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I wrote fic! It's crappy fic, but I wrote it!
TITLE: "Match"
AUTHOR: Cathryn (askewnislasher@yahoo.com)
FANDOM: Back to the Future. Takes place post-trilogy.
PAIRING: implied 1955-era George/Marty
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: Of course a bus trip will bring the family closer together.
NOTES: Written for the contrelamontre public transportation challenge, although the actual transportation took (sorry) a backseat as I realized (far too late to start over) that I'd bitten off a bit more than I could chew. It took the full hour. I just barely squeaked out alive. Don't expect too much here, folks; this is the first fic I've managed to eke out in a year, and I took on way too many ideas to handle in the space of an hour.
DISCLAIMER: Back to the Future was created by Robert Zemeckis and Bob Gale. I wonder if they flipped a coin to decide who got be Bob.
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"So . . . why exactly are we taking the bus when we've got two perfectly good vehicles between the three of us? And why don't Linda and Dave have to come? I don't even need anything at the mall."
"We told you, Marty." Lorraine's long-suffering tone indicated just how many times they had told him. "We're people-watching. We're making an effort to see beyond our own noses to the world around us."
"Whatever."
The bus pulled up and Marty paused, obviously torn between the opportunity to stomp dramatically aboard and the fact that this would in fact mean that he was complying with his parents' wishes. He settled for carefully almost-but-not-quite pushing in front of George to step onto the bus behind Lorraine.
George paid the fees for the three of them, then headed down the aisle toward his family. He suppressed a sigh when he saw the seats Lorraine had carefully chosen - a little row of three, with the only available seat next to Marty. His son caught the minute hesitation and looked away, his expression shifting suddenly from sulky to unreadable. Hastily George sat down before Lorraine could catch this and glare at them both.
Logic dictated that Marty's recent and dramatic change in attitude should be chalked up to George. After all, he hadn't failed to notice that his father treated him differently, that he was colder and more remote with him than with his siblings. Any boy - and child - would resent that; George resented himself for it.
The bus lurched into motion, jolting the passengers. Marty's knee brushed against his; before he could stop himself, George jerked his leg away. He winced, but Marty either hadn't noticed or hadn't cared.
Which was one of the strange, unaccountable things about the apparent change in personality Marty seemed to have undergone in the past couple of months. Before, he had been a cheerful boy, as stable as a teenager could be - and when George would avoid looking up from his writing when curtly answering a question, or stiffen and draw back ever so slightly when Marty tried to hug him, the hurt inflicted was made all the more obvious by the attempts to conceal it.
Now, he was fragile and often seemed to be covering for confusion. His mood swung wildly between brittle contentment and intense anger and depression; his family and friends had long since given up trying to guess what would set him off. Yet, when George was cool to him, he no longer seemed to mind. In fact . . . and this was almost certainly wishful thinking, what else could it be? . . . he seemed to - to understand.
Not that he possibly could, of course. Even George didn't fully understand, and he was the one in possession of all the facts. He was sure they were the facts, even though Doc Brown had assured him more than once that George's memory was playing tricks on him, that there wasn't so much as a passing resemblance between Marty and the boy he'd been named for.
(George had always foud it curious that Doc Brown had no pictures of his long-dead nephew to back this assertion up. There had certainly been enough family portraits scattered around the Brown mansion. On the other hand, if there had existed such photos, Doc surely would have saved them from the fire, considering how heartbroken he'd been over the boy's death at sea.)
But he had never produced any evidence of this, and, well, he was getting older. George trusted his own memory more, and he knew - he knew - that there were no tricks his mind could play to make him forget a single detail of Marty Klein's face. He'd spent enough time that week surreptitiously studying that face, memorizing every contour and searching for a word to describe exactly the blue of those eyes. And even if they hadn't, the few hours they'd spent - together - the day of the dance would have seared the image into his mind.
And even though it wasn't possible, even though it couldn't be, the irrevocable fact remained - his son looked just like the boy he had loved once and never quite let go. And that scared the hell out of him. It wasn't Marty's fault and he didn't deserve to be punished for it, but George had nonethehess withdrawn once the resemblance couldn't be denied. Because, though he felt no draw toward his son now, the day might well come when a hug lasted too long, when a goodnight kiss got a bit too intimate. Far better to hurt the boy than to frighten him. Though now . . .
No. No, it was wishful thinking. Marty couldn't possibly understand that. There was no way he could know (although a very small but persistent part of George's mind insisted on reminding him that there was also no way such a resemblance could be so strong, and what a hell of a coincidence that was.)
(And never mind the fact that now he avoids physical contact with you, too . . .)
TITLE: "Match"
AUTHOR: Cathryn (askewnislasher@yahoo.com)
FANDOM: Back to the Future. Takes place post-trilogy.
PAIRING: implied 1955-era George/Marty
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: Of course a bus trip will bring the family closer together.
NOTES: Written for the contrelamontre public transportation challenge, although the actual transportation took (sorry) a backseat as I realized (far too late to start over) that I'd bitten off a bit more than I could chew. It took the full hour. I just barely squeaked out alive. Don't expect too much here, folks; this is the first fic I've managed to eke out in a year, and I took on way too many ideas to handle in the space of an hour.
DISCLAIMER: Back to the Future was created by Robert Zemeckis and Bob Gale. I wonder if they flipped a coin to decide who got be Bob.
.
.
.
"So . . . why exactly are we taking the bus when we've got two perfectly good vehicles between the three of us? And why don't Linda and Dave have to come? I don't even need anything at the mall."
"We told you, Marty." Lorraine's long-suffering tone indicated just how many times they had told him. "We're people-watching. We're making an effort to see beyond our own noses to the world around us."
"Whatever."
The bus pulled up and Marty paused, obviously torn between the opportunity to stomp dramatically aboard and the fact that this would in fact mean that he was complying with his parents' wishes. He settled for carefully almost-but-not-quite pushing in front of George to step onto the bus behind Lorraine.
George paid the fees for the three of them, then headed down the aisle toward his family. He suppressed a sigh when he saw the seats Lorraine had carefully chosen - a little row of three, with the only available seat next to Marty. His son caught the minute hesitation and looked away, his expression shifting suddenly from sulky to unreadable. Hastily George sat down before Lorraine could catch this and glare at them both.
Logic dictated that Marty's recent and dramatic change in attitude should be chalked up to George. After all, he hadn't failed to notice that his father treated him differently, that he was colder and more remote with him than with his siblings. Any boy - and child - would resent that; George resented himself for it.
The bus lurched into motion, jolting the passengers. Marty's knee brushed against his; before he could stop himself, George jerked his leg away. He winced, but Marty either hadn't noticed or hadn't cared.
Which was one of the strange, unaccountable things about the apparent change in personality Marty seemed to have undergone in the past couple of months. Before, he had been a cheerful boy, as stable as a teenager could be - and when George would avoid looking up from his writing when curtly answering a question, or stiffen and draw back ever so slightly when Marty tried to hug him, the hurt inflicted was made all the more obvious by the attempts to conceal it.
Now, he was fragile and often seemed to be covering for confusion. His mood swung wildly between brittle contentment and intense anger and depression; his family and friends had long since given up trying to guess what would set him off. Yet, when George was cool to him, he no longer seemed to mind. In fact . . . and this was almost certainly wishful thinking, what else could it be? . . . he seemed to - to understand.
Not that he possibly could, of course. Even George didn't fully understand, and he was the one in possession of all the facts. He was sure they were the facts, even though Doc Brown had assured him more than once that George's memory was playing tricks on him, that there wasn't so much as a passing resemblance between Marty and the boy he'd been named for.
(George had always foud it curious that Doc Brown had no pictures of his long-dead nephew to back this assertion up. There had certainly been enough family portraits scattered around the Brown mansion. On the other hand, if there had existed such photos, Doc surely would have saved them from the fire, considering how heartbroken he'd been over the boy's death at sea.)
But he had never produced any evidence of this, and, well, he was getting older. George trusted his own memory more, and he knew - he knew - that there were no tricks his mind could play to make him forget a single detail of Marty Klein's face. He'd spent enough time that week surreptitiously studying that face, memorizing every contour and searching for a word to describe exactly the blue of those eyes. And even if they hadn't, the few hours they'd spent - together - the day of the dance would have seared the image into his mind.
And even though it wasn't possible, even though it couldn't be, the irrevocable fact remained - his son looked just like the boy he had loved once and never quite let go. And that scared the hell out of him. It wasn't Marty's fault and he didn't deserve to be punished for it, but George had nonethehess withdrawn once the resemblance couldn't be denied. Because, though he felt no draw toward his son now, the day might well come when a hug lasted too long, when a goodnight kiss got a bit too intimate. Far better to hurt the boy than to frighten him. Though now . . .
No. No, it was wishful thinking. Marty couldn't possibly understand that. There was no way he could know (although a very small but persistent part of George's mind insisted on reminding him that there was also no way such a resemblance could be so strong, and what a hell of a coincidence that was.)
(And never mind the fact that now he avoids physical contact with you, too . . .)
