he was able to answer Linda.

"Swimming."  

"Swimming?"

"Yeah. To get the treasure chest."

Linda scrunched up her face. "I don't wanna play, Marty."

"Yeah, I know, so that's why I was playing alone. Just inside my head."

He really hoped Linda would eventually feel like playing again. As much as he liked blanket forts, sitting in them doing nothing wasn't fun, and his legs were getting bored of staying still. Marty squirmed in his spot, trying to get comfortable, but it was a cramped space, and the oversized sweater made things more difficult. The hem caught under his folded legs, and as he attempted to free them, he bumped one of the chairs supporting the sheet. The soft, pink ceiling of the fort fell over both of them.

"Marty!"

Marty scurried his way out from under it. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to!"

Linda yanked the sheet out of his hands and balled it up before tossing it aside. She leveled him with a glare. "You ruined it!"

"It was an accident!" He scrambled to his feet. "We can build it again."

"No!" She threw herself over the crumpled pile before he could reach for it. "I'll fix it by myself. Leave me alone."

Marty blinked at her, unsure why she was so angry all of a sudden. She was the one who brought him into the room, after all, and he didn't mean to destroy the stupid fort. He felt tears prick his eyes.

"Why are you guys yelling?"

Dave stood in the doorway, gaze shifting back and forth between the two of them as he waited for an answer.

"He knocked down my fort!" Linda said, pointing an accusatory finger in Marty's direction.

"I knocked it down by accident! Because Dad's sweater got tangled around me, and—and so I…" Suddenly, his voice sounded all wobbly, and the words didn't want to come out anymore. His sister's angry face blurred, and Marty swiftly turned away from her, covered his face with the long sleeves, and cried.

He felt like a big baby, and part of him wanted to run from the room and retreat to his own, but he couldn't move. He waited for Dave to tell him to knock it off. For Linda to continue to accuse him of ruining her fort and her entire life. But instead, he heard something that surprised him: Linda's crying.

Marty lowered his hands, bewildered enough by his sister's tears that his own slowed a bit. Over by the door, Dave stared wide-eyed as if he wasn't sure what to make of the scene or how to proceed. Then he jumped into action, crossing the room to grab a tissue from the nightstand and kneeling to dab at Linda's face.

"Shhh," he soothed, running a hand over her hair. "It's okay. It's alright, Linda; don't cry."

For a moment, Linda cried even harder, and Dave wrapped her in a hug and waited until the sobs grew quieter. Then he stood and, without a word, fixed the chair and draped the sheet back over it—anchoring it to the seat with a heavy book.

Linda sniffed. "Thanks."

Dave shrugged, then turned his attention to Marty. "You okay?"

A few more fresh tears slid down Marty's cheeks. He nodded his head. "Yes."

"You're still crying."

Hurriedly, Marty wiped at his cheeks. "No, I'm not." He offered his brother a shaky smile. "See?"

A heavy sigh left Dave, but he made no attempt to argue with Marty over the matter. He crouched down and began rolling the long sleeves of the sweater, freeing Marty's hands. As he made the last cuff, his fingers stayed holding the fabric a moment. He swallowed hard, then pushed himself back to his feet.

"I was just gonna make peanut butter and jelly for dinner" Dave said softly. "You hungry?"

Marty and Linda nodded, and they followed Dave to the kitchen. A peek toward the back patio told Marty his mother was still out there, and Dave grabbed his hand before he could make a move for the door.

"Don't bother her."

"But she's been outside forever."

"Because she wants to be alone."

A chair was pulled out from the table and Marty dutifully sat beside Linda, who was staring sullenly at the sliding glass door.

"Maybe Mom wants a sandwich too," she said. "Should I go ask her?"

For a second, it looked like Dave was considering Linda's question. He passed the jar of peanut butter back and forth between his hands as he thought, then shook his head. "Mom wants to be by herself."

So Marty and Linda sat in silence as Dave rummaged around the kitchen, getting the bread set up on plates and climbing the counter to find the new container of jelly—perched up on the highest shelf. He'd just hopped down and fished a knife from the drain board when the back door slid open, and Lorraine entered, her face puffy and slightly red. She froze at the sight of them.

"Don't worry, Mom," Dave told her, pointing to the counter. "I'm making dinner."

Lorraine's eyes went to the clock on the wall, and she frowned. "I had no idea it was so late. I'm so sorry."

Her voice was scratchy, and Marty thought it looked like maybe she was going to start crying again. "You can have a sandwich too, Mama," he assured her, pleased when a tiny smile came to her lips.

She made her way over to Dave and took the knife from his hand, then set her other hand on his cheek. "Thank you, love. I'll make the sandwiches."

"It's okay. I don't mind."

"No, I'm the mom; this is part of my job." She sniffled. "Thank you for getting everything ready. Go on and sit down."

Dave did as he was told, and a few minutes later, they were all sitting in front of their meals.

"Peanut butter and jelly and chocolate milk for dinner," Lorraine said through a sigh. "Mother of the year."

She was still sad, Marty could tell. They'd all been sad lately, and he'd started to wonder if they'd be sad for the whole rest of their lives. Maybe Mom was going to sit outside and cry every day and keep forgetting to make them dinner. Maybe Linda would never feel like playing games with him again. Maybe he'd have to keep waking up Dave when he had nightmares—because that was happening a lot now, and Dave had told him not to wake up their mom.

He didn't want everyone to be sad forever.

"Marty, why aren't you eating, honey?"

His mother's voice pulled him back, and he stared at his full plate and shrugged his small shoulders. Lorraine got up from her chair and rounded the table to where he sat, then stopped short. Marty followed his mother's gaze down to the sweater he still wore and scrunched himself up smaller in his seat. He felt a sudden sense of shame—like he'd just been caught doing something he wasn't supposed to do.

"I took Daddy's sweater from the drawer," he admitted in a soft voice, picking at a cuffed sleeve with his fingers. "I'm sorry."

Lorraine knelt, but Marty couldn't bring himself to look at her right away. It was only when she set a hand on his knee that he brought his gaze to hers and was met with her watery eyes and trembling lip.

"It's okay," she told him, though the shake to her voice made it seem anything but. She smiled. "You look very handsome."

"Just like Dad?"

A tear rolled down her face, dripping from her chin to Marty's jeans. "Just like Dad."

Linda jumped up from her chair and fled down the hallway, her door slamming closed a moment later.

Then, it got quiet.

"I'm sorry," Marty whispered, though he wasn't quite sure what for. His mother smoothed back his hair.

"You didn't do anything, Marty." She straightened up and rubbed her hands over her face. "Let me go and talk with Linda. You two eat."

Marty looked at Linda's abandoned sandwich, then at his own. Across the table, Dave sat tearing his into a dozen little pieces. Marty watched, taking small sips of his chocolate milk until Dave was done deconstructing his dinner.

"Eat your sandwich, Marty."

"You're not eating yours."

Dave picked a piece of bread from the pile and popped it into his mouth. "Yes, I am."

"I drank almost all my chocolate milk."

This failed to impress his brother. "Eat."

So, Marty did, eventually turning the meal into something of a game. Whenever he took a bite, Dave would eat another piece of his own sandwich. When he took several bites one after the other, Dave shoved a handful of little sandwich bits into his mouth, and soon they were laughing—plates empty and stomachs full.

Linda's food still sat on its plate.

Dave got up and, with a finger to his lips, motioned for Marty to follow him. The two tiptoed down the hall, where they stopped outside their sister's room, straining to hear the conversation on the other side of the door. Marty shifted to get a better position, stumbled over Dave's foot, and caught himself on the doorknob.

"Boys?" Lorraine called.

Dave shot Marty a look. "Yeah, it's us."

There was some low whispering from inside the room, followed by, "You can come in."

Their mother and Linda were inside the fort, and Marty noted the addition of several stuffed animals. He waved his arms through the air excitedly, undoing the rolled sleeves. "It's a party in here!" He exclaimed and hurried toward the fort, then caught Linda's look of warning and slowed his steps, entering carefully and taking a seat gingerly beside Lorraine. He tucked his legs and arms to his chest; the last thing he wanted was to ruin the fort for a second time.

Dave sat next to Linda, and he bumped her shoulder playfully, smiling when she returned the gesture. Lorraine wrapped an arm around Marty and pulled him close to her. He leaned into her side, his heart feeling lighter than it had all day.

"Maybe we can sleep here tonight," he suggested.

Lorraine nodded thoughtfully. "Maybe we can."

"It's way too small in here," Dave said, eyeing a particularly large stuffed dog to his right.

"So, we'll make it bigger. Go get a few more chairs from the table."

Dave hesitated, then his eyes lit up and he crawled from the fort and ran out the door.

"Linda, go get another sheet and the extra comforter from the closet," Lorraine directed before turning her attention to Marty. "And you come help me find the sleeping bags." She held her hand out, and Marty took it, walking beside her through the house and out to the garage.

Tonight, he decided, they'd play pretend. Pretend they were out camping in the wilderness. Pretend Dad was just on a trip and couldn't come with them. Pretend that everything was the way it was supposed to be.

Chapter Text

Marty looks out across the expanse of lush, green trees and inhales the clean air, something his lungs are quite unaccustomed to. A warm breeze tousles his hair and sends ripples across the water of Lake Lugano. The water is blue—bright blue, nearly matching the sky. It doesn't look real. He's never seen anything like it before.

It's beautiful, and he's miserable. The same heavy weight sits squarely in the middle of his chest, just as it has since the night Biff announced his fate.

His mother had begged him not to cause a scene—to just pack his bags and go without a fight. No use railing against a decision that was already set in stone.

"It's a good school, Marty," she'd told him over her glass of vodka the night before he left. "A chance to get away. I want you to give it a real try this time. For me."

What could he do but nod and promise that he would? As much as she missed him, she hadn't been too thrilled when he'd been booted from his previous school, and she'd bid him goodbye at the airport with a tearful hug and a firm reminder to "be good."

Biff had flashed him a smug grin and repeated her words, adding, "Hey, look at the bright side, kid; it's an opportunity to get some culture. Maybe you'll even learn how to speak Swiss."

Marty had refrained from pointing out there was no such language. He also chose not to inform Biff that he'd done his research, and most of the people where his school was located, the village of Montagnola, spoke Italian. He'd merely shoved his fists into his pockets, given his mother one last mournful look, and walked to his gate.

That'd been three days ago, and he'd woken up every morning since then wishing he'd thrown such a fit in the airport that they had no choice but to bring him back home. No matter what the consequences would have been after.

Up ahead, the large group of his peers is growing more distant, continuing along with the hike that's supposed to help kick off the school year and foster community or whatever the headmaster had been rambling on about during the assembly yesterday. Marty watches them make their way into a more forested area, all walking in a line like a bunch of ants, and he half considers abandoning the group and returning to the school. He's fairly certain he could find his way back down to civilization and hitch a ride from someone. It isn't like anyone would even know he was missing; he hadn't spoken a single word to anyone all morning and had made it a point to be at the very back of the line as they'd made their way along the trails.

It'd be so easy to leave and retreat to his dorm room. It'd also be easy to just disappear. Set off for one of the neighboring villages and hide out for a while. Get himself a job or find a nice family willing to take him in. He could learn Italian.

Marty adjusts his backpack and tips his head back, feeling the sun on his face. There are birds singing up in the trees and the muffled sound of conversation and laughter from his quickly disappearing classmates. When he concentrates, he can feel a twinge of pain in his right knee—an old injury from when he was thirteen—reminding him that he'll be paying for this hike later. He can never quite escape Biff, even nearly 6,000 miles away.

6,000 miles. Somehow, it feels even farther than that. At least his last school hadn’t been out of the country, just across it in Massachusetts. There’d been more time for him to prepare to leave, too; Switzerland had happened so quickly that it felt like whiplash.

He hadn't even been able to touch base with Linda or Dave to tell them goodbye.

It was probably for the best, honestly. Marty doubts he would have been able to have that conversation without blubbering like a baby. And besides, Dave would find out somehow. He always did. And he'd be none too surprised to learn that his little brother had mouthed off one too many times and been sent away again.

"It's your own fault you're here," Marty tells himself, letting the self-admonishment out into the sky. He'd known he was on especially thin ice with Biff in the weeks leading up to that night. If he'd only kept his head down. Stayed out of the way and shut his mouth.

His mother's eyes had been so sad behind the shaky smile she'd forced out during their goodbyes at the airport.

Marty tears off his backpack and flings it to the ground. It's an expensive one—top-of-the-line in hiking gear. He hates it. He hates the stupid backpack, and he hates his fancy, private dorm room, and he hates the fresh air and the dumb birds chirping happily above his head.

He lowers himself to the ground and breathes through the wave of anger, resigning himself to the spot until he can make an actual decision. It'd be ridiculous and pointless to try to run away—he knows that—but the pull is so strong. To spend some time, however short, truly free from watchful eyes sounds wonderful. None of this confidence and community-building hiking crap. No pressure from school or teachers or any other stuff he couldn't care less about. He could pretend he was someone else for a while, just like he used to when he was a little kid—a different Marty who lived an entirely different life in a different world where nothing bad ever happened to him.

But he's not a different Marty. And if he went and vanished during the annual start-of-the-school-year hike, he's pretty sure he'd have a hundred people out searching for him within the hour. They'd call his mother. Biff would personally fly over just to hunt him down, and Marty doesn't want to even imagine what the repercussions of causing so much trouble would be.

He has no choice but to rejoin the group and suffer through the remainder of the stupid hike. Another ant marching dutifully in line.

Marty reaches for his backpack and pushes himself to his feet, nearly jumping out of his skin as someone comes jogging out from the trees a moment later. One of his classmates, he realizes—the kid who had been walking in front of him in the long line of hikers. Maybe he'd also decided to ditch the group and was contemplating  running away, too.

With what sounds like a sigh of relief, the kid takes a second to catch his breath and pushes his sweaty, dirty-blond hair from his eyes. Then he speaks, the rapid-fire Swiss German completely lost on Marty, who only shrugs and shakes his head in reply.

"English?" the kid asks, smiling at Marty's nod before his expression turns serious. "What're you doing all the way back here? I thought you'd gone and fallen off the cliff or something. Knew there was a guy behind me in line, then all of a sudden realized there was no one there anymore. Figured I'd run back and check before alerting any of the teachers."

Marty's head spins from the barrage of words and the thick accent they'd been spoken in. He shrugs. "I'm fine. Just wanted to rest for a little."

"Well, I hope you're well-rested because we've got to catch up before anyone notices." The kid gives a hurried wave in the direction of the trail and takes off at a brisk pace.

Definitely no running away now. With a heavy sigh, Marty moves to catch up, reaching out to return the handshake that's suddenly offered to him. "Peter," the kid says.

"Marty. So, uh, how far behind are we?"

"Not too far. The group was stopped when I left—all taking in some of the scenery. But even if they've moved on, I'll get us back. I've been on this hike before; this is my fourth year here."

Judging by the smile that accompanies the statement, Marty guesses that Peter has not been banished to boarding school by a stepfather who hates him. He wonders if that honor goes entirely to him. Probably.

Though he has no interest in conversation, Marty decides he owes Peter at least the courtesy of a forced one. The guy did come looking for him after all, and it'd be wrong to repay that act of kindness with a sour mood. He quickens his stride to match Peter's. "You from around here?"

“No, I’m from Schaffhausen. About three hours away. You?"

"California."

Peter looks impressed. "Ah, you live by all the movie stars?"

"No, uh, I'm from Hill Valley."

"Never heard of it."

"Lucky you," Marty tells him, pausing when a misstep sends a flare of pain through his knee. He rubs at it, wishing he had faked sick this morning and stayed in his dorm room all day.

"Why 'lucky me'?" Peter asks.

Marty wants to take the comment back. He doesn't want questions, nor does he want to give any answers. He lifts his leg a few times, knee to chest as if it'll help with the ache. "Nothing. Just—" What's he supposed to finish it with? Boring? It certainly wasn't that. A wasteland? That'd only result in more questions.

"It's just…one of those towns, you know?"

From Peter's expression, he doesn't know. Honestly, Marty doesn't even know. If the reply makes him sound like an idiot, his hiking mate doesn't show it.

"So you must be happy to be away, yes?" Peter asks, a logical conclusion, after all.

"No."

"No?"

But Marty offers nothing else. Not a repeat of his answer or a shake of his head—not even a look in Peter's direction. They make the rest of the walk in silence.

As they catch up to their classmates, excited chatter takes over the calm, and Marty has to stop himself from plugging his ears. He's used to noise; quiet is rare in Hill Valley, but there's something about this noise that makes it rattle extra uncomfortably in his skull. Even out in the open air, it's as if the trees are closing in on him—the voices of his peers overlapping in a dizzying tangle.

Whatever festivities are in store for the rest of the day, he's opting out. He's finishing the hike and running back to his dorm room, and no one is going to be able to do anything about it.

Up at the front of the large group, one of the teachers is making an announcement that Marty can barely hear. Something about stopping for a brief snack and water break, he thinks. Everyone starts to scatter—finding spots to sit, trees to lean against, or friends to talk to.

Marty shuffles in place and stares down at his new hiking boots. He flinches when Peter nudges him with an elbow.

"Sorry," Peter apologizes, then nods in the direction of a group of kids clustered by a fallen tree. They're calling to Peter, one member brandishing a handful of granola bars as if to help entice him. "Why don't you join us?"

It's a nice offer, but one Marty wants no part of. He wouldn't know what to talk about. Wouldn't know how to not act like he's hating every single minute of being here. He shakes his head. "No, thanks."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Sure."

Peter hesitates, his eyes slightly squinted and head tilted in a way that makes Marty feel like he's being studied. So he adds, "Thanks for coming to find me," and flashes his best attempt at a genuine smile, hoping it'll help soften his otherwise antisocial behavior.

He's relieved when Peter leaves, his waiting friends enthusiastically pulling him straight into the mix, their laughter carrying above the surrounding chitchat like none of them have a care in the world. And maybe they don't. Peter had never even heard of Hill Valley.

There aren't any available logs or rocks to sit on, so Marty weaves his way out of the crowd and settles himself onto the warm grass. He takes in the trees, the sky, and the mountains—like something out of a painting. His mom would like it here.

He should have brought his camera so he could snap some pictures to send home to her. Remind her that there were still places with blue skies and crystal-clear waters. Places Biff's influence couldn't reach.

He'll buy himself a little camera and come back here, he decides. He'll take pictures of everything and bundle it all in an envelope with a note: wish you were here.

Hopefully, though, he won't be apart from her for too long. He's not about to let himself get comfortable here, no matter how much she wants him to grab hold of this opportunity. He doesn't want the peace or the fresh air or the taste of a life all his own—not when the price is his mom left behind to bear the full brunt of Biff's rage. No amount of freedom was worth that.

When a whistle blows ten minutes later to signal the end of the break and call everyone back together, Marty finds a hand in his face and Peter staring down at him, ready to help haul him to his feet. Marty takes the offered help, suppressing a wince when his stiff knee protests the movement. But he limps his way along, and together, they fall silently into the back of the pack again, several minutes passing before Peter speaks.

 "You'll get used to it—the school and everything."

A lump forms in Marty's throat. The last thing he wants is to get used to the place.

"I can show you around," Peter continues. "Introduce you to people and help you out. If you want."

The crowd has stopped again, everyone gathered closely together as they ooh and ahh at the rays of sunlight streaking out from the clouds. And for a moment, Marty's captivated too, unable to tear his gaze from the sight he's almost certain he's never seen in Hill Valley. At least not that he can remember.

"You got a camera, Peter?" he asks, feeling stupid the moment the question is out in the open. But he has to ask—just in case.

"Not with me, no."  

Marty wishes he could paint. He'd go straight to the art room after the hike and put the scene on a canvas to mail to his mother.

The sun beams slowly disappear as a breeze pushes the cloud past the sun. All at once, everyone gets moving again, but Marty stays put. Peter does, too.

"It's funny. I didn't even think to bring a camera," Peter muses. "I guess I've gone on this hike so many times that the view isn't so interesting anymore."

Marty wonders what that's like—to be surrounded by such constant beauty that it becomes ordinary.

"Boys, come on!"

Marty jumps at the shout from one of the teachers who has stopped up ahead on the trail while the rest of the group continues. He's got to get a move on, too, he knows. Quit staring at the sky and finish this torturous hike instead of going AWOL like he originally wanted.

So, without any choice in the matter, Marty forces himself forward, his pace slow and hobbling.

He watches Peter out of the corner of his eye, wondering if there's an angle he's not seeing to the guy—a hidden motive to explain friendliness that Marty thinks is entirely unwarranted. Leaving the group to find him is one thing; sticking around any longer than that, especially when he's been nothing short of miserable, borders on suspicious. Or it would if Marty didn't consider himself particularly adept at reading people. Being a good judge of character was a valuable skill back home, and he didn't get the sense that Peter was anything less than sincere.

If there was one thing he'd learned in his previous boarding school experience, it was that getting into trouble, big enough trouble to warrant expulsion, was surprisingly difficult, especially when your stepfather sent a large donation the school's way. It took time and effort to get the powers that be fed up enough to toss you out, and Marty felt particularly wary about the time component. Every second he spent in this beautiful, horrible place was another second his mother spent trapped on the 27th floor with Biff as her only company. Anything could happen to her, and nobody would know. Nobody would care.

He'd gone it alone at the other school, but maybe things would move along faster if he had someone on his side. It was a risk, but if it meant getting back home even a single day sooner, it was one he was willing to take.

He wipes his sweaty palms on his pants, wondering if maybe some good can come out of this morning after all.

"Peter?" Marty asks, his voice cracking as the name seemingly leaves his mouth of its own accord.

"Yeah?"

"Ah…you know, there actually is something you could do for me."

Peter stops, the flash of surprise telling Marty that he hadn't thought his offer would be taken. Still, he nods. "Sure. What is it?"

Marty hefts his backpack up, adjusting the weight, and releases a breath. "You can help me get kicked out."

Chapter Text

"Kids, come on! Now."

Marty, sitting in the hallway and struggling to get his feet into his shoes, watched as Linda sprinted past him and met their frantic mother by the front door. He heard the jingle of car keys and tried to work faster, fishing around for the tongue that had gotten pushed down inside the shoe.

Dave was missing. Marty had been informed just two minutes ago when his mom had burst into his room to check if Dave was there. The ruckus had startled Marty so much that he'd fallen onto the Lincoln Log house he'd been meticulously building for the previous half hour, the entire structure collapsing in one fell swoop. He hadn't cried, even though he wanted to.

They had no idea when Dave had slipped out of the house, though Marty thought he knew why; his brother had been angry. It was a quiet anger—almost unnoticeable unless you really knew him—that'd been growing steadily ever since Mom had sat them down to tell them the news. Dave hadn't spoken a single word for an entire day after that.

Marty freed the shoe's tongue and jammed his foot in, deciding he didn't care that his sock was twisted. He didn't think there was time to worry about that when Dave was somewhere out there, wandering the streets that their parents always warned them to stay out of.

Had Dave forgotten how dangerous it was?

"Marty, let's go!"

Giving up on the second, more uncooperative shoe, Marty scrambled to his feet and rushed to join his mom and sister.

"Okay, let's get going," Lorraine said through a breath. "Hopefully, he hasn't gotten far."

Linda grabbed their mother's arm before she could make a move for the door. "Marty's only got one shoe on!"

"Linda, don't worry about that; we're going to be in the car." She picked Marty up, setting him on her hip. "I need you both to help me keep an eye out while I drive, okay?"

There was a knock before either of them could reply.

"Maybe it's Dave!" Marty shouted, wriggling until he was set back down, though his mother's arm shot out to stop him before he could grab hold of the doorknob. He clasped his hands behind his back and ducked his head in apology; answering the door was strictly off-limits to him and his siblings, even if they thought they knew who it was.

And this time, he'd been right in his guess—mostly. It was Dave. And Biff.

The bewilderment on his mother's face lasted only for a moment before she ushered Dave into the house and wrapped him in a crushing hug. "Oh, honey, I was so worried. Are you alright?"

With one swift shove, Dave freed himself from the embrace, and Marty watched as his brother's scowl softened until it was replaced with a trembling chin. He quickly disappeared down the hall, the entire house seeming to rattle from his slammed door.

"Linda, will you—" Flustered, Lorraine pointed in the direction of Dave's room. "Just go sit with him for a moment. I'll be right there."

"Yeah, I'll make sure he doesn't escape again," Linda said, taking off at a run and forcing herself into Dave's room despite his protests.

The heavy quiet that followed made Marty fidgety. He felt his mother's hand settle on his shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze as she finally turned her attention to Biff.

"How did you—?"

"Was on my way back from a meeting across town and spotted him walking along the road. Lucky I was there too; you never know what kind of creeps are out at night. Kid sure seemed determined to get to wherever he was runnin' to, but I managed to convince him to come back home." He flashed a smile.  "Right place, right time, I guess."

The hand on Marty's shoulder was still squeezing—a little too firmly now to be considered comforting—and he gave a small shrug in an attempt to relay the information.

"Sorry, baby," Lorraine apologized, releasing him.

"Wouldn't say a word to me in the car," Biff continued. "Guess he ain't taking the news well, huh?"

A brief silence fell between the two adults, and Marty shifted closer to his mother, though his eyes stayed glued on Biff. He wasn't quite sure what to make of his soon-to-be stepfather. The guy who sent him and his siblings a big box of toys every Christmas was the same one who Dave insisted had "ruined the whole town." And now he was going to be taking Dad's place?

It was all very confusing.

"It's been a little difficult for him to process," Lorraine said. "Such a big change and—well, the loss is still—it's so—"

Marty could hear the all too familiar wobble that signaled tears in her voice, and he reached out to hold her hand. He'd let her squeeze it if she wanted to.

Biff clicked his tongue and stepped forward, pulling Lorraine into a tight embrace. She didn't let go of Marty's hand.

"Now, come on, Lorraine, it'll all be okay. Dave will come around. And anyway, we had a good talk on the ride over." Biff snorted, then added, "Well, I talked. But I think I got through to him a little."

Lorraine took a shaky breath and released it slowly into Biff's shoulder.

"It's all good from here on out, Lorraine," he said with a smile. "Me and you."

Dave's bedroom door opened, and Linda poked her head out into the hall. "Mom!"

"I should go and speak with him," Lorraine said, still in Biff's arms. He released her slowly.

"Right. But hey, uh, I wanna talk to you after, Lorraine. Go over a couple of details."

Her hand squeezed Marty's. He squeezed back. "Okay, Biff. I'll be just a few minutes. Marty, come with Mommy."

"Leave him. I'll watch him 'til you're done."

"I don't—" Lorraine began, then stopped herself. She eyed Marty, then Biff, who tipped his head and held her gaze.

"We're gonna be a family, Lorraine. I think I can handle five minutes with the rugrat."

"Okay," Lorraine said in a whisper. "He won't be any trouble, right, Marty?"

Her face was serious. Marty matched the expression and nodded back. "Right." And, in a display of obedience, he set himself on the couch, watching until she left the room. Then, his gaze turned to Biff, who stared back at him with an intensity that made Marty start to squirm in his seat.

But as soon as it had come, the expression shifted into something softer. "You got a birthday coming up, don't you, Marty?"

Marty smiled brightly. "Next month. I'll be five!"

"That's a big birthday. We'll have to take a trip out to Grass Valley. They got a big toy store there."

A trip? Just for him? Marty scooted closer to the edge of the couch cushion. "And I can pick something out?"

"As many things as you want." Biff knelt down to be eye level with Marty. "See, I know things have been a little difficult around here lately, huh? Your mom's been worried about money and about the house, right? Well, that's not gonna be a problem anymore. Not with me around."

Well that sounded great. Especially the part about picking out as many toys as he wanted.

How could Dave not like this guy?

With a wink, Biff got to his feet and walked a slow circle around the living room, taking it all in. He stopped in front of a shelf that held family photos and picked up a framed one, studying it closely.

Marty joined him, standing on his tiptoes to get a look at which one Biff had selected. It was one of his favorites—the five of them all sitting around the Christmas tree.

"Did you know my Dad?" Marty asked.

Biff gave the photo one more long look before placing it back in its spot. "Your dad? Oh, yeah, we grew up together. We were good friends, me and him. I was, uh, real broken up about what happened. But hey—" He flashed a smile and adjusted his tie. "He'd be happy I'm gonna be taking care of your mom."

"He would?"

"Yeah, sure."

Well, the whole evening was turning out good after all, Marty decided. Dave was safe at home, and Dad would be happy about Mom and Biff getting married. He'd have to share that information with his brother later on. Maybe then he wouldn't be so angry.

"Uh, you know, why don't you run along and play or somethin'," Biff said with a wave of his hand. He settled himself onto the couch with a grunt. "I'll wait here for your mom."

Marty considered joining Biff on the couch, remembering his promise to be good, but then his mind went to the mess all over his bedroom floor. He bounded toward the couch, seeming to startle Biff at the sudden action.

"Wanna help me fix my Lincoln Log house?"

Biff lifted an eyebrow. "Seriously, kid?" He chuckled, the sound deep and booming in the small living room. "As if I don't got better things to do than—" Biff stopped himself, his amusement turning to contemplation. Then, with a nod, he stood. "Yeah, okay. Let's go."

They walked down the hall, where Biff paused just long enough to try to listen to the muffled voices coming from Dave's room. With a sigh of impatience he allowed Marty to take hold of his hand and pull him into the bedroom, where the small pieces of wood lay scattered across the floor.

Together, they began to rebuild—Marty resuming his house and Biff opting for a tall, looming tower. It took nearly the whole bin of logs to construct, and Biff slid the container with the remaining ones over to Marty.

"You gotta start thinking bigger, kid. You settle for a little rinky-dink life, that's all you'll ever have. See this?" He gestured to the tower. "As nice as my place is now, I'm gonna have something like this someday soon. Just waiting for the right opportunity.

"And you and your mom and siblings? You're gettin' a piece of that good life too now. All 'cause I didn't settle. All 'cause I knew what I wanted, and I took it."

Marty eyed the impressive building, then met Biff's gaze. To tell the truth, he wasn't entirely sure what the man was talking about or how it related to playing with Lincoln Logs, but he nodded in agreement all the same. This seemed to please Biff, so it must have been the right response. Marty reached into the bin and began adding to his house.

When Dave's door opened, both of their heads swiveled up in anticipation of Lorraine's arrival. She nearly walked right past Marty's room before stopping short, eyes wide in surprise. "Oh," was all she could manage to say as she took in the scene.

"Thought I'd help Marty fix his little house," Biff said with a grin.

"Oh," Lorraine repeated, stepping into the room. "That was very kind of you, Biff."

He waved a hand through the air. "It was nothin'." Pushing himself to his feet, he carefully stepped around the tower. "You two have a good talk?"

"Yes. We—well, we talked it out as best we could for now."

"Is Dave in big trouble, Mom?" Marty asked, turning the bin upside down to shake out the remaining logs. "Did you ground him forever?"

Lorraine ignored his question, keeping her attention on Biff. "I don't think I thanked you; things were so hectic. Thank you, Biff. For finding him and bringing him home."

Biff stepped forward and took Lorraine's hands in his own. "Didn't I promise you I wouldn't let anything happen to your kids?"

"You did."

"And I'm a man of my word, Lorraine."

For a moment, Marty thought it looked like his mother might cry—because she was so happy to have Dave home, he figured. Biff raised one of her hands to his lips and kissed it, then made a gesture toward the door. "Let's go chat."

Marty watched them go, deciding to stay and continue his building. Mom and Biff had important things to talk about, and it was probably really boring. Most grown-up stuff was. He'd add the finishing touches to his house—which looked more like a mansion now—and then show it to Biff later. Dave and Linda might want to see it too.

A warm happiness settled itself inside Marty, and he thought back to what Biff had said earlier to his mom. "It's all good from here on out."

That sounded nice to Marty. He was ready for things to be good again.