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That Stupid Fear of Thunder	By : Nightspore Category: 1 through F > Back To The Future Views: 8948 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Back to the Future series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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1) SOMETHING ISN'T RIGHT

Once
in a lifetime something happens no one understands,
Turns
the whole world inside out, turns water into blazing sand.
Who
would have guessed that when I first set eyes upon your face
History
would be rearranged and nothing would ever be the same?

"I still don't understand.
How am I supposed to go to the dance with her if she's already going with
you?"
clasclass=MsoNormal> As clumsy as he was, George had
a longer stride, and even though he was hauling a basket overflowing with damp
laundry, Marty had to jog to keep up. He'd been following in George's wake all
afternoon as he went about his dreary round of after school chores. Although he
had trienvinnvincing the other boy to forget the laundry and sneak off to the
cafe, but George wasn't going to bite. He was too frightened of Biff, too shy
of Lorraine.
"Because, George, she wants
to go with you." Marty tried to put as much conviction as he could into
his voice as he lied through his teeth. "She just doesn't know it.
T.
That's why we've got to show her that you, George McFly, are a fighter. You're
somebody who's gonna stand up for yourself, somebody who's gonna protect
her."
He didn't look particularly
convinced. "Yeah, but I've never picked a fight in my entire life."
He began hanging up the laundry on the line.
"Look, you're not going to
be picking a fight, Dad." Marty choked and sputtered. "Dad, dad . . .
daddio. You're coming to her rescue, right? Okay, let's go over the plan again.
Eight fifty-five. Where are you gonna be?"
He rolled his eyes and bowed
melodramatically, obviously sick to death of rehearsing the plan. "I'm
gonna be at the dance."
"Where am I gonna be?"
"You're gonna be in the
car, with her." He dutifully went back to hanging the laundry.
Marty nodded encouragingly.
"Right. Okay, so right around nine o'clock she's gonna get very angry with
me - "
"Why is she gonna get angry
with you," George interrupted.
Marty cleared his throat. He'd
left out this part when explaining it before. He didn't even like to think of
it very much himself. "Because, George," he said, "Nice girls
get angry when guys . . . take advantage of them."
George stared at him, aghast.
"Oh! You mean you're gonna go touch her on her - "
"No!" Marty yelped. He
snatched the bra that George was unknowingly flinging around as he gestured -
oh god, it must be his grandmother's! - and tossed it back in the laundry
basket. He tried to inject some false cheer into his voice. Ha-ha, it's all a game. He was trying
just as hard to convince himself as he was his future father. "No, George,
look. It's just an act, right? Ok, so, nine o'clock. You're strolling through
the parking lot. You see us, uh, struggling in the car. You walk up, you open
the door, and you say . . . "
Marty turned around. George was
gazing blankly up at the sky.
"Your line, George!"
"Oh!" witcwitched,
startl&quo"Ah . . . hey you, get your damn hands off of her." He
spread his arms wide, tah-dah, as if seeking applause. "Do you really
think I oughta swear?"
"Yes, definitely,
goddammit, George. Swear." Marty took him by the arm and forced him to
face him. "Ok, so now you come up, you punch me in the stomach. I'm out
for the count, right? And you and Lorraine live happily ever after."
Dreamily, he said, "You
make it sound so easy." His face fell. "I just, I wish I wasn't so
scared."
"George, there's nothing to
be scared of. All it takes is a little self confidence. You know, if you put
your mind to it, you can accomplish anything."
He still looked unsure. Marty
felt a cold little chill creep up from the base of his spine. Now, in 1955,
George was only seventeen, the same age as himself. But when he furrowed his
brow and set his downturned mouth, the lines in his face aged him eerily. In
thirty years the surgically sharp blades of failure and disappointment would
permanently carve those lines into his skin, giving him the same look of
perpetual worry as a shar-pei. "All right, tell you what, George. Gimmie a
shot, gimmie your best shot."
cla class=MsoNormal> He blinked stupidly, then
laughed. "No, I'm not gonna hit you in the stomach," he said, turning
away.
"C'mon, George, c'mon,
right here." He backed off and held his arms spread out invitingly, giving
him a clear shot.
He skipped up to Martd gad gave
him the lightest possible tap. "There, that was good. She'll believe that,
I know she will. I'm fine." He turned back to hanging up the laundry,
again the obedient son.
Marty stared at him in
disbelief. He'd seen Howdy Doody throw more convincing punches, and with better
coordination. "Tell you what, George." He strode up behind the other
boy and hit him as hard as he could in the arm. If he'd never been in a fight,
of course he wouldn't know how to throw a punch. Maybe if he could trigger some
sort of rage, George's instincts would kick in.
Instead, he merely looked sadly
at Marty, rubbing his arm. "Ow! Why'd you do that, Marty? That really
hurt."
Marty crouched like a boxer,
holding up his fists, bobbing and weaving. "It was supposed to hurt,"
he said, gritting his teeth. "Let's go."
He threw another punch, and
George stumbled aside. "Hey!"
"C'mon," he coaxed.
"Hit back! Hurt me, George."
"I don't want to," he
said, dodging away. "This is dumb. I'm not a fighter - quit it! - this'll
never work."
"Yes, it will," Marty
said, and grabbed his arm to pull him back into reach. He jerked away fearfully
but Marty had a good grip. The sef hif his blue poplin jacket ripped open at
the shoulder.
"Oh, now look what you did.
Mom's gonna be upset. She says I outgrow clothes too fast already."
"Are you mad at me now?" he asked in exasperation.
"Sort of," George
said, picking at a loose thread.
"Then fight back!"
Marty lunged at him, knocking him to the ground. George a good seven or eight
inches taller, but built light a scarecrow and totally unaccustomed to
defending himself. Marty, though, had always been the shortest boy in the
class, and was used to being picked on and shoved around just because of his
size. He'd long since learned to take advantage of his spend lnd lower center
of gravity. George sat down hard and Marty jumped on him, taking a fistful of
his shirt and pinning him down.
He struggled feebly, staring as
if he thought the other boy had suddenly gone insane. "What're you doing?
I thought you were my friend."
"C'mon, George," he
growled, sick of his whining, his weakness. He raised his free fist and shook
it threateningly. "Be a man! Defend yourself, hit me! I'm gonna hurt you
so hit me, hit me back!"
"All right!"
To Marty's shock, George
suddenly kneed him in the stomach, knocking the breath from him in a surprised whoooof. He rolled, throwing Marty to
the ground and sitting on his legs. He lifted him by the shoulders and slammed
him down, shaking him until his teeth rattled, then punched wildly at his head.
Unable to stop the reflex action, Marty flung his arm up to block it. George's
bony knuckles slammed into his wrist so hard his hand went numb.
Marty curled up, covering his
face. George was out of control. The other boy was much, much stronger than he
had expected - and he wasn't playfighting, either. His face was twisted and
brick red with rage, tears squeezing from his eyes as he screamed, "Does
this hurt? Does this hurt enough?"
"Yes, yes, it hurts!"
He suddenly went still. Marty
hesitantly uncovered his face. George looked dazed, distant, like someone who'd
been abruptly woken from a nightmare and didn't quite know where he was yet, or
if he was awake or still asleep. In a dull voice, he mumbled, "Oh. I'm
sorry."
Then he leaned over Marty, who
flinched, anticipating another crazed attack. The other boy was still red-faced
and panting heavily. But all he did was put his hands on either side of Marty's
head and lean down further. He took a deep breath.
Before he realized what was
happening and could stop him, George kissed him.
It was only the briefest touch
of lips, but Marty exploded. He put his hands on George's chest and shoved as
hard as he could. He sailed backwards, and Marty felt sick as he heard the
boy's head crack into the stone steps of the back porch.
Shaking too hard to stand up, he
crawled over to him. "George? George? Oh, god, wake up . . . "
He kneeled over the other boy
and gently slapped his cheek. George murmured something unintelligible, his
eyelids fluttering to reveal a blue-white crescent of sclera. He turned his
head, and Marty got a good look at the bright blood trickling through his dark
hair.
Great,
he thought. I'm trying to be encouraging and what do I? I ? I kick the living shit out of my own father.
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That Stupid Fear of Thunder