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Bobby and Lee didn’t come back to the motel room last night.
The room itself is cramped, stuffy, and poorly furnished. What furnishings are there are covered in mildly questionable stains. But the motel was cheap and they needed a place to stay in between the chain of gigs they managed to score in San Diego.
Paul and Marty had expected the other two members of the Pinheads to eventually stumble in, utterly wasted, and fall asleep draped over one another on the poor excuse for a bed Paul had made out of cushions and extra sheets.
They had expected a slur of barely comprehensible words about how it wasn’t fair that Paul and Marty got the bed while they had to sleep on the floor. They would have told them that it’s what they get for stinking up the room with the acrid reek of alcohol.
That did not happen. Instead, Marty fell asleep sprawled across the lone twin bed in his signature crooked pose that can’t possibly be comfortable and Paul passed out sitting up on the makeshift bed while he was waiting for their keyboardist and drummer to get back from the bar.
Paul wakes up first with a crick in his neck and an aching back and a horrible feeling in his gut. Light filters in through the cheap “blackout” curtains, and he reminds himself that at least there weren’t bedbugs.
The first thing he does is check around him, as though looking a little closer will suddenly make the two people who are supposed to be here appear out of thin air, like they were hiding around a corner that the tiny room doesn’t have.
The next thing that he does is attempt to rouse Marty, which is as unsuccessful as it always is. Snuffling and shoving his face further into the yellowed pillow, Marty mumbles his request for a few minutes more.
Paul starts pacing a hole in the floor. The carpet is worn thin from where countless before him have done much the same.
Bobby and Lee don’t do this. Vanishing off the face of the Earth without telling anyone is Marty’s thing, not theirs, and at least Marty always comes back.
This isn’t like them.
Paul calls out to Marty that he’s going to go check to see if Lee and Bobby took the van last night. He’ll be back in ten. Marty does not respond.
He knows it’s grasping blindly at straws, but he feels like he has to do something productive with his worry. He rounds the parking lot a few times, and then once more just in case Lee and Bobby are hiding behind one of the dead-looking shrubs, waiting to jump out and surprise him.
But, no. Nothing. Not only did they drive their only form of transportation to the bar, they never came back.
Hopefully, they’re just passed out somewhere ridiculous, and will be back with headaches and apologies and a hell of a story soon.
Marty is awake and upright when Paul reenters the room, blearily rubbing sleep out of his eyes, hair sticking in every direction. His clothes, which are from yesterday, are rumpled in a way Paul isn’t sure even ironing would fix.
He’s on the phone- must be what actually brought him back to the land of the living- and Paul watches Marty scrunch up his nose in confusion as he listens to the person on the other end.
”…Yes? We got the room for a week.” Marty says, like he’s not entirely sure what exactly the person on the other end is asking of him. He then nods at something, pauses for a second, and seems to remember that the person on the phone can’t actually see him and startles. “Yes! Yeah, yeah. Of course I know 'em. Why?”
If his attention wasn’t fully on Marty before, it is now.
”Yes.” Paul sees the exact moment something in Marty’s head clicks. “Wait, wait, is everything okay?”
And then Marty goes quiet. And very, very still.
”What?” Paul says immediately, tense. “What did they say?”
For as long as Paul has known him, Marty has always been moving, fidgeting, ready to run someplace else, do something new. He moves through life with a kind of momentum that would be exhausting for anyone else but somehow, for him, isn’t.
The only movement Marty makes is blinking. Paul isn’t even sure he’s breathing.
Dust motes float through the air between them. The silence is such that the room seems dead.
”Can… can you repeat that?” Marty finally says, small.
They’re fine.
Hurt, arrested, thousands of dollars in debt. I don’t care.
Just be okay.
Paul watches the light drain from Marty’s eyes in real time. He can see a strange sort of steadiness begin to settle on Marty’s face.
”Yeah. We can be there. Yeah. Okay. Bye.” There is no tone to Marty’s voice, completely neutral.
Paul stares at him. Marty won’t meet his eyes, replacing the receiver with a resounding click.
”Marty?” Paul tries.
”They’re dead. Lee and Bobby.”
Blood roars in his ears.
“SDPD want us to identify them, since we’re closest. ‘Cause their families are back in Hill Valley which is like… nine hours away.” Marty continues, robotic. His voice is diluted, reaching Paul through the water he's drowning in.
Half of their band is dead.
He’s never going to talk to them again. He’s never going to do anything with them again.
”…They called Bobby ‘Robert’. He… he would’ve-“
Paul’s head snaps in Marty’s direction. “Don’t.” he hisses, harsher than he means to. Marty flinches.
”Don’t what? They’re dead, Paul!” Marty bites back. “Here, I’ll spell the whole thing out for you, they called Bobby ‘Robert’ and Bobby would’ve had their heads for that, but he won’t because he can’t because he’s dead!”
Paul opens his mouth to yell at Marty, and stops himself, because Marty’s face has done something weird.
”What?”
”Nothing.” Marty mutters, though he doesn’t quite sound like he believes it. He picks the phone back up. It isn’t even touch-tone, the motel not quite having caught up with the times yet. “I’m calling a damn cab.”
Marty dials each number on the rotary with an unnecessary amount of aggression, and Paul wilts and joins him sitting on the edge of the bed.
The cab ride is silent.
The driver had attempted to make basic conversation and polite small talk. Paul had ignored him, and though Marty had reciprocated somewhat, once he mumbled out their destination, cold realisation had dawned on the man’s face and he’s been quiet ever since.
The driver will move on with his life at the end of this, just another set of strangers he will never see again. Envy is not an emotion Marty feels often, and yet. And yet.
Paul is staring out the window as buildings pass by in a blur of motion. He clenches and unclenches his fists as he sits, ramrod straight, swaying with the car’s natural movements and jolting when they hit a particularly bad pothole. He won’t look at Marty. And, quite frankly, Marty isn’t sure what he would say to him if he did.
Maybe he would say something comforting. Some magic set of Hollywood words that would patch the wound that the world gave when it ripped out a portion of their lives and left them to bleed. Something that could possibly convince Paul that everything is going to be alright, and maybe convince Marty of the same while he’s at it.
Or- and this is more likely- he would say something that was meant to help ease the grief and instead touch a nerve, a live wire he should have known was there, and Paul would yell and Marty would yell and there would just be yelling. At least the silence isn’t too painful.
…Or, maybe, Marty would tell Paul that their bandmates don’t have to stay dead.
Maybe he’d whisper low, softly admitting that there’s a sketchy storage facility on the outskirts of Los Angeles, and that within one of those storage units Marty has hidden something that could solve all their problems before they even begin.
Maybe he’d spin tales of lightning and rain and possibility, instill a sense of hope and bring the light back to his eyes.
And then maybe Paul would yell anyways because time travel sounds delusional when you try to explain it to someone who hasn’t lived it.
He can see the image of that storage unit in his mind now, clear as day. It’s the kind of place that is old and questionable in the way that most everything is covered in either rust or red-brown stains that you pretend are rust.
Within that storage unit, openable with a code only Marty and Jennifer know, shines pristine stainless steel.
Four years ago now, when Doc stopped by 1985 briefly before disappearing off somewhere and somewhen with his family, he rebuilt the DeLorean and entrusted it to Marty.
Marty’s been pretty good at sticking to the rules that came along with it.
The biggest one-
Do not deliberately alter past events.
-should have been easy enough to follow.
Marty has seen enough to know that should is not to be trusted.
His friends should still be alive.
So here Marty sits, wishing he had never picked up the phone that morning.
The policeman’s voice had been unfairly supportive as he’d told Marty that two of his closest friends had been killed in a drunk driving accident of their own creating.
He did pick up, though. Because of that, he is not sitting in the motel trying to calm Paul down and enjoying a few more hours of believing his bandmates are alive, he’s trapped in the back of a cab that smells of old cigarettes while contemplating breaking the laws of reality for his own personal gain.
Well, not really his own personal gain. Saving people can hardly be considered selfish in most circumstances.
This is not most circumstances.
Time travel is… nuanced. He has to ask himself, what is he really risking here? Doc had seemed adamant that paradoxes be avoided at all costs.
Marty knows he shouldn’t be even considering this.
If he removes the reason he went back in time in the first place...
The seventeen-year-old in him wants to throw caution to the wind and say: so what? He’s lived through worse.
Recalling the darkening edges of his vision and the numbness creeping up his limbs and the primitive, instinctual certainty that this is it, well, the part of Marty that knows twenty-one means you have to pretend to think things through, doesn’t particularly want to test it.
But Bobby and Lee are dead.
And Marty has never been good at leaving the irreparable alone. Not when he knows there’s a chance.
The cab slows to a too-gentle stop as they pull up to the morgue.
Paul ends up paying for the cab because Marty forgot his wallet, which he doesn’t exactly blame him for because he understands the situation they’re in and that it’s not really his fault. He still mutters about it just loud enough for Marty to hear, and a deep, ugly part of him hopes it hurts.
The people at the morgue are kind. They are all soft smiles and gentle understanding. Paul can almost smell the rehearsed lines burn in his nose alongside the antiseptic.
Just before they enter the room, Paul stops. Beyond that door lies the bodies of his friends; once he crosses the threshold and sees them, there will be no way to deny that this nightmare is actually happening.
Marty grabs him by the arm, fingers digging into his skin just on the border of being painful, and pulls him along. Paul lets him lead.
The whole place gives the vibes of a hospital, rubbing alcohol and some lemon-scented cleaner that bite the back of his throat and leave a metallic taste in his mouth, plain white walls and strip lights that make the halls feel sterile. Nothing, however, can hide its true nature, the undercurrent of preservatives and slight decay betraying a mess that has been expertly wiped away.
Corpses are strange.
Empty shells of people he was laughing with just the day prior, somehow.
He knew each detail of their faces like the back of his hand, every hair, every mole, every pore. His eyes trace them over and over and over until the details morph into indiscernible blobs of color.
Beside him, Marty wipes his own eyes once, straightens up, and says something affirmative that Paul won’t remember because it fizzles into static once it reaches his ears. He thinks he can hear the sea, somewhere far away in the distance.
White noise, waves crashing against the shoreline, the steady, unrelenting come and go of the tide. They somehow end up back at the motel, the only anchor to the real world that Paul has the too-tight grip of Marty’s hand around his wrist.
Paul sits on the bed with his hands on his lap until the sky blazes orange. Marty is on the phone for most of that time, one half of a conversation flitting in and out of Paul’s ears.
What now?
Where do they go from here?
Marty shoves his leftovers from yesterday into Paul’s hands as if he could possibly stomach food right now.
Still, Paul eats. Marty joins him on the bed with a slice of pineapple pizza that Lee had been adamant none of them touch despite the fact that the rest of them despise the topping choice. Marty goes a little green as he eats, disgust evident, and Paul thinks that Lee would love this.
”Jennifer says she hopes you’re holding up okay.” Marty says after a long while.
”That’s stupid.” Paul replies. Marty huffs a small laugh.
”Yeah,” he whispers, “it is.”
Marty stares at the door as though he’s looking through it and Paul knows him well enough to know he’s a million miles away. He wonders, briefly, what Marty is seeing off in his own world.
Beyond the motel door, about a two hour drive away, is the solution to everything.
Here in the room, however, his problems are festering like a rot beneath the floorboards.
Marty has accidentally broken Doc’s rules dozens of times before.
This isn’t an accident.
This is deliberately going against the guidelines Doc set and deciding that his own personal tragedy is worth more than those rules and the safety they provided.
Years ago, he wouldn’t have thought twice. He would have just done it and not even realised until after. But he’s an adult now- or, what passes for it in 1989- which means he gets to contend with what kind of person this makes him.
He can hear Paul breathing beside him, quiet, maybe a little congested. Marty thinks if he screamed, now, his voice would echo; the cramped motel room couldn't feel larger and more empty if they tried. Through the stuffy, stale air, it all still manages to feel cold.
”Marty?” Paul says, tentative. He places a hand on his shoulder.
Marty swallows. There is an ache that accompanies the lump in his throat as he speaks. “I think I need to step out for a while.”
The decision was made the second he picked up the phone that morning, though he didn't know it then, for there isn't a version of this world that exists where he doesn't save them. Marty just wishes he lived in the version where he didn't feel bad about it.
He shakes off Paul's hand, almost dismissively, and stands. As he makes his way to the door, there is more intention in his stride than there has been all afternoon.
Paul follows.
“No,” Marty says, and points at him, “you stay here.”
Paul reels back like he’s been struck. It hurts Marty more than he’d like to admit.
”Excuse me?”
”I need to be alone.” Marty insists.
”Absolutely not!” Paul recovers, and moves between Marty and the exit. “That is the last thing you and me need right now!”
“This isn’t something you can come with me for.”
Paul looks at him like he’s grown a second head.
”I don’t know what's going on in that head of yours,” Paul says, slowly, “but if you’re being this weird and vague about it, then I don’t trust it at all.”
Dammit, Paul, why can't you make this easy?
”I just need air.”
”Then let me come with you.”
Within Paul’s unrelenting gaze exists the truth that Marty is trying to hide from.
He is pushing Paul away even though he’s completely right.
There are so many reasons that Marty could name as to why he doesn’t want to bring Paul along in the DeLorean. He could make a whole list.
None of them would be the actual reason.
So Marty just drops his shoulders and gives in.
The evening air is the kind of cool that comes only after a day of unyielding heat.
Even as faceless people pass them by as they walk the streets, the whole world seems smaller, lonelier. It’s just them.
Just outside a 7-11, an old couple bickers by the entrance, blocking the way. For a second, Paul and Marty slow, as if they may try go in, and then the old man raises his voice and they both silently agree to take the loss, putting their heads down and moving on.
There is not a single cloud in the sky, but there is high haze that fogs the air above them, the murky and distorted film desaturating the last hues of sunset.
”What now?” Paul asks him, and his voice comes as a shock to Marty.
”What?” he stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk, and Paul does the same a few strides away.
”What do we do now?”
”...I don’t know.” Marty lies.
Paul nods once, then twice like Marty needs the extra reassurance, and they continue down the road. By now, the other people walking alongside them have thinned as the last of the light is swallowed by incoming dusk. They do not speak to each other again, the only sounds exchanged by either of them the steady pitter patter of their footsteps on pavement.
Paul is awoken by the metal-on-metal scrape of someone struggling to stick a key into a lock.
The room is dark, all color stolen away by the nighttime, save for the dim, yellowed light of a streetlamp filtering in through the curtains. He hears Marty curse under his breath.
He sits up and takes a good long look at the moving blob of dark grey that is and can only be Marty. The key makes a distinct sound as it finally glides smoothly into the lock, and Marty gives a small, triumphant huff.
Paul ambles over, blinking away the last of sleep from his eyes, and watches as his friend struggles to open the motel room door with the deadbolt still turned. Paul would laugh- Marty could solve head-spinning calculus with ease but still struggles with locks- but the small rush of amusement is quickly stolen away by the thud thud thud of Marty trying to force open the door.
”Where are you going?”
Marty jumps maybe a foot into the air and staggers back, greyscale hand over his chest. What little light is in the room shines off wide eyes.
”Jesus, Paul, don’t do that!”
Paul steps closer, “Where are you going, Marty?”
Marty just gawks at him, looking like he knows he’s been caught red-handed doing something he shouldn’t and is struggling for words.
Paul really doesn’t like the spike of anxiety that little detail invokes.
“Marty?”
”I’m just... going out for a while.”
The alarms that start sounding in Paul’s head are incessant, all ringing and flashing lights. Something cold like ice settles in his veins.
“You said that earlier,” Paul breathes, disbelieving, “and you tried to make me stay here. Now you’re sneaking out?”
”I’m not sneaking out.” Marty denies, keys still in hand, and Paul can see that even he realises how stupid that sounds.
“You are. Where are you going?”
”Out." Marty gestures vaguely, accidentally swatting Paul while doing so. He at least has the decency to pull back and look apologetic. "Just go back to bed, Paul. It won’t matter anyway.”
”Is that supposed to be reassuring? What do you mean, ‘it won’t matter’, what won’t?” he presses, and tries to bury his worry with frustration. Must he be so obstinate?
Marty’s face is shrouded in shadow, and so Paul can’t see whatever gears are turning in his head to cause his unresponsiveness. He only hopes that this is something dumb and quintessentially Marty and not what he’s fearing.
But Marty finally finds the deadbolt and turns it and begins opening the door and Paul feels his heart leap into his throat.
“I’m coming with you,” Paul says, and it is with such force that it is final. “If you’re this desperate to do it, then whatever this is matters. Regardless of how much you say it doesn’t.”
The standoff is untraditional. Neither can really see each other’s faces yet can feel, by way of the room, the unsaid sentences between them. It’s an awfully familiar song and dance, even if the circumstances this time are different.
Marty pulls the door just a little further ajar, and shifts in such a way that he seems ready to bolt.
I’m about to do something stupid, Paul can almost hear the air around Marty confess, and I’m pretending it’s fine.
Paul grabs Marty's wrist, fingers loose and touch delicate.
I’m worried about you, the air around Paul whispers back.
“Please.” he says.
Marty deflates like an old balloon.
”…Okay.”
This cab driver is significantly colder than the last. She greeted him only by name, asked their destination, and has not spoken a word since. The car itself is comfier, though, the seats softer and a smell like lavender instead of tobacco.
Marty is watching the street lights whiz by, trying to ignore Paul's gaze burning a hole in the back of his head. He refuses to acknowledge him.
He didn’t want to bring Paul because bringing Paul makes things difficult.
Marty, at least, is familiar with how time travel works. Can understand that their friends are dead but not for much longer. Can know, with absolute certainty, that that image of them, on those tables, under the sick fluorescent light, pale and cold and unmoving and gone in every way that matters and-
That doesn't ever need to exist.
Paul, on the other hand, cannot understand that.
Paul, who won't stop asking what he's doing.
Paul, who won't leave him alone so he can fix this.
Paul, who won't stop being a problem.
...
Marty lets out a shuddering breath, forcing the rising anger out alongside the carbon dioxide, and screws his eyes shut.
When did he begin referring to his friends as problems?
”Hey,”
Even Lee and Bobby, in his head, have been boiled down to a simple problem and solution.
”Marty,” Paul shakes him a little, “you with me, man?”
What does death even mean if it can be reversed with the push of a few buttons and driving at ticket speeds?
What does that mean for him, if he alone can do that?
How does he decide what is worth fixing? Who is worth saving?
”Marty?”
”What?” Marty hisses back, sparing a glance at the driver.
”Why are we going back to LA?”
Marty turns away. It's not that he doesn't know how to answer that, more that he doesn't trust what he'll say.
Paul cannot possibly fathom why Marty has brought them here.
The storage facility is lit by rows and rows of lights that are either dim, flickering ominously, or out altogether. The ones that work gleam just above each unit, shimmering off of dull, lifeless steel. Each and every one of the unit doors is rusted, except for one that they walk past that is clean, shiny, and crumpled on the ground inside what appears to be a ransacked unit.
When Paul points it out, Marty shrugs.
"Getting a new door probably made it seem like they have money, and if they have money then whatever's inside might be valuable," he explains like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"There was a red stain on the ground." Paul breathes, hush. "I feel like we're going to be murdered. Or kidnapped. Or both."
"It was probably just more rust."
"On the cement?"
Marty makes an 'I dunno' noise and turns his head to keep scanning the numbers.
"Why didn't you just use a normal storage facility? Why did you rent out a unit at the murder and crime storage facility?" Paul's head feels like it's on a swivel, twisting at owl levels of flexibility. There are an incredible number of places a person could be hiding here.
"It's not that bad." Marty replies, completely unaware of the danger they could be in.
"There was blood," he insists, "on the ground! Why are you not concerned about this?"
Is he trying to get them killed? Or is this just slightly higher than normal levels of Marty being reckless?
Earlier, Paul thought maybe…
There had been a moment, back in the motel, where Marty had looked distant and dejected enough that when he tried to 'go for a walk' and insisted he go alone... for just a short, panicked few seconds, Paul thought, maybe, maybe he didn't know Marty as well as he thought he did. That losing Bobby and Lee was too much.
And that maybe Marty was about to make a very permanent decision in his usual do-first think-later fashion.
Irrational, probably. Most of Paul's fears generally are. But with three bandmates that seem insistent on digging themselves into early graves-
...
Paul stops.
Marty keeps walking for a couple more paces before realising Paul isn't with him anymore, and turns to look at him.
"Paul?"
Shit. God damnit.
It was his job to stop them from doing stupid shit that would get them hurt. Not officially, but they joked about it enough times. That was his thing. Make sure the three stooges don't get themselves killed.
He should have been there. He should have-
"Paul," Marty's in front of him now, "guess what?"
He points to the unit they're standing next to. "Did you know that the doors have to be really old to be rusted like that?"
Paul blinks, baffled, and can practically hear the squealing skid of tires as his thoughts come to a sudden halt. "What?"
"It's made of galvanized steel." Marty declares like it clarifies everything.
Paul nearly laughs at the sheer absurdity of the statement. Oh, Marty. "And?"
"And," Marty repeats, "being galvanized means that it's covered in a protective layer of zinc, and so for the steel to rust like that, the zinc has to corrode away completely first. And that takes like, fifty years."
Marty makes different gestures with his hands as he talks to help supplement his description, grinning at Paul the whole time. His hands are a little stiff as they move.
Paul shakes his head in mild disapproval, but finds himself fighting a small smile. “Really old, huh?”
"Yep. That being said, self storage has really only been a thing since the sixties, so, this place must've used some really bad quality galvanized steel or bought it used or scrap..."
His voice is comforting, but it's purposeful in a way that Paul picks up probably means that Marty is intentionally trying to calm him down. Which, he supposes, is appreciated.
Marty walks backwards for few steps to keep eye contact, beckoning Paul as he does so. "Come on. Just a few more units down."
Turns out he wasn't kidding when he said 'a few more units', as Paul barely has time for his thoughts to drift again before he barrels Marty, who has, rather abruptly, stopped in front of him. They both stumble a bit, Marty brushing himself off and shooting Paul an offended look, before moving to open the unit. It doesn't look it at first glance, but there are multiple locks on the door.
"These all have the same code," Marty says, spinning the little dials with intense focus, "I figured, why bother having different codes? If someone already figures out about this place and is trying to steal from me, I'm sure they have access to bolt cutters. This is just to stop people from breaking in on a whim, y'know?"
The door makes an awful, deafening rattle as Marty lifts it, revealing inside boxes and boxes of scrap metal and a large amorphous thing covered by a tarp.
"What," Paul starts, waving towards the tarp, "is that?"
Marty smiles, but it's all teeth in a way that is distinctly not like him.
"That, my friend, is both the solution to and the source of all my issues."
Paul will not stop asking questions and touching things.
Marty was able to lie about the time circuits display easy enough: current time, destination time, time last departed, it's all like one big stopwatch for trips, but it’s a bit distracting so he doesn’t like turning it on. Paul appeared to find that to be acceptable levels of Marty weird. But he will not stop tapping the glass surrounding the flux capacitor or trying to flip the time circuits on.
"Stop touching that!" Marty reaches over to grab Paul's wrist and aborts the action once the car starts drifting, swerving back onto his side of the road.
"Okay, but what is it. What does it do?" Paul goes to press a button and Marty really does stop him this time. "Why did you have a car in the sketchiest storage facility in all of LA? And why does it look like a movie prop?"
Lord save him. "Paul, I am serious, do not touch anything."
"You had us drive all the way back to Los Angeles to get a car that has the most insane looking modifications I have ever seen in my life. And, mind you, you didn't tell me we were just getting a car, you were just annoyingly cagey about everything and then led me to a the kind of place people get murdered in, so I think I'm entitled to a little touching." Paul grabs the black handle that turns on the time circuits again, but Marty is actively shifting gears and rams his hand along with the gearstick into him. "Ow!"
"You aren't entitled to shit!" Marty argues. The DeLorean roars as it climbs up to highway speeds, and Marty is forever grateful for whatever Doc did to the engine that made it actually function as a sports car. The highway is empty, bar them, but Marty does not exceed 85 miles an hour.
"Why soup up a DeLorean of all cars, anyways?"
"'Might as well do it with some style,'" Marty echoes Doc from years past, and Paul looks miserably exasperated. Good. Serves him right.
Paul does listen, though, and stops trying to turn on things that Marty wouldn't be able to explain. For the most part. He does try to sneak his hand towards one of the buttons on the steering wheel as if Marty wouldn't see that.
"That's the self-destruct button." he says without hesitation, and Paul jerks his hand away, a look of terror briefly crossing his face before settling into offense.
“It is not.”
"You don't know that!" Marty huffs, and Paul makes a similarly reciprocal noise, but ultimately leaves it alone.
About twenty or so minutes later, maybe more, the exhaustion finally catches up with Paul and he passes out with his head leaning on the window. They hit a bump and his skull makes a solid sounding thunk, but he does not wake up, utterly gone to the world.
The empty silence leaves Marty alone with the road that stretches long. The orange-yellow streetlights come and go with a consistency and reliability that convinces him that end of the road is both inevitable and far, far away.
If only Doc were here.
If Doc were here, he’d tell Marty that his plan was unnecessarily risky in that matter-of-fact way of his. If Doc were here, he’d chide him for all of two seconds and support him anyways.
But he’s not. It’s just Marty and the sleeping form of his only remaining bandmate.
Marty does not let himself cry, and there is not a soul on the planet that could know otherwise.
But between him and the road, for a small while, the streetlights blurred.
“Paul,”
Paul mumbles, shifting a little. The window is cool against his skin.
Someone is shaking him by the shoulder, now. Right. Yes. Marty. Los Angeles. Weird car. Very inefficient way of going about things. Frustrating lack of explanation. The night returns to him gradually, the previous panic that was present the last time he was awoken dulled into something more melancholic.
He peeks open an eye to look at Marty. There’s a strained smile on his face.
”You can go in.” Marty gestures just past him. When Paul turns, he sees the entrance of the motel. “I’ll park up and join you.”
Paul stretches, yawning, and shakes his head. “Nah, I’ll stay with. Wake up a little.”
”If you go in now, though, you wouldn’t need to wake up a little. You could just go in and go right back to sleep.”
That’s very considerate of him. Until Paul connects the dots and wakes up faster than if a bucket of ice water had been dumped on him.
”You’re trying to get rid of me again.” he says flatly. There is no question in his voice.
“What?” Marty forces out a laugh. “Me? No way! I wouldn’t do that. They call me Mr. Inclusive.”
“Nobody calls you that.”
Marty points at the motel. “You can’t come with me for this part. So, you. Back to the room. Go. Now.”
He reaches over him to open the passenger side door, and Paul shoves him out of his space, hard. And then the words process.
”Wait, wait, sorry, Marty,” Paul raises a forlorn hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, “are you telling me that the driving a total of four entire hours round trip to Los Angeles and back to retrieve your weird car from the evil serial killer storage place wasn’t the thing you were trying to do alone?”
Marty scowls. Gestures vaguely toward the motel again.
Paul very pointedly settles further in his seat and crosses his arms.
He can see the fight Marty is having with himself. And Paul can see the moment he wins.
Marty’s jaw sets, and they’re driving again.
”Doc, wherever you are, please don’t kill me for this.” Marty murmurs, and Paul almost doesn’t hear it.
As they go, destination unknown to Paul, Marty reaches down and grabs the black handle near the gearstick and the emergency brake that Paul had tried to flip earlier.
And the dashboard comes to life.
There is an artistry to the neatness and the pretty colored lights, but that awe is short lived.
”I think your overcomplicated stopwatch is broken,” Paul notes, reading the time displayed above LAST TIME DEPARTED.
July 16 1969 1:48PM, the yellow lights say. Oddly specific, for an error. At least the current time seems right: glowing green, June 26 1989 3:47AM.
It’s certainly a choice to include the year when designing something that keeps track of how long you’ve been driving for, but not something that Paul would put past Marty to do.
Marty does not comment on the condition of his stopwatch, and instead pulls them over to the side, hazards on, once they’re on a long straight portion of road.
Paul watches Marty punch numbers into the keypad with steady hands.
Above DESTINATION TIME, a date appears in red.
June 24 1989 9:00PM
That’s-
Yesterday? Or, technically, two days ago. A day and half. Time never feels quite right in the earlier hours of the morning.
Marty starts pressing on the gas, the engine getting louder as the RPMs climb. Paul is still stuck on the date and time.
”Dude, why-“
Marty dumps the clutch and they launch. Paul grips the edge of the seat as Marty redlines and shifts from first to second gear, the impressive 0 to 60 indicating that this is not the DeLorean’s original engine. He shifts into third. And then into fourth.
”Oh my god, oh my god, Marty!” Paul yells. “Slow down!”
They barrel down the narrow 25mph road at speeds closer to 85.
”Marty!” he screams, trying to be heard over the engine. He braces himself, white knuckled grip on anything he can anchor himself to the vehicle with.
There is a deafening sound like crashing thunder and a blinding, white light.
And then they slow down.
Back down to the speed limit.
Paul heaves in deep gulps of air as though he’d been holding his breath. There is a jackhammer behind his ribs.
”Jesus Christ,” Paul gasps, “Jesus Christ, Marty, are you insane? What the fuck was that?!”
Marty lets out a puff of air. “I told you to go back to the motel.”
”Are you trying to kill yourself?!” Paul shouts. “Is that what this is?! What the hell is wrong with you, why would you- why-“
Paul clenches a hand over his chest, within which his heart is trying desperately to escape. He screws his eyes shut and tries to focus on breathing. In. Hold. Out.
Marty, for his credit, drives so carefully and rounds corners with such perfection that Paul barely notices they’re moving.
When he opens his eyes again, he notices there is faint twilight on the horizon- the sun rising. Christ, they've been out all night. A quick assessment of his surroundings reveals that they’ve stopped and parked outside the bar that Bobby and Lee went to that other night. The strange stopwatch has been turned off.
”Why are we here?” Paul asks, quiet and miserable.
Marty’s reply comes soft. ”For Lee and Bobby.”
Paul frowns. He’s not sure what that means. Whatever. Suppose Paul did insist on being here with him.
He doesn’t regret that.
”I don’t know how I’m gonna do this.” Marty says, cryptic.
”Do what?”
”Close the loop. ‘Cause the ripple effect’s going to be a real problem if I don’t.”
”What?”
Marty does not elaborate.
The sky appears to be getting darker, not lighter, as the minutes pass. Must be the clouds. Or a trick of the light.
”I wish you would just talk to me.” Paul says.
”I think you would be more upset if I did.” Marty admits. “This is the kind of thing where you don’t believe me and then get angry when I try to say it’s true because it’s painful.”
”I would rather be angry and understand than be angry and confused.”
Marty blinks twice, like that hadn't even been something he'd considered.
“Yes, but then-“ Marty stammers, almost frustrated, like he’s looking for the right words, “-then you might try to stop me!”
”Stop you?” Paul restates, incredulous. “Marty, what you just did? I thought you were going to crash and kill us both!”
He leans back in shock. “What? I wouldn’t do that!”
”Well, how was I supposed to know? You aren’t telling me anything!”
”I- that’s fair, listen,” Marty raises his hands in mock surrender, “fine. I will explain. But you have to promise to hear me out, because you are not going to believe it, but also there will be proof soon.”
Paul squints. “I just want to know what’s going on. I don’t care how insane it sounds. You’ve been acting batshit all night.”
Marty opens his mouth, and freezes, eyes like saucers. Paul hears his breath audibly stutter.
Then, he’s in motion. Throwing open the gull wing door- ridiculous, by the way- and flinging himself out of the car. He’s running by the time Paul has even managed to open his own door.
He sprints after him, tripping over his own feet, and then actually falling as he catches up because Marty is just stood there and Paul doesn’t want to knock him over.
Paul grits his teeth, and starts to push himself off the ground, ignoring the stinging in his palms.
”Woah. You good there, Paulie?” Bobby slurs.
Bobby.
Paul’s heart stops dead in his chest and he takes an automatic step back before he’s even fully standing, almost tumbling down again.
Lee is standing next to Bobby. Alive. Grabbing sloppily at the keys in Marty’s hand as though Paul hadn’t seen his lifeless cadaver just earlier that day.
”What the hell.” Paul breathes. “Oh my god. Did we die? Am I dead?”
”You’re not dead, Paul,” Marty holds the keys high above his head, but that doesn’t mean much. Lee is fully able to reach them, and so Marty backpedals away from him. “Jesus, Lee, you can barely walk! You’re not driving!”
”Watch me! ‘S my van!”
What, why, how.
There is a mix of relief so deep it aches that resides alongside a horrible, creeping fear that this simply cannot be happening.
”Paul!” Marty calls, and Paul’s gaze gets caught on Bobby and Lee’s forms for just a second too long. When he finally looks at Marty, the keys have already left his hands and are sailing towards him.
Paul, of course, does not catch them. They clatter on the ground, and he scoops them up before Lee has even started trying to make his way over.
Marty holds Lee back, who starts to slump. “You drive Bobby to the motel in the van; I’ll take Lee!”
”Marty- Marty, they were dead!”
Bobby makes an affronted noise.
”The DeLorean’s a time machine, Paul!” Marty holds Lee barely upright, slinging Lee’s arm over his shoulders as Lee starts to lose his fight with the ground.
“Hahaha! That sounds- like a good song, or something.” Lee chuckles, going almost limp and nearly pulling Marty down with him.
Paul turns to Bobby, who waves at him and then immediately trips on nothing.
He doesn’t know what to do. He needs time to process this. There is no time to process this.
A time machine. Are you kidding me, Marty?
Lee is… not easy to get in the car. At least Paul left his door open.
”Why’re you even here,” he grumbles, “you n’ Paul said you were gonna stay at the motel.”
”We’re here,” Marty says as he shoves Lee into the passenger seat, “because you are drunk and you just tried to drive home!”
”So what?” Lee asks, all bravado and poor decisions. Marty pushes Lee’s foot out of the way of the door and slams it shut.
Moving to the other side of the car, Marty slumps into the driver seat, and the tiredness hits him, settling deep into his bones.
”’So what,’” Marty mocks once he’s inside, “so, are you trying to get yourselves killed?”
It is not lost on him that that is a very upsetting mirror of what Paul said to him not ten minutes ago.
Lee looks angry for all of a second, and then he melts. “Aww, do you and Paul care about me?”
If looks could kill, then Lee would be dead. Again. “Unfortunately.”
As Marty pulls out, he drives to where the van is parked to make sure that Paul got Bobby in okay. Paul flashes his highbeams.
”Good.” Marty mutters, and then seizes Lee’s wrist in his hand. “Do not touch that.”
Lee, who had just been about to hit a random button because it’s glowing red and he’s apparently no better than a child, has the nerve to look sheepish.
In the wing mirrors, Marty can see Paul trailing behind them. He cannot see his face.
The motel is not far, barely fifteen minutes away. As he drives, it crosses his mind that this is the time during which Lee and Bobby died during the first time round. Or, actually, only Lee died on impact. The policeman on the phone said Bobby died in the ambulance.
Lee starts frantically scrabbling at the door, and Marty realises very quickly what is happening, pulling to the side of the road.
He keels over and vomits all over the asphalt, full body lurching violently with the force of the involuntary action.
As Marty stares, there is no disgust. Lee is painfully, beautifully alive.
And for a second, Marty thinks, yeah, everything’s going to be okay.
Lee groans, and Marty pulls him back into the car, reaching over the center console to shut the door for him.
Time machine.
The DeLorean is a time machine.
If it weren’t for Bobby’s soft snoring beside him, Paul wouldn’t believe it.
Marty had a time machine sequestered away for goodness knows how long. They're in the past.
The motel comes into view. Does this mean Lee and Bobby never die? How does that work? Isn't there something, like a paradigm or whatever it's called, that this causes?
Trailing behind the DeLorean makes it seem even less likely to be real; this stupid car looks like something straight out of a cartoon.
Maybe this is a dream.
He doesn't realise that he'd successfully arrived and parked until he turns the van off and the lights illuminate. His body moves separate from him, on autopilot, as he tries to shake Bobby awake and tries not to think about how similar he looks to when he was in the morgue.
Cold, clean, and still.
Wake up, wake up, please-
A frantic, hysterical part of Paul is convinced that Bobby just straight up died while he was driving.
"Mmmh," Bobby shrugs off Paul's trembling hand, "whazzup?"
It is not quite warm relief that floods Paul's veins, but something adjacent.
"Come on," Paul says, and he can't quite believe who he's saying it to, "we're here."
Marty had parked not far from them, and when Bobby and he catch up, Paul shoots him a look as if to reiterate: what the hell, Marty?
Marty responds by buckling a little under Lee's weight.
Paul tries to open the door. It is locked. Behind him, Marty makes a strained noise as he pulls the keys from his pocket and manages to stay upright. "We figured they would knock. Or start pounding on the door. Then I fell asleep. Remember?"
"We..." Paul takes the keys, "we figured?"
"You guys're being weird." Bobby says eloquently. He is swaying a little and staring blankly at the moths buzzing around the light.
Paul gets the door open,
and makes eye contact with himself.
Flinching back as though hit, Paul watches the other him's eyes boggle.
"Marty, what the-" Paul points fervently, "that's me! You didn't tell me I would be here!"
Marty pushes past him, Lee still draped over him and moaning, and he dumps the giant onto the ground. Lee moans louder. Marty waves sheepishly at the other Paul, who is now whipping his head back and forth from the Marty who's passed out on the bed to the one standing in front of him.
"Am I on drugs?" the other Paul asks from where he’s sitting on the makeshift bed on the floor.
"Marty," Paul reiterates, "Marty, that's me."
"Yes?" Marty steps outside for a second and takes Bobby's wrist to lead him inside from where he was standing staring at the bugs. "I told you we time travelled. Of course there's a second you. What, did you think he just vanished?"
Paul gapes, and then shuts his mouth when he realises he's making the same expression that the other Paul is. This is so, so messed up.
"Wait," Bobby turns so hard he starts falling over, "wait, Paul, Marty, there's two of you."
"Can I know what's going on?" the other Paul asks, voice incredibly small. "If you're cohesive enough to have conversations, surely you can have an explanation. Hallucinations can do that, right? Oh my god, I've lost my mind..."
Paul does not break eye contact with the other version of himself, not even as Marty continues further into the room and picks up the address book lying on the nightstand. He scribbles something on it, tears the page off, and hands it to the other Paul, who takes it with a crease in his brow and worry in his eyes.
"Give that to me when I wake up." Marty instructs. There is a mechanical efficiency to everything that Marty is doing and it would terrify Paul if he could focus on it for more than a second before being distracted by the absurdity of what's happening right now.
Then, Marty's hand is around his wrist for the nth time that day/night/whatever designations of time mean anymore, and he pulls him out of the motel room. Paul grabs Marty's arm with his other hand and holds onto it like a lifeline.
He doesn't remember what just happened. Or, well, he does. But only from this perspective.
The somewhat cool but humid night air has a chokehold on him. He doesn't remember any of that. But that was him, wasn't it? So, what happened?
His head hurts, but not as bad as Lee’s and Bobby’s will tomorrow morning. Yesterday morning. Oh, god.
"Marty," Paul squeezes his arm a little tighter, "what happens now?"
"We go back home and hope you gave me the note and that I knew what I meant." Marty replies, refusing to look in Paul's direction.
"And if that didn't happen?"
"Then," he lets out a shaky breath that does not instill Paul with confidence, "then we pray. And hope the ripple takes us quickly."
That does not sound good. That sounds the opposite of good, actually. The hell is 'the ripple'? Paul opens his mouth to ask, but... doesn't. The full weight of everything is beginning to tug at the edges of his shirtsleeves and he's kind of over being worried about things that Marty stubbornly refuses to explain.
After seeing what it can do, the DeLorean doesn't seem so ridiculous anymore. It seems unassuming. Small. Not something Paul would ever imagine capable of doing what it did tonight. Tomorrow night. Two days from now? How does Marty keep track of all this?
Once inside, Marty turns on the stopwatch again. Of course, Paul recognises now that it is not a stopwatch at all, and resents both himself a little for falling for the lie and Marty for telling it. Marty jabs in their destination time: June 26 1989 3:47AM.
The same time as given by the time last departed. Which means-
"You went to 1969?"
"Rocket launch."
"Oh."
This time, when Marty speeds up, Paul knows what he's doing. He screws his eyes shut and braces himself anyways, not daring to peel them open until long after the light stops flashing from behind his eyelids and the thunder dies down. When he does, Marty has his hand in his pocket, a gleeful grin splitting across his face as whatever is in there crinkles. There’s a levity to his shoulders now that was not there before, and he pulls it out and laughs like a madman.
"It worked!" he cackles, and Paul peers over to see what he's looking at.
"DT: 06/24/89 9PM
CT:06/26/89 3:47AM
LTD: 07/16/69 ~2PM
Road outside motel. Bring Paul. Close the loop.
-Your friend Marty"
"Is that the note you gave me? The other one? How's it here?" he asks. Something unnamable pools in his gut.
Marty nods, and Paul can see that his eyes are lacking the storm they've had since that phone call.
"It's here because we became ourselves." At Paul's blank expression, Marty elaborates: "Those versions of us that you saw, they listened to what I wrote, got in the car, and even though the circumstances that brought them to the point that they time travelled were different, they closed the loop and became us. So when it rippled back, I got the note, because clearly I'd brought it with me."
Paul... guesses that makes sense. Not really. But in the roundabout way that things always end up making sense whenever Marty's involved, usually with a lot of misplaced confidence and a complete lack of forethought. Marty's quick wit has always been the perfect counterweight- and perfect fuel- for his impulsivity.
But there's still something very wrong about what Marty just said.
"I don't remember anything other than this." Paul says, and then finds that didn't explain it quite right. "Like, I don't remember Bobby and Lee coming back and us bringing them in from that other perspective. I don't remember being that other me."
"Well, unfortunately, you won't."
"What?"
"For the most part. I don't know, Doc said something about synaptic connections and how the neural pathways exist, physically, but our brains are completely unable to access them because we aren't aware those pathways exist." Marty waves a flippant hand. "It doesn't really matter. Sometimes you get vague impressions. Not much else, though."
He's so nonchalant about it. He's talking about rewriting their own memories and he doesn't even seem to care. Paul wonders if he even really thought about how horrifying that is, or if he's done it so often it doesn't bother him anymore. Neither option quells the bile beginning to crawl its way up his throat.
"What," he chokes out, "would have happened if I hadn't come with you?"
"Possible paradox. If we didn't close the loop-"
"No." Paul hisses. "What would have happened if I had listened to you and gone back to the motel when you told me to?"
Marty opens his mouth, and then his eyebrows twitch and he closes it again with an audible click. Whatever joy had been present quickly recedes back into the early morning shadows.
"Answer the question."
"Well, you-" Marty chuckles nervously, "you'd..."
Paul knows the answer.
Of course he does. He may be well out of his depth here but he has known Marty since they were kids and he's not dumb. He can put two and two together.
But Marty won't meet his eyes, and Paul needs to hear him say it.
"Marty."
"If you hadn’t come with me, you would only remember the new timeline," Marty says slowly, like he's handling a wild animal, "you wouldn't remember Bobby and Lee being dead at all."
Right.
Okay.
Not okay. He's not okay with that. At all. Marty tried to erase his memory of what was quite possibly the worst day of his life without even asking for his consent to change him.
Horrified is not the right word to describe the snarling, clawing beast that has reared its head within Paul's stomach. It flips and churns about, yes, but it also gnashes furious teeth at the situation at hand.
Angry isn't right either.
Something closer to betrayed.
"How many times?" he asks flatly, swallowing down the beast. He has to know. "How many times have you rewritten me?"
For many seconds, silence stretches between them in the faint glow of the red, yellow, and green light, dates that tell a tragic story and colors that paint Marty's face in a way that is almost inhuman.
There's a flash of something that once Paul may have been able to describe in Marty's eyes, and Paul's heart near snaps in two because he hadn't been expecting Marty to hesitate here. He'd expected harsh denial, a proclamation that he'd never do such a thing and that Paul's mere suggestion of the sort was hurtful.
Instead, Paul can't help but feel he's in a car with a stranger.
"Are you even the same version of you that I grew up with?"
Marty turns the dashboard modifications off and plunges them into darkness. There is a dim orange light outside, one of the motel's, that crowns Marty's silhouette.
"I don't know how to answer that." Is what the guitarist says in lieu of any real answer at all.
"With the truth," Paul whispers, and he despises the tremor in his voice, "you answer with the truth.”
How many times?
Marty finds that he himself does not know.
He has not intentionally altered anyone. And since those first few disasters of trips across time, Marty has been careful. Sightseeing. Minimal interference.
But people are culminations.
That is why his family bore such drastic changes after his first floundering tumble through time. That is why for months, and sometimes even still, he’d catch Jennifer staring at him with something akin to loss in her eyes.
Marty is not the version of himself that Paul grew up with. Something adjacent, yes, but not that version. There are countless memories between them that they do not share.
Marty has not purposefully rewritten anybody, but Lee’s favorite expression is 'the road to Hell is paved with good intentions', usually followed up with 'so let’s do whatever!' and decisions that get lost in the haze of blackout.
Paul is waiting.
"I," he begins, but he doesn't know how to continue. There is nothing here that can salvage this. No perfect explanation. No fault he can blame to absolve himself with.
He regrets turning off the time circuits, because though the deep hurt in Paul's expression had been painful, it's somehow worse not being able to see him at all.
”I’ve never done it on purpose,” he admits anyways, because there’s no other way to put it, “and I swear you haven’t changed much. Nothing noticeable. The only discrepancies I can name involve me, and that’s because I changed.”
Paul unbuckles his seatbelt, and the plastic and metal clatter against the side of the car as it retracts. Marty holds his breath, and fears Paul may be holding his too.
Paul opens the door and steps out.
”Paul, wait-“
The door slams shut with force that is uncharacteristic for Paul. Marty launches himself out of his own seat and door after him.
”Paul!”
Marty jogs to catch up, and Paul stops right outside the motel room. There are no moths fluttering around the light.
”Paul, please, let me just-“
”Let you what, explain?” Paul seethes. “This whole damn time I have been begging you to talk to me. And now I find out that you haven’t just been weirdly clammy because our friends fucking died, but because you’ve been keeping secret that you can time travel and rewrite people for lord only knows how long?”
”Paul-“
”No! No, you don’t get to do this! You don’t get to refuse to talk to me and only after I find out on my own try to explain! God, Marty, I might’ve been more okay with it if I had just known! If you had just, for once in your stupid life, talked to us, I might’ve actually been able to deal with-“ Paul waves a hand at him, “-with, with this!”
”…That seems to be a recurring theme with me.” Marty whispers.
”No kidding.” The tension in Paul’s shoulders drops. “I think the worst part might be how much you’ve clearly rationalized it to yourself.”
”Paul, for what it’s worth,” he says as he tries to take a step closer, but Paul leans back, “I’m really, really sorry. I- I hadn’t thought-“
”No. You didn’t. You didn’t think at all.”
”Okay, that’s not true!” Marty frowns, offended, but he’s not sure he has the right to be. “I was all worked up about, like, responsibility and I felt and still kind of do feel really awful about it, but… I guess I was mostly just worried about what it meant for me. Like, what kind of person it makes me. And…”
”…You forgot that it impacts other people, too,” Paul finishes for him.
”I’m really sorry.”
”I don’t know if I can forgive you.”
Goosebumps prickle on Marty’s arms as his blood runs cold, but he’s only got himself to blame.
”I don’t know if I ever will.” Paul carries on, morose, and turns away from him to look at the door.
Muffled laughter can be heard from within.
“But…” he relents, “they’re okay. And you’re still here.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Marty proclaims, and for once it doesn’t feel like a lie.
Paul sighs. “I guess that has to count for something.”
The first light of dawn is appearing on the horizon, dark twilight of still transitioning night.
It has been a very, very long day, and he watches as the last of the fight drains from Paul, who continues to stare at the door beyond which their band remains whole.
“Just, Marty, please- actually talk to me next time.”
Next time. He’ll take that.
Marty nods once, firmly. “Promise.”