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Chapter Text

If there was one thing twenty-seven-year-old Wilson Percival Higgsbury wished he had, it was more time.

Working several jobs to pay off his student loans, interning at Shanter University as a student professor, trying to squeeze in his science in his spare time, on top of now maybe almost going to the next level with his friend-maybe-girlfriend Willow—he was lucky he had any time to sleep.

Thank goodness he didn't have to worry too hard about rent.

Of course, if the current owner didn't show up soon, Wilson would probably have to hork up the house payment—or at least the utility bill, before the electricity was cut off.

Wilson nabbed a slice of toast as he eyed the wall of clocks.  At least he wasn't the only one around obsessed with time.  Let's see…seven forty. He had time.

Among other things, Wilson quite enjoyed music, and was working on teaching himself how to play various instruments.  His favorite so far had been an alto trumpet, but a close second had to be the electric guitar—as ungentlemanly as it was, it afforded quite a variety of playing methods.  Plus, he could do some mighty fine CCR riffs on it.

He hooked up his amp to the stereo, turned the volume up, and struck a chord on his guitar.

And was subsequently blown through the partition.

"Wow," he coughed.  "Rock and roll."

He climbed out of the detritus with the intent of fishing through the remains of the stereo and finding out what went wrong when the alarm bell rung.

That setup had been startling the first time Wilson had heard it, but after getting immersed in his experiments a few times too often, he had to admit the wisdom of attaching the telephone to an alarm bell.  He scrambled over to it and answered.

"Hello, Carter residence," he said distractedly into the receiver, brushing some dust off of himself.  "Professor Carter is unavailable at the moment—this is Professor Higgsbury, may I take a message?"

"Say, pal, you don't sound so good."

"Max!" Wilson blurted before he recovered.  "Professor, where have you been?"

"Working. It's a nice activity—you should try it sometime."

"You certainly haven't been working around here then," Wilson said irritably.  "The University's seriously considering revoking your tenure, and I'm fairly certain the house is a week away from going black."

"That reminds me—be careful with the stereo; there's a slight chance of overload."

Wilson looked at the ruined contraption.  "I'll try to keep that in mind."

Professor Carter's next comment was cut off by the wall of clocks all bonging the three-quarter hour.

"What was that?" Professor Carter asked.

"Your clocks," Wilson moaned, rubbing his ear.

"Really?  What time is it?"

Wilson looked up.  "Seven forty-five.  Why?"

"On all of them?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Perfect!  I was trying to see if I could sync them all an hour behind.  It worked like a charm!"

Wilson's stomach felt cold.  "Hold it, Professor—are you telling me that it's eight forty-five?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Thanks a lot!" Wilson yelled into the receiver.  "I'm late for work!"

He slammed the phone and bolted for the door.

Even pedaling as fast as he could and taking all the shortcuts he could, it still took him ten minutes to get to Shanter University.  He locked up his bike as fast as he could and ran up the steps as the door opened—

Willow Ember Burnshigh came out and caught him, turning him around.

"There you are!" she scolded.  "Don't go that way—Professor Strickland is looking for you.  He catches you coming in late, he'll skin you alive."

"That'll go nicely with that deer head mounted on his wall," Wilson commented.

"What are you doing so late anyway?"

"Professor Carter changed the time on all his clocks—"

A cane snapped across his chest, blocking his progress and forcing his attention to the shorter Professor Strickland.

"Professor Carter," Strickland noised.  "I should have guessed.  He's a bad influence on you, Mr. Higgsbury."

"Doctor Higgsbury," Wilson corrected.

"Please, you're no more a doctor than dean of this school," Strickland said, jotting something down.  "You're late, Mr. Higgsbury—you've been late every day this week!"

"Actually, there was a reason for that—"

"Which no one wants to hear.  You either straighten up, Mr. Higgsbury, or so help me, you are out!  You don't have tenure covering your ascot like Carter does!"

And with that, he stormed off.

"That went well," Willow commented.

"No, Miss Willow," Wilson noised, watching him go.  "The Hindenburg went well.  That—went off like an atomic bomb."

Willow made a tsking noise before checking her watch.  "Listen, I've got to go—Mrs. Wickerbottom will have my hide if I don't get back to shelving books.  I'll see you later, okay?"

"Sure, sure," Wilson said, waving goodbye as she dashed off.  So much for asking her for a romantic evening alone later.

He breezed into class, distracted—

In time to see something he wasn't ready for.

"What is this?" he squawked.  "Put some clothes on this instant unless you want to see your GPA flushed down the loo!  Out!  Out!"

That squared away, he turned to his students.

"Honestly, we have standards at this school," he scolded, reaching up to pull the other chalkboard down.  "So today we're going to discuss—"

He read the chalkboard.  "'Da Vinci and the art of figure sketching,'" he read.  "This isn't my class, is it?"

Chapter Text

After classes were over, Wilson walked his bike over to where Willow was waiting, by the school sign.

"And how are you this fine evening?" he asked upon arrival.

"Fine," Willow said, flicking her lighter.  "I'm going to a thing at the fire company later."

"You do realize that we don't live in Fahrenheit 451, correct?  The fire companies don't start fires in real life."

"A girl can dream."

Speaking of dreams…but he didn't want to rush it…but at the same time…."I was wondering—"

"That's dangerous."

"If you'd be interested in going out."

She stared at him.

"With me….On a date," he finished lamely.

Willow had an odd look on her face.  Wilson dreaded her answer.

"Save the clock tower!"

That—wasn't it, as a flyer shoved in his face told him.

"Asgard demands that the clock tower be preserved!  It was touched by Thor thirty years ago!  It must stand as a testament!"

"Hello, Wigfrid," Wilson muttered, pulling the flyer away from his face.

The Viking-garbed actress rattled a tin under his nose—she must have been between gigs, to be volunteering for the city's preservation committee.  "We must honor Thor's wishes," she pressed.

"He's Thor?" Willow asked, grinning, as Wilson fished his wallet out.

"Well, it hurts," Wilson jibed, dropping a five into the tin.  Her task completed, Wigfrid went after the next poor sap, proclaiming about the clock tower while waving her axe around.  Wilson was about thirty-seven percent sure it was a fake tool.

"So what were we talking about before that happened?" Willow asked.

"Uh," Wilson noised.  "Possible…dating…thing?"

Willow flicked her lighter open.

"Or we couldn't," Wilson said hurriedly.  "No reason to bother with it—forget I even brought it up."

Willow considered him for a long moment.

"Let me see that flyer," she commanded suddenly.  Wilson handed it to her.

She put away her lighter, fished out a pen, and wrote something on it.

She handed it back to him—she had written a phone number.

"Call me when you make up your mind," she declared.

And with that, she kissed him on the cheek and flounced off.

Wilson stood there for a good five minutes, white noise dominating his brain.

When he recovered, he leapt onto his bike, pedaling home as fast as he could, singing Huey Lewis' new hit "The Power of Love" at the top of his lungs.

"Don't take money," he sang, cruising onto Klei Street.  "Don't take fame, don't need no credit card to ride this train—" he flung his hands out as he stood on the pedals.  "It's strong and it's sudden, and it's cruel sometimes—but it might just save your life!"  He made the turn to the house.  "That's the power of—oh, great jumping ions, not you."

The mook in question was leaning against a Corvette, smoking.  Ugh. Wilson hated the smell—he had learned to ignore Professor Carter's smoking cigars over the years, an action made much easier once he found a gas mask to wear (which the professor had found hilarious), but smoking in general disgusted him.

Seeing the inside of a smoker's lung during Anatomy class had done nothing to improve his opinion.

It certainly did nothing to improve the appearance of Biff Tannen.

"Where have you been, you knucklehead?" Biff spat, tossing his cigarette.  Wilson stamped it out quickly—with the drought and the burn ban, he did not need a smoldering fire near the house.

"I'm sorry," Wilson said, voice dripping with sarcasm.  "I missed the part where you're playing the role of my mother."

He moved to the door as fast as he could, Biff hot on his heels.

"Listen nerd," Biff snarled.  "My bosses are wanting this whole block, and you goons are the only ones holding out—"

"Well, I have news for you," Wilson said.  "The house isn't in my name—you'll have to take it up with Professor Carter when he comes back."

"You've said that every day, and he's been gone for a month!"

"Then I suppose you can't complete your hostile takeover of the block, now can you?  Good day."

He slipped in the house, pulled his bike in behind him, and slammed the door before Biff could react.

Ugh.  Annoying, smug realtor who thought he could walk all over him—some people, he reflected, did not need the power they were given.

If only someone would knock him down a few pegs.

Chapter Text

Wilson was jolted from sleep by the telephone ringing.

He groaned, pulled himself out of the odd contortion that he had managed while sleeping on the couch, and plucked the receiver off the cradle.

"Hello, Carter residence," he muttered, rubbing his face.  "Professor Carter is unavailable at the moment—this is Professor Higgsbury, may I take a message?"

"Say, pal, do you have a recording of that you play or what?"

Wilson sat up.  "Professor Carter!  What are you doing calling at—" he checked his watch.  "Two o' clock in the morning!?"

"I told you I was going to call!"

"No you didn't!"

"Yes I did—oh wait, you didn't hear me over the clocks.  No matter—get your rear end over to the Twin Pines Mall.  And bring the video camera."

"Professor—"

Click.

Wilson glared at the receiver.

"Of course, Professor," Wilson muttered, hanging up.  "Because I don't have anything better to do at the moment."

He laid back down on the couch with the intention of going back to sleep.

The phone rang.

Wilson answered it without getting up.  "Hello, Carter residence.  Professor Carter is unavailable at the moment—this is Professor Higgsbury, may I take a message?"

"In case I wasn't clear about you getting up and getting over here—"

An airhorn blared from the receiver, jolting Wilson off the couch.

Thirty minutes later, Wilson pedaled into the Twin Pines Mall parking lot, camera slung across his shoulder.  It was abandoned except for what looked like a FedEx truck without the FedEx—Wilson figured that was where Professor Carter must be.

"Hello?" Wilson called, jumping off his bike and walking it over to the van.  Huh, it was bigger than he guessed—like a hauler, maybe?  "Professor Carter?"

"Arf!"

"Hullo, Chester," Wilson greeted, pausing to pet the shaggy orange dog.  For as long as he had known the professor, he had had a dog exactly like the one he was petting.  He had no idea how he did it, but when the last dog died, he had gone out and come back the next day with a duplicate.  Wilson suspected cloning.

"So where's your master?" Wilson asked, walking around the hauler-van to its back.  "Where's—"

The hauler door opened, and something approximating a spaceship rolled out of it.

"Uh," Wilson noised, because he didn't know what else to say.

Wait—he recognized the car.  He had seen it in a magazine not too long ago.  It was….A DeLorean.  That's what it was.

Although if he recalled correctly, it didn't have all those knickknacks on the back.

And then the driver side door opened, and Professor Carter unfolded himself from the interior and stood.

"Say, pal, you ought to close your mouth before a fly gets in there."

Professor William Maxwell Carter never referred to anyone by name—everyone was pal, no matter what.  Wilson had the feeling it was because he couldn't be bothered to remember anyone's name.

"Let me get this straight," Wilson said, pointing at the car.  "This couldn't wait until a reasonable hour?"

"Cars park here at reasonable hours," Professor Carter said, whistling for Chester.  "Get in there, boy!"

Chester obliged, jumping into the DeLorean's driver seat.  "Let me guess," Wilson said.  "You taught the dog how to drive."

"Ha ha.  Did you bring the camera?"

"Yes—"

"Then why aren't you taping?"

"Because I have no idea what I'm filming," Wilson sighed, turning the camera on and shouldering it.  "All right, you're recording.  Now explain why I'm missing my beauty sleep."

"A hundred years of sleeping won't cure that face.  Anyway, Temporal Displacement experiment number One.  Camera here," he added, directing attention to a stopwatch he had and holding it next to a stopwatch around Chester's neck.  "Please note that the time on my watch is the same as the one on Chester."

"Noted," Wilson replied duly, as Professor Carter snatched a remote control box off the dash and closed the door.  He walked away, indicating that Wilson follow.

"So that's where my model airplane's controls went," Wilson said, looking at the controls.

"It's for science—you'll get over it," Professor Carter said, fiddling with it.

The DeLorean pulled away, turned, and zoomed off down the lot.

"You invented a remote-controlled car?" Wilson guessed.

"Keep watching," Professor Carter muttered.  "Are you filming?"

"Yes, yes…."

The DeLorean reached the end of the lot and swung around, facing them.

Professor Carter paused for a moment to light one of his habitual cigars.  "By my calculations," he muttered around the cigar.  "When this thing hits eighty-eight miles per hour, you will see some serious fireworks."

Wilson nodded, indicating he get on with it.  It wasn't that he disliked science—far from it.  And it wasn't that he wasn't the sort to keep working on science until late at night—it just bugged him that Professor Carter was being so purposefully vague.  "Are you going to tell me what the experiment is?"

"No, I'm going to show you.  Ready—"

He flipped a switch while holding a button down.

Far away, the DeLorean's back tires began to spin and smoke.

"Set—"

The back of the car was beginning to swerve back and forth.

"Go!"

He took his finger off the button, and the DeLorean sped off.

Straight towards them—

Wilson tried to bolt, but Professor Carter held him in place.

"Keep filming," he commanded.

"Professor," Wilson said—the car was eighty feet from them.  "It's heading right for us—" Fifty feet.  "I think you ought to adjust its course—" Forty feet.  "Professor—" Thirty feet.  "Max!"

Twenty feet—

The car started sparking and spitting, blue lightning arcing along it—

Ten feet—

Nine—

Eight—

Seven—

The car glowed—

And then vanished, leaving two flaming tire treads behind.

Wilson stayed where he was, frozen in place, not quite comprehending what had just happened and how he was still alive.

Professor Carter was a different story.

"What did I tell you!" he crowed, jumping up and down with one hand on Wilson's shoulder, eyes only for the readout attached to his remote.  "Eighty-eight miles per hour!"

Wilson finally blinked and looked down, just in time to see the license plate from the car finish spinning around and fall to the ground.  Outta-Time, it read.  He reached down to pick it up—

And let go of it with a yelp.  The thing was boiling hot!

He looked to where Professor Carter was still dancing about with glee.  "What are you so happy about?" Wilson asked, hopelessly lost.  "You just disintegrated Chester!"

"No I didn't!" Professor Carter said, hustling over to Wilson.  "Chester and the car are both entirely intact."

"Then where are they!?"

"The more accurate question would be 'When are they?'  Chester has just become the world's first time traveler!"

Wilson blinked, the statement sinking in.  "Do what?"

"I sent him into the future," Professor Carter explained, tapping the remote.  "One minute into the future to be exact.  We'll be catching up to him in about thirty seconds."

Wilson continued to stare.  "Wait—you made a time machine…out of a DeLorean?"

"I figure I might as well do it with some style," Professor Carter said, taking the cigar out of his mouth and gesturing with it.  "Besides, the stainless steel—" his watch beeped.  "Oop—gotta move."

He hauled Wilson away from the tire treads—

Just in time for the DeLorean to come flashing back into existence.

Wilson and Professor Carter stared as it skidded to a halt, silently smoking.

Wilson filmed as Professor Carter went over to the door, gingerly grabbed the handle—

"Gyah!"

"What?" Wilson asked, concerned.  "Is it hot?"

"No, it's freezing!"

It occurred to Wilson why the DeLorean seemed off-color—it was coated with ice.

Professor Carter hitched his foot up and levered the handle open with the toe of his wingtip.

The door swung open, revealing Chester looking hale and hearty.  Wilson jogged forward, camera ready, as Professor Carter held the two stopwatches side by side.

"Look at that—his watch is precisely a minute behind mine," Professor Carter said.  "That's because the time machine enabled him to skip over the previous minute."

Wilson's earlier fatigue was completely forgotten—he was completely taken with the idea of an operable time machine.  "How does it work?"

"Look—Chester, out—good boy."  Professor Carter occupied the seat Chester had recently vacated, indicating that Wilson bring the camera closer.  Wilson obliged.  "There are three readouts here on this, the time circuits," he explained, pointing at a line of digital numbers on a device that had replaced the radio.  "This tells you what time you're in, this one tells you when you're going, this one tells you when you've been.  It's operated by the flux capacitor, back here—" he thumbed over his shoulder, showing a device with a glowing Y in the middle, taking up most of the backseat.  "Here—put in any date you want: the signing of the Declaration of Independence, the start of the Civil War, the Birth of Christ—"

"April 23, 2013?"

Professor Carter looked at him.  "Why that date?"

"It just sticks out in my mind."

Professor Carter shook his head.  "Here—here's a landmark date."  He punched in a number—11-05-1955.

"What happened then?" Wilson asked, noting Professor Carter's odd expression.

"November 5th, 1955—I remember that day."  He made to get out of the car, prompting Wilson to step back.  "I was hanging up a clock in the bathroom, slipped, fell, hit my head—"

"I had always suspected."

"And when I came to, I had the idea for the flux capacitor—the very thing that makes time travel possible."  He looked around.  "I haven't thought about it in years….This all used to be farmland—it was run by old man Lief….He had this crazy idea about breeding pine trees."

Wilson allowed for a few moments of reminiscing before speaking.  "So now what?"

"We refuel and try it with a person inside.  Come on—we've got to get suited up."

"For what?" Wilson asked, following him to the hauler.

"I don't think you want to glow in the dark, do you?"

"What?"

Chapter Text

Plutonium.

The bloody thing ran on plutonium.

"Let me get this straight," Wilson said, once it was safe to take the protective gear off.  He flipped his face mask off so he could be understood better.  "This thing is nuclear?"

"Well, the flux capacitor is nuclear," Professor Carter explained.  "I needed something with a little more kick to produce the 1.21 gigawatts needed for the time travel to take place."

"I'm sorry—how much?"

"Did I stutter?"

"Now wait a minute!" Wilson griped, lowering the camera so he could gesture more effectively.  "You don't just walk into the corner store and buy plutonium!  You ripped that off, didn't you?" he added, filled with a certain level of dread.

"Just a little," Professor Carter admitted.  "Somewhere, there's some goons with a fake bomb made entirely of used pinball parts.  Now if you'll excuse me—" he put a suitcase in the boot of the car.  "I don't know if they have sensible clothes in the future just yet."

"Wait—you're leaving now?  What about Chester?  What about the house?  What about that honking pile of ungraded papers and unpaid bills on your desk?"

"Don't worry, I'll be back before you know it," Professor Carter said.  "I'll just have my destination set to precisely when I leave—it'll be like I never left.  And I'll be nice and bring back the winners of the next thirty World Series—then the lovely Professor Strickland can kiss my—"

"Max, be serious."

"Fine.  Am I forgetting anything?"

"Money?  Gas?  Wait—the thing does run on gas, right?"

"The car part does, yes—oop!  Almost forgot some plutonium for the return trip."

"What, you think it'll be like that Australian film and no fuel in the future?  I'm sure plutonium will be in every five-and-dime in thirty years."

"Not unless they enjoy not needing lightbulbs.  And besides, how much can the human race possibly get done in thirty years?"

"Might I introduce you to the Industrial Revolution?"

"Unless we're due for a second one, you'll notice that technology seems to have stabilized a bit.  What, Chester?" Professor Carter snapped, finally directing his attention to the dog that had been barking for several minutes now.

Wilson glanced at the dog—

"Oh no," Professor Carter muttered.

"What?" Wilson asked, looking back at him.

He was surprised to see the normally even-keeled professor looking terrified.  "They found me," he muttered.  "I don't know how, but they found me."

Wilson glanced around frantically—a black sedan was pulling into the lot.  "Who?"

"Who do you think?  Run Wilson!"

Any question as to why was quickly absolved when the bullets started flying.

Wilson dove for the pavement, Professor Carter dashed for the hauler—the sedan was coming closer, and then Professor Carter was trying to shoot back with a small handgun—

And the man with the uzi gunned him down.

Wilson was aware of a horrible scream and his throat burning.  It took a few precious moments to connect the noise with the pain in his throat.

And in those few precious moments, the goons in the van spotted him.

Wilson recognized their general appearance—minions of the local crime boss, the sleaze known as the Shadow Man.  Why, why, why didn't Professor Carter try to steal from someone who wasn't local?  Libyans, perhaps?

The goon pointed the gun at him—Wilson braced for the end—

It didn't come.

The gun jammed.

Wilson took the opportunity and dove for the first open cover.

The DeLorean.

He spared one final pained glance back at Professor Carter's lifeless form before pulling the door shut and practically standing on the gas.

The car took off like a shot.

The sedan followed.

Wilson wasn't sure about the get-up-and-go of a DeLorean, but he was certain the sedan was catching up with no problem.  He hooked the car around a hairpin turn, causing them to overshoot and decelerate.

"All right then," he muttered.  "Let's see you do ninety," he added, with a bit more eloquence included.

He gunned the engine and tore off, eyes only for the exit ramp.

The sedan was right after him.

He swore, glancing down at the speedometer—sixty, seventy—

Eighty—

Eighty-eight—

And then a tremendous flash of light—a pure white-out—

And he drove right into a barn.

Chapter Text

Woodie was certain, in all his twelve years of life, that he had never seen or heard anything like it.

Neither had his father, Lief, who was peering into the barn at the airplane without wings.

But Woodie had seen something similar, come to think of it—which was why he was tearing back to the barn with his comic book clutched tightly in hand.

"That's no airplane!" he declared, holding up his Zombie Invaders from Mars comic up for his parents' perusal.

About that time, something exited the airplane—now identified as a spaceship.

And it was dressed just like an alien.

"It's going to hypnotize us for its feathered rulers!" Woodie exclaimed.  "Shoot it! Shoot it!"

His father did so, prompting it to dive back into its spaceship and fly off, striking one of the pine saplings as it did so.

"My pines!" his father wailed.

Woodie, meanwhile, was planning how he'd tell his classmates about how they single-handedly averted an avian alien invasion.

It took a few miles before Wilson had calmed down enough to ease off the gas somewhat.

About that time, he noticed that he didn't recognize the area.  What was all this, farmland?  He had been in suburbia!

"Okay, calm down, Wilson," he muttered, glancing about for some direction.  "You're just having a dream.  A really…vivid…dream…."

He stopped, uncomprehending; stepped out of the car for a better look.

Lyon Estates.  Willow lived here—he had escorted her home a few times, after late-night study sessions meant she'd get home after dark.

There was no Lyon Estates.

There was a sign advertising its impending construction, and the entrance pylons, and a few pieces of equipment—but that was it.  Nothing but field as far as the eye could see.

Wilson stared at the approximate location of Willow's house for a good few minutes.  How was this possible?

He heard a car and looked around, ran for the road and hailed it.  "Excuse me, but I need some help—" he began.

"Don't stop, Wilbur!" he heard the woman exclaim.

The car sped off.

Wilson stared at it—it was unfamiliar…no wait—he had seen one before, at an antiques car show—Professor Carter had drooled over it—a Cadillac, he recalled.  A late-'40s model used in racing.

So where was the vintage tag?

"This is not good," Wilson observed.

He glanced down, feeling dazed—he was still wearing the radiation suit.  He sloughed it off, went back to the DeLorean to throw it in the passenger seat—

He caught a glimpse of something on the dash.

These are the time circuits— this tells you what time you're in, this one tells you when you're going, this one tells you when you've been—

No. No way—he hadn't—

When this thing hits eighty-eight miles per hour—

They had put fresh plutonium in—

This thing is nuclear?

But he hadn't—

Let's see you do ninety.

"Oh," Wilson moaned as it sank in. "Oh no."

Chapter Text

He had hidden the DeLorean and left his so-called "futuristic" gear in the passenger seat.  He retained his breezy vest, however—it was still fall here.

He was still in Shanter, right?

"Think, Wilson," he muttered—he was often in the habit of talking to himself when he was alone, and the long hike to civilization did indeed promise to be a lonely one.  Where was everybody?  "Say, just for a minute, that you really did go back in time—so how do you get home?"

The obvious route would have been to refuel the DeLorean—but no, Professor Carter hadn't had the chance to put that case of plutonium in—

Professor Carter….

"Now stop it," Wilson chided.  "You're not thinking fourth-dimensionally, Dr. Higgsbury—if you really have gone back in time, he's still alive."

And if he hadn't—

Well, he could get used to the absence, he supposed.  He certainly wouldn't miss the cigar smell.

Wilson sighed as he continued on his journey.

He didn't think he could handle solitude again.

Upon finally reaching Shanter proper, Wilson was forced to admit the difference.

For one, everything was much, much cleaner—and soda parlors and old cars and gas service?  The new Pat Boone record being advertised?

Bong—

The clock tower was working?

Someone threw a newspaper into a trash bin.  Wilson promptly fished it back out and checked the date.

November 5th, 1955.

"Oh boy," he muttered.

He walked into the soda parlor with the intention of getting something to drink and reevaluating his strategy.

"Hello?" he asked, directing the…soda jerk?  Was that what they were called?  Directing his attention over to Wilson.

"What, did you just jump ship?" the soda jerk asked.

"Huh?" Wilson asked, confused.

"The life preserver."

Wilson looked down at his breezy vest—well, yes, it did kind of resemble a life jacket…."Well…no…."

"Never mind," the soda jerk said, waving him off.  "What'll you have?"

Good question.  "Can I have a Tab?"

"How?  You haven't ordered anything yet!"

"No, not a tab—Tab is a soda…that causes cancer, actually," Wilson muttered, remembering the study he had read.  "What's that other one—Pepsi Free?"

"If you want a Pepsi you have to pay for it, pal."

The use of the familiar reference prompted Wilson to drop the soda from the jerk's title.  "Water!  Do you have that?"

"We have a water fountain."

"Can I have a glass with ice in it?"

"That'll be a nickel."

Oi.  Wilson pulled out his wallet—

Oh boy.

He went to his change pocket and began frantically searching for change with older dates on them—no need to inadvertently introduce a paradox, for crying out loud!

"What, can't you count?" the jerk asked.

He finally found several pennies from the early 1950s and handed them over.

"That answers that question," the jerk said, counting out his change and handing it over.

Wilson took the change and the glass, filled up the glass at the fountain, and sat at a booth with the intention of trying to figure something out.

First order of business—try to find Professor Carter in this timeline.  If he was living in Shanter in 1955—wait, he had to be—he had referenced the area and how it looked, hadn't he?

But did he even live on the same street?  Was the street the same name?  Names changed, after all—he was fairly certain JFK Drive wasn't called that in 1955.

The best choice would be to check a phone book—which were normally in phone booths.  There was a phone booth over there.

It took him a full minute to realize he was afraid of going over there and checking.

He slapped himself upside the head—eliciting a strange look from the jerk at the counter—and crossed over to the phone booth and locked himself in.  Let's see—oh thank goodness, there was a phone book—he wasn't looking forward to trying to figure out party lines or operators.  He could just imagine how that conversation would go—Excuse me, do you know if a Professor Carter lives in this county?

He found the C's—Carter, M + C.

Wilson allowed himself a moment to wonder if Professor Carter had registered Chester into the phone book, then another moment to wonder why he had registered using his middle name.  Oi—what if it was the wrong Carter?  But there were no other Carters listed….

Wilson muttered a small apology before ripping the page out—no time for asking for a pen and paper or anything else.  He had to get the time machine fixed and get back to his own time before he caused one doozy of a paradox.

Well, besides the one he was probably going to cause anyway.

He exited the phone booth—made a beeline for the door—

And was blocked by someone he most certainly didn't expect to see.

"Biff?" Wilson squawked.

Chapter Text

Biff Tannen was much younger, obviously—late teens, if Wilson had to guess.

And captain of the football team, if the way he towered over Wilson was any way to judge—and nothing but muscle compared to Wilson's willowy frame.

"What are you lookin' at, butthead?" Biff snarled.

Wilson bit back the flip response of not much—he wasn't looking forward to paying another nickel for ice to put on a black eye.

"Excuse me," Wilson muttered, standing to the side.  Please, get away from the door and let me bolt—

No dice—Biff followed him, in turn followed by what looked like the rest of the football team.  Oh boy….

"I don't think I will," Biff said, poking Wilson in the chest with his forefinger.  "I don't like you.  I don't like your attitude, and I don't like your hair."

"A true pity—"

"Hey, Biff, look at this," one of the other goons said, tugging at Wilson's vest.  "Dork thinks he's gonna drown."

"Why don't we find a short pier for him to take a long walk off of?" one of the others asked.

"Oh, I don't want to put you to that much trouble," Wilson said, edging towards the door.  "You stay here—tell the jerk to put everything on my tab—and I'll go find one for you and walk off it."

It was brilliant—his former experience with the older Biff was showing itself to be just as relevant.  Talk fast enough, and he couldn't keep up.

Wilson was out the door and running before Biff and his goons caught on and gave chase.

Oh please let me have enough of a head start, Wilson begged.

A car engine gunning alerted him to his error.

Wilson yelped in alarm and spun midair to see Biff bearing down on him in a big black shiny car.

He dodged down a side street—Biff had to correct his overshoot—

"Kid!  Kid!" Wilson yelled, catching up to a pair of kids wearing coon hats.  "I need to borrow your bike—thanks!"

He pedaled off before the kid could react.

Add stealing a bike to your growing list of misdemeanors, Wilson thought, pedaling for all he was worth.

He felt the heat of the grill before he felt the bump—not enough to send him spinning.  No, Biff was playing with him now, if his cohort's laughter was anything to judge by.

Wilson saw an opportunity and seized it, using the bike's smaller size to squeeze between a car and a—

Crash!

Manure truck.

Wilson paused down the street to see the result.  Oh-ho! Not only had Biff totaled his own car, but also the car next to him and the truck, filling both with the truck's contents.  Wilson couldn't help but laugh.

"You know what they say about the guy that laughs first?"

Wilson turned—

To stare down a gun barrel.

"They never laugh last," the guy holding the gun said.

Chapter Text

During all those episodes of Happy Days with Willow, being pistol-whipped had never happened to Ritchie Cunningham.  It most certainly never happened to the Fonz.

Wilson wondered what made him so special.

"That was a cute trick you pulled," the guy said—he was shorter than Wilson by a head, but that didn't matter when he had a huge goon behind him and a gun in his hand.  "But it stopped being so cute when you made that guy t-bone my car."

Ah.

"Well," Wilson began.

"Shut up."

Okay then—there was nothing for it.

Wilson pointed.  "Great jumping ions!  What is that?"

Wilson was honestly surprised when the goons fell for it, but wasted no time in pedaling out of there.

For the second time that day, he was shot at.

And for the second time that day, he was being pursued by goons in a car.

Third for each, if you think fourth-dimensionally, he thought.

It didn't make him feel better.

He sped through a narrow drive—he was in what must have been suburbia back then but was old neighborhood in 1985—spat out the other end—

And was struck by a car.

Wilson's professional opinion during his brief flight was that his landing was going to hurt.

It did.

He was dimly aware of a car pulling up, a car door opening—

"Aw, cripes.  Charlie!  Another one of those stupid kids jumped in front of the car!"

That—didn't make any sense.  Didn't they mean to hit him?

"Hey!  Hey you!" the same guy said—he was vaguely aware of the car pulling away—they must have figured he was dead.

Wilson tried to lift his head—

Then promptly proceeded to faint.

Before he blacked out completely, he was marginally aware of someone standing over him and saying a very familiar phrase.

"Say, pal, you don't look so good."

And then he thought no more.

Chapter Text

Wilson slowly swam back to consciousness.

"Don't move," a voice chided—female—a nurse?  "That's a nasty bump on your head."

"Thick-skulled," he slurred, remembering one of Professor Carter's jabs—oh goody, his long-term memory still worked; now for the short-term.  "Bad dream…dreamt I went back in time…nearly hit a cow…."

"Well, the good news is, you're safe and sound now, back in good old nineteen-fifty-five."

Wilson was wide awake in a split-second.  "Nineteen fifty-five!?"

He bolted upright as the lady turned the light on.

"Hi," he breathed—he didn't have the faculties to say much else at the moment.

Wilson Percival Higgsbury could count on one hand the number of times he had fallen in love with a woman on sight.  His piano teacher in grade school and his maths teacher in high school were two.  Grace Kelly was another, after Professor Carter made him watch High Society.  Willow, of course—it had taken him a while to actually admit it, because honestly, love at first sight was a bunch of foolishness.

This woman rounded out that handful.  Round face, big soulful eyes, a mouth that could split into a grin or form a pout with equal ease, dark hair done artfully in a bun around a flower—

Wilson depressed himself by recalling he was thirty years in the past—by the time he'd be old enough, she'd be in her fifties, by the looks of her.  And married, from a glance at her finger—scratch all that.

"Are you okay?" she asked, bemused.

"I'm…ah…sorry," he muttered, blushing.  "I wasn't expecting…."  He glanced around, seeking a different subject.  "Where am I?"

"You're in my house—I live here with my husband."

Something big and orange jumped on Wilson.  "And my dog," the lady added.  "My name is Charlie—what's yours?"

"Wil—ah," he swallowed the last half of his name—no need to further screw up the time-space continuum.  "Chester," he decided finally, looking at the dog.

The dog promptly licked him in the face.  Charlie laughed.

"What's so funny?" Wilson spluttered.

"It's just—the dog's name is Chester," Charlie explained.

"This dog?"

"No, the one down the corner.  Yes, that dog.  Chester, down.  Good boy!"

A big shaggy dog named Chester.  Huh.

"Come on," Charlie said, pulling on his arm so he'd stand.  "I'll make you some tea."

"So, Will, how long have you been in port?"

"Huh?" Wilson asked, following her down the hall and the steps.

"Your life vest—you're a sailor, right?"

"Uh…sort of," Wilson noised, fishing in his pockets.  "Say, do you know where…."  He trailed off as he fished the pilfered phone book page out of his pocket and scanned it.  "2013 Klei Street is?  I have a friend I'm supposed to meet."

Charlie paused to glance back at him.  "This is 2013 Klei Street."

"What?  Oh!"  Wilson pocketed the paper before she could get a good look at it.  "I must have copied it down wrong."

"Probably not—we just moved in," Charlie said, indicating the boxes everywhere.  "I don't think the guy before us left a forwarding address, though."

Wilson glanced around—now that he was looking, he recognized the structure of the building.  Professor Carter must have moved in after this couple—his house had lacked the feminine touch.

"Maxie?" Charlie asked, sticking her head into the future living room.  "The young man you hit is all right—I told you to keep an eye on that alley."

Someone waved from behind a television—Wilson couldn't help but marvel at the size of the screen compared to the rest of it.

"Come on," Charlie said, indicating the kitchen.  "Once he gets stuck on something, you can't do a thing with him."

Wilson glanced about as he followed—the kitchen had obviously had more attention than the rest of the house.

"So how are you going to find your friend?" Charlie asked, putting the tea on.  "I'm sorry I can't be more help—what's his name?"

"Well, he's a professor," Wilson said, pondering his next move.  "I suppose the next move would be to try the university…."

"Maybe you should stay here tonight—give it a fresh start in the morning."

"That'd probably be wise—I've had my life threatened a couple of times today."

Charlie scowled.  "Oh, probably the Shadow Man's goons again."

Wilson blinked—don't try to tell him the same mobster was still active thirty years later!  "I beg pardon?"

Charlie waved.  "They come from the big city over—what's it called?  Thul-something—I have a hard time pronouncing anything more complex than Hoboken.  The funny thing is, we came here from San Fran to get away from big city crime, only to find it's leaked into here."

Wilson observed her as she hoisted herself up to sit on the counter, kicking her legs.  If he had to guess, she was in her early twenties—he couldn't imagine her travelling around much prior to that.  "So you're from San Francisco?"

"Actually, I'm from Pasadena—San Francisco had more dance options though.  And then I was a magician's assistant—"

"Sounds thrilling."

"Oh, definitely—never got sawed in half though.  I drew the line there.  Oh—tea."

She poured a couple of mugs and asked him how he took his before continuing.  "And after a while—actually, right after our neighbor got shot—we decided that maybe we ought to look into someplace quieter.  I'm looking into some magic acts, though—Maxie is going stir-crazy.  Your tea."

"How so?" Wilson asked, accepting the mug and taking a sip.  Wow, this was good.

"He's fixing a television that wasn't broken in the first place."

"I know someone very much like that."  And he was like that himself—it was taking all of his self-control not to be in there fixing the telly with her husband right now to calm himself down.

"That reminds me!  What's your friend's name?"

"Well…his name is—"

"TV's fixed."

Wilson glanced over at the new voice—

And promptly dropped his tea.

For there, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, perfectly hale and hearty, was Professor William Maxwell Carter.

Chapter Text

"Are you okay?" Charlie asked.

No.  No, he wasn't okay—this didn't make any sense—

"I—I have to go," Wilson said, bolting for the back door.

Charlie watched him go, hands on her hips, before rounding on her husband.

"See?" she said, pointing.  "This is why we can't have friends."

"What did I do?" Maxwell asked.

"You scared him off."

"Good—he broke my favorite mug."

"That wasn't your favorite mug—the one with the chess set on it is."

"That was my second-favorite one then."

"You ran him over."

"He ran out in front of me!"

"He's absolutely terrified of you."

"Now we don't have to worry about setting out an extra plate."

"Max," Charlie emphasized.  "You promised that when we moved, you'd give being sociable a try."

"I was sociable before."

"So long as there were stage lights between you and the audience."

"There needs to be that separation."

"Max—"

"Fine, fine—next person I run over, I promise I'll be nicer to."

"That's all I ask."

Wilson was a couple of blocks away when he finally stopped, leaning against a telephone pole and rubbing his chest.

He was being silly, he realized—that was the future where Professor Carter got gunned down—it'd make perfect sense that he'd still be alive in 1955.  That was what he had been banking on, for crying out loud!

No…no, that wasn't what had thrown him for a loop, he realized.

Professor Carter…had been married?

That made no sense—or maybe it did.  A lot could have happened in thirty years—she could have left him, he could have left her, she could have died—

That last thought made him feel ill.

"Okay, Dr. Higgsbury," he muttered.  "You've found Professor Carter—now what?"

The answer was obvious.

Go back and try to explain things to him.

Oh boy….

Chapter Text

Wilson slowly walked back to the Carter residence, turning over his delivery in his head.  The longer he thought about it, the slower his pace became.

How, in the name of Einstein, Newton, and Galileo, was he supposed to explain time travel to someone who hadn't even invented it yet?

Wilson reached the back entrance to their garage and sighed.  There was no way to explain it without sounding ridiculous.  And to be honest, he wasn't looking forward to being committed in 1955—if memory served, they still found electroshock therapy acceptable.

He heard the back door open—curious, he eased around the side of the garage.

"It's ten o' clock!" Charlie chided.

"I'll only be a minute!" Maxwell said.

"At least put some ice on that!"

"I'll be fine!"

Ice?

I was hanging up a clock in the bathroom, slipped, fell, hit my head—

That was it!

Wilson went across the street and sat on the public mailbox—no need to interrupt the man while he was inventing the only way for Wilson to get home.

As he waited, he couldn't help but marvel at the neighborhood.  The Carter residence was the only one with lights still on, for one.  The lawns were all manicured, the streets were all clean…Wilson couldn't help but recall Happy Days again, and reflected that if he ended up stuck in 1955, it wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

Except that Willow wasn't here.

He couldn't help but worry over that—if he failed to get to 1985, how would the space-time continuum handle his absence?  Would Willow simply think he had bailed?  How long would it take to find Professor Carter's body?  When they found it, would she think the worst?  Or would she think the worst of him?

The clock tower bonged—wow, he could hear it from here.  He wondered how the neighbors felt about the noise.

He counted it out as it bonged the hour—eleven.  He had been sitting there for about an hour.  Professor Carter was probably finished.

Wilson hopped off the mailbox, jogged across the street, and banged on the door next to the garage door.

After a few moments, he tried again.  Professor Carter couldn't have gone to bed already—

The door opened and Professor Carter stuck his head out, wearing his usual look of irritation.

"What?" he snapped.  "Oh wait, it's you—come to break another mug?"

It took Wilson a moment to recover—he had been expecting Professor Carter's hair to be darker and his face to be less lined, yes, but he hadn't expected him to be close to his height when he was a head taller in 1985.  "No, actually—"

"What then?  Oh wait, let me guess—you're with the Coast Guard."

Wilson glanced down in irritation at his vest—again with the sailor thing?  "No—"

"Then what possessed you to knock on my door in the middle of the night?  Don't you know that Shanter's the city that always sleeps?  Go bother someone else."

Wilson stuck his foot in the door before Professor Carter could slam it shut.  Regrettably, that meant that he slammed it on Wilson's foot instead.

"Do you have a death wish or something?" Professor Carter asked, opening the door again so Wilson could extricate his foot.

"No," Wilson hissed, resisting the urge to clutch his foot and hop up and down—he had seen that on the telly, and he wasn't sure what possible purpose it could serve.  "I'm here to see you.  I came here in a time machine that you invented, and I need your help to get back to the year nineteen-eighty-five."

He was prepared for disbelief, or irritation.

He was not prepared for laughter.

"Okay, that's a good one," Professor Carter chuckled.  "And the delivery—I've never seen anyone give a joke that straight-faced."

"It's not a joke—"

"Really?  Then tell me: who's president in 1985?"

"Ronald Regan—"

"The actor?  Is Jerry Lewis the secretary of defense?  No wait—Dean Martin is."

"How about a look at my driver's license then?" Wilson asked, fishing it out and handing it over.  "Look at the date—I'm not even born yet!"

"Do you have any idea how easy this is to fake?"

"Then tell me how easy this is to fake—"

"I'm going to bed," Professor Carter declared, shaking his head and flicking the license back at Wilson.  "Goodnight, future-boy."

"No wait!" Wilson yelled as the door slammed in his face.  "I know how you got that bump on your head!  You were putting a clock up in the bathroom, fell, hit your head, and when you came to you had the idea for the flux capacitor!  The very thing that makes time travel possible," he trailed off, when it became evident Professor Carter wasn't going to open the door again.

He was ready to turn and leave when the door did indeed open again, and Professor Carter stuck his head back out, disbelief etched on his face.

"How did you know that?"

Got it.

"I'll show you."

Chapter Text

The ride out to the future Lyon Estates was long, awkward, and quiet.  Wilson was glad when they finally spotted the pylons.

He scrambled out of the car, around the billboard advertising Lyon Estates, and pulled some of the brush off as Professor Carter came around with a flashlight.

"What on earth is that thing?" he asked.

"The time machine," Wilson said, trying very hard not to feel silly when saying it.

"And who designed it?"

"A Mr. DeLorean, I'm going to guess—you built it out of a car.  Here," he said, opening the door and indicating the flux capacitor.

"Stupid design for a car," Professor Carter muttered, ducking under the door to look.  "How do you park in a…parking…lot…."

Wilson watched him anxiously—he could see recognition on his face.

That anxiety increased when Professor Carter suddenly sat down on the ground, one hand to his mouth.

"Um," Wilson noised.

"Don't talk," Professor Carter commanded.  "I made something that works—this needs a moment."

Wilson silently blessed the fact that the town shut down at nine as he drove the DeLorean back to the Carter's, following Professor Carter in his car.  Upon arriving, Professor Carter opened the garage and indicated he drive the car in.  Understandable, considering the DeLorean wouldn't hit the streets for another thirty years.

"So what's the problem?" Professor Carter asked, walking around the car after shutting the garage.  "I only know how this thing works in theory."

"It's out of fuel," Wilson explained, getting out.

"So?  They wouldn't fill you up at the gas station?"

"Ah, if only it were that simple."  Although he made a mental note to check the gas tank.  "It runs on plutonium—"

"Come again?"

"It runs on plutonium—"

"You're flat out of luck then."

"You could at least put a little effort into this."

"What, you think they sell plutonium in every five-and-dime store around?"

"No—you ripped off the plutonium you used to run it."

"Are you sure?  That sounds too stupid to be me."

"I thought so too," Wilson sighed.  "But you said it was the only way to get the…how much was it?  Wait a minute—you can see for yourself."

"How so?" Professor Carter asked, sounding exasperated as Wilson dove into the car.

"I have it all on video," Wilson declared, holding the camera up.

Chapter Text

It took a little rigging to get the camera working with the old TV in the garage, but the video eventually showed up on the screen.

"Ho-ho!  Look at that!" Professor Carter crowed, examining himself on TV.  "I have hair in the future!  I can die happy now."

"That was important?" Wilson asked.

"My family has male-pattern baldness."

"I didn't know that."

"And why would I tell it to some random yutz?"

"Said random yutz lives in your house."

"Remind me never to let you in."

"Cheers.  There it is."

Wilson turned up the volume, in time for TV-Carter to say "I needed something with a little more kick to produce the 1.21 gigawatts needed for the time travel to take place."

"You're screwed," real-life-Carter said.

"Think positive," Wilson chided.

"You're majorly screwed."

"That's not being positive."

"I'm sorry," Professor Carter said sarcastically.  "But do you have any idea how to make 1.21 gigawatts of energy?  The only thing I can think of would be a bolt of lightning!  And no one knows when one of those is going to hit!"

Wilson scowled, rubbing his arms and trying very hard not to panic.  Well, 1955 was nice, and this solved the trouble of having to call Willow—

Wait a minute.

Wilson fished out the flyer from what felt like ages ago, glanced at Willow's number, and then flipped it open.

"We do now," Wilson declared triumphantly, holding it in front of Professor Carter.

Professor Carter stared at the paper for a few moments before it obviously registered.  When it did, he was up and pacing, snatching the paper away as he did so.

"'Lightning struck the clock tower at 9:45 PM on November 12, 1955, forever halting it at the quarter-hour'—perfect!" Professor Carter stopped, pondering.  "Of course, this bears wondering how exactly we're going to get this to work…."

"We have a week to figure it out," Wilson pointed out.

"You could get into a lot of trouble in a week, future-boy."

"Tell me about it," Wilson muttered.  "I don't suppose hiding in your garage for a week is a viable option?"

"Sure—I'll just tell Charlie I've put up a drifter."

"It's not like you're lying."

"True.  And I suppose having to put up with you is better than you screwing up the space-time continuum—unless you've already broken up your parents or something like that."

"That would be a trick, considering they'll be in Great Britain until 1977—no, the only big events I've caused thus far is stealing a bicycle, dumping Biff Tannen into a manure truck, and getting shot at.  Oh yes—and being run over by you."

"Thanks for that, by the way," Professor Carter said, checking his watch.  "Anyway, I'm going to bed—I've had enough excitement for one day.  Goodnight, future-boy."

"Wilson," Wilson corrected as Professor Carter headed for the door.

"Whatever," Professor Carter said, slamming the door behind him.

Wilson reflected that Professor Carter hadn't changed much over the years.

Except for one big thing.

"He's married now, but not when I knew…will know him," Wilson mused.  "Whatever happened to Charlie?"

The potential answer worried him greatly.

Chapter Text

"You got in late last night."

"I noticed."

Charlie watched Maxwell carefully.  "So, what is it?" she asked.

"I can't tell you."

"And why not?"

"Because it's ridiculous.  I can't even take it seriously."

"I promise I won't laugh."

"I promise to tell you as soon as I can think of it with a straight face."  Here he paused, considering.  Charlie had to stifle a giggle at the expression that crossed his face.  "Nope—fail."

"And yet you're heading out to work on this mystery project," she observed as he headed for the back door.

"Hey, the sooner I can get it out of my system, the better.  Ta ta, my love."

She stuck her tongue out at him as he left.  He'd get like this and then follow the idea until it either bore fruit or petered out.  He had a tenacious streak a mile long.

That's what you like about him, she mused, remembering their courtship.

It was also infuriating at times.

So she decided to make lunch for him—it would give her a good excuse to poke around in the garage.

Of course, she reflected, looking at the boxes still littering the rooms, she'd have to find some pots and pans first.

Wilson didn't really get a good night's sleep.

For one, there was no place that was really all that comfortable in the garage.  For another, he was too busy trying to figure out how to harness the power of the heavens and channel it into the time machine.  He was fairly certain he had a working idea.

"What the—"

"Oh good, you're here," Wilson observed, seeing Professor Carter frozen in the doorway.  "I had an idea," he explained, gesturing to the little model town.  "Sorry it looks so odd—I didn't have time to paint it and it's not built to scale, so…."

Professor Carter crossed over to the town and stared at it before staring at him.  "There's this thing," he said slowly.  "It's called sleep.  Did you get any?"

"There's this thing," Wilson replied, matching his tone.  "It's called insomnia.  I had it.  Besides, do you see a pillow in here?"

"You need a life, kid."

"I had one," Wilson observed.  "But unfortunately, it's in 1985 and therefore and thusly suspended."

Professor Carter looked like he very much wanted to slap him upside the head, but fortunately refrained.  "So what is all this?"

"An idea on how to properly get the lightning from the clock tower to the DeLorean," Wilson explained, pointing.  "We hook up a lightning rod to the clock tower, run a wire down to the street, suspend a metal bar over the street, and utilize a hook and wire that delivers the charge direct to the flux capacitor."

"That still boggles my mind," he heard Professor Carter mutter.  "First question," he continued, louder.  "Is it going to work?"

"I don't know," Wilson admitted.  "That's why we experiment.  Do you have a battery, jumper cables, and a toy car?"

"Give me a minute," Professor Carter sighed, moving through the garage.  "Next question—if this does work, where do you think you're getting the equipment?  It's not like I have industrial-strength wire lying around here—at least, I don't think I do."

Wilson gave that some thought.  "I don't suppose there's a hardware store that supplies it."

"I don't suppose."

"Well, we'll cross that hurdle when we get to it, I suppose," Wilson noised, spotting the jumper cables.  "Or we could just string a bunch of jumper cables end to end."

"And hope to high heaven that everyone will be at that dance-thing that night," Professor Carter observed, coming back with a small wind-up car and a battery.

"It helps that everyone's curfew seems to be nine," Wilson said as Professor Carter attached a hook and wire to the wind-up car.

"Gangster mooks don't help there."

"Isn't Shanter a little small for that?"

"You would think.  Unless you read the pulps, in which case it's just the right size."

"Hmm.  Wind that car up, please."

Professor Carter did so as Wilson hooked up the battery.  He hooked one jumper cable to the end beam representing the street light, then held the other one over the nail representing the clock tower's lighting rod.  "Ready?"

Professor Carter gave a sort of sideways nod—Wilson took it as a cue to get on with it.

"Set…go!"

Professor Carter let go of the car as Wilson hooked the jumper cable to the nail, completing the circuit.

There was a flash of light as the little wire they had hooked to the car connected with the circuit.

That light continued—to his horror, Wilson noted the flaming toy car driving off the table and ran to intercept it.

He was a mite too slow, and it drove right into a bucket of old oil rags, setting them on fire.

Professor Carter was there instantly with a fire extinguisher.

"So!" he said conversationally—Wilson had heard the tone enough to know he was trying to control his temper.  "Aside from setting my garage on fire, it looks like that'll work.  Now what about the cable?"

"We could try the university," Wilson suggested.

"And why would they help?"

"Don't you work there?"

"No…."

"You do in 1985."

"Well that's thirty years from now, isn't it?"

"True….Wait—I might have an idea—"

That was cut off by a tapping at the door.

Professor Carter angled himself so he could see out the window.  "Aw, cripes," he noised.  "Quick—hide the time machine."

"Why?" Wilson asked, already flinging a tarp over the DeLorean.  "Who is it?"

"Charlie."

Chapter Text

Professor Carter flung open the door, a fake grin on his face.

"Hi, honey," he said through gritted teeth.  "Do you mind?  A little busy right now."

"Too busy for lunch?" Charlie asked, holding up a plate and mug.

"Oh no you don't," Professor Carter said, moving to block the door.  "I know how you are—you use lunch as an excuse to slip in here and—"

Too late—she did just that.  "Oh, hi Will!" she chimed cheerily.

"Hello," Wilson noised, waving—hiding was out, obviously.

"'Will'?" Professor Carter asked.

Charlie, meanwhile, was giving Professor Carter a look.

"I'm being nice!" Professor Carter exclaimed.  "I'm not running over him!"

She looked around for someplace to put the plate and mug down, expression shifting as her nose wrinkled.  "Was something burning?"

Wilson and Professor Carter immediately looked to the still-smoldering rags.  "Eh…."

"Max, you promised you'd quit."

"I did!  Blame the yutz!"

"That was…my fault," Wilson said, a bit aggravated by the jibe but far too used to it to care for long.  "We were…performing a science experiment, and it seems to have set itself on fire."

Charlie's eyebrows shot up as Professor Carter retrieved the melted car.

"You weren't too terribly attached to this, were you?" he asked her, indicating the car.

"I'll feel better about it if I have a full-size one."

"That might take a while."

Charlie made a pensive noise before setting the tray down, moving the clock tower before doing so.  "Well, here's lunch—try not to set anything else on fire, will you?"

"No promises."

She sighed, as though this sort of dodge was normal (which, in Wilson's experience, it was), kissed him on the cheek, waved to Wilson, and then departed, leaving the door open so the smoke could leave.

Professor Carter, meanwhile, was glaring at him.  "What?" he asked finally.

"It's just," Wilson began—if he looked as dumbfounded as he felt, then it was no wonder Professor Carter seemed irritated with him.  "I've never seen you be nice to anybody."

"You say it like it's a rare thing."

"It is, coming from you."

"Really?  Let's fix that then."

And with that, Professor Carter whacked Wilson upside the head.

"Better?" he asked.

"Not really," Wilson muttered, rubbing his head.

"Aren't you hard to please."

"Ta.  So, jumper cables or industrial-strength wire?"

"Where would you even get that sort of wire?"

Wilson gave it some thought.

"I…think I may have an idea.  It would involve a great deal of chicanery, though."

Professor Carter nodded slowly.  "Charlie would kill me, but I love the idea already.  Where are we going?"

"Shanter University."

Chapter Text

Wilson couldn't help but release a low whistle upon approaching Shanter University.

"Wow," he noised.  "The place looks brand new."

"It's thirty years younger than you saw it last," Professor Carter pointed out.  "What'd you expect?"

Wilson nodded, acquiescing the point.  He led the way to the dean's office, as Professor Carter didn't know the way yet.

They entered the dean's office with no issue, and the man behind the desk looked up.  Wilson's first impression of him was that he had unfortunate taste in clothing.

"Can I help you?" the guy asked slowly, apparently unsure as to why two dapperly-dressed gentlemen were in his office.  Maybe he was feeling properly ashamed about that loud tie.

"I should certainly hope so, Dean…" Wilson paused to glance at the nameplate.  "Stockwell.  I am Dr. John—from Oxford—and this is my colleague."  Here Professor Carter waved.  "I was told that your facility would be most accommodating to an experiment I wish to perform."

"Oh…kay," the dean said slowly—perhaps he thought some of the students were playing a joke on him.  "What do you need?"

"A few hundred yards of industrial-strength electrical wire would be a good start—"

Here the dean started spluttering.  "And what, you think we keep that lying around here?  Did someone set you up to this?"

Right on cue, Professor Carter started tsking.  "I told you they wouldn't have it," he said.  "We should have gone to the Technical University, or the University of Southern California—"

"Hey, now wait a minute!" the dean said, appropriately indignant.  "We're just as good as those clowns!"

"I don't know," Wilson mused.  "If they can't even provide us with something as simple as wire…perhaps you're right—somewhere else would be more appropriate—"

The dean was standing now.  "You know what?  Forget what I said earlier—we can get that.  When do you need it?"

"Immediately," Wilson said—ah, success.  "Our experiment is very time-sensitive.  Why, if we missed this window, we'd have to wait…."

"Thirty years?" Professor Carter supplied.

"Yes," Wilson said weakly.

"We'll get that for you," the dean said, already dialing on his phone.  "And go talk to Professor Beckett over in room 1989—he'll be able to set you up with anything else.  He's got a lot left over from those experiments of his."

"Thank you very much," Wilson said silkily as they left.  "I'll make sure to mention you in the acknowledgements section of our paper."

"Yeah yeah," the dean said, waving them out.  "Just watch out for Strickland on your way out."

"Strickland?" Wilson echoed as they left.

"Who?" Professor Carter asked.

Wilson struggled to hide a grimace.  "That charming fellow heading your way."

"Oh, you mean the bald guy?" Professor Carter said, not bothering to lower his voice.  Wilson allowed his grimace to show, but did have to wonder if Professor Strickland had ever had hair.

Professor Strickland, meanwhile, was scowling at them.

"Can I help you?" he asked tetchily.

"I doubt it," Professor Carter said, before Wilson could say anything.  "What we're doing requires a man with follicles."

Professor Strickland blinked.  "And what's a lout like you doing in a respected university like this?"

"I'd like to ask you the same question."

"I'm just going to…excuse myself," Wilson muttered, beating feet down the hall as the altercation increased.

He did not want to be a part of this debacle.

Room 1989 was up a few flights, and it didn't take long before Wilson was having a conversation with Professor Beckett, who was more than pleased to donate quite a bit of his supplies to science.

"It's less for me to take to Arizona," he explained.

Which led to a fascinating discussion about quantum mechanics and the experimentation he was planning on.

"I theorize that it's possible for a man to time travel within his lifetime," Professor Beckett posed.

Wilson felt his eyebrow twitch.  Considering he wasn't going to be born for…another three years…."Oh, more than likely," Wilson told him breezily.

"Certainly!  Especially when you take string theory into account—"

The dean Wilson and Professor Carter had talked to earlier stuck his head in.

"Oh good, you found each other," the dean observed.  "Good news, Professor Beckett—I found your replacement."

"Great!" Professor Beckett said—apparently he had been a little leery about leaving a gap in the instructor lineup.  "Who'd you get?"

"A be-a-youtiful shaft to Strickland," the dean said, stepping in and allowing the person behind him to do so.  "Might I introduce Professor William Maxwell Carter, or as I will now be calling him: Strickland's antithesis."

Wilson tried very hard for a neutral expression as Professor Carter laughed at the title.

This seemed to be shaping up into quite the fine mess.

Chapter Text

"I can't believe you."

"You sound like a broken record," Professor Carter observed.  "Wait—they do know what records are in 1985, correct?"

"They do," Wilson said tetchily.  "But back to my original point—you took that job just to aggravate Professor Strickland?"

"Every man needs a hobby," Professor Carter said airily.  "And 'Professor Carter' has a nice ring, don't you think?"

"I've been calling you that since I met you."

"Yes, it's very irritating."

Wilson opened his mouth to say more when something occurred to him.

"Would you have taken that job if you hadn't gone in today?" he asked.

"No clue," Professor Carter said.  "Why?"

"I fear I may have inadvertently caused a paradox."

"How so?"

"If it wasn't for me, you might not have gone to the university."

In response, Professor Carter pulled a notepad and pencil out.

"What are you doing?" Wilson asked.

"Writing myself a note to remind myself to send you back here," he said.  "We can't have you ruining a stable time loop, now can we?"

Mr. Skits regretted being assigned DC as his wingman.

On the positive side, DC and his bulk made up for Mr. Skit's diminutive size.  People didn't want to mess with Mr. Skits when DC was behind him.

Unfortunately, that bulk was not bright, and it needed to be fed on a regular basis.  Hence why they were in the corner diner where they normally ate, this time sitting in a position where they could keep an eye on the parked car rather than rounding a corner just in time to see it meet disaster.

On the positive side, the kid responsible was street pizza—

DC blinked, then wiped off the milkshake that Mr. Skits had suddenly spewed all over him.

"What is it?" DC asked.

As Mr. Skits was still spluttering, he opted instead for pointing out the window.

For there was that yutz responsible, alive and well, walking down the street—

And chatting with the guy who had hit him.

It had been a setup—a sham.

Of course, he had to explain this in small words to DC, which meant he couldn't quite keep an eye on the two mooks as they rounded a corner and left.

But Shanter was a small town.

They would find them.

It would only be a matter of time.

Charlie looked up from unpacking a box in the living room when they returned.

"So how was whatever it was you were doing?" she asked, unwrapping a picture frame.

In response, Professor Carter crossed over and kissed her on the head.  "I am now gainfully employed," he declared.

"What?" Charlie asked.

"I blame myself," Wilson said, shuffling towards the back door; being around the married couple still made him uneasy for some reason.  "I should have never left him unattended."

"No you shouldn't have," Charlie said, before looking at Professor Carter.  "What's the job?"

"I'm a professor now," Professor Carter said, preening.

"A professor of what?"

"A professor of education."

"What are you teaching?"

"I don't know yet."

"He took the job just to irritate someone," Wilson supplied.

"That's not a good reason," Charlie said.

"That's what I told him."

Professor Carter snatched up a pillow and threw it at Wilson.  "No comments from the peanut gallery!" he told him.

Charlie threw a different pillow at Professor Carter.  "No throwing pillows at people."

"You just threw one at me."

"That should tell you something," Wilson couldn't help but jibe, before quickly ducking another pillow and beating feet out the back door.  He was surprised to note he was laughing as he pulled the door shut.  Wow.

He sobered when he reminded himself of Charlie's absence in 1985.

What had happened to her?

He returned to the garage and busied himself with prepping the time machine.  Their order would be at the university the day after tomorrow, and he wanted to have everything ready to go.

Of course, he reflected as he sat in the driver's seat, half of this was going to have to wait for Professor Carter to come out here, but he supposed he could get started—

Hullo, what's this?

He pulled a newspaper out that had been tucked between the driver's seat and middle console—well, part of a newspaper.  It was dated for sometime next week—obituaries?

Oh.

Oh no.

Chapter Text

Maxwell helped Charlie pick up the pillows that were now all over before heading out to the garage.

"I am glad you've got a job," Charlie said, coming up behind him and hugging him.  "And you seem to do…well, not well, but decently around Will—we should adopt him."

"Do what?" Maxwell asked.

"Think about it, he'd be perfect—you get to skip all that pesky growing up and teenage years and get right to the fun age.  And if he gives you any grief, you can kick him out.  After you run it by me, of course—knowing you, you'd kick out a goldfish."

"That was one time—"

"So what do you say?  Can we keep him?"

If he didn't get that time machine working, they probably would be stuck with him.

"He's going back home next week, so no," Maxwell decided on.

"All right, but I still want to adopt a young graduate student—bring one back from work."

"Fine, fine," he said, reaching around so he could hug her.  "But I still think the dog is enough."

"Rrr," Chester noised, mouth around a pillow they had missed.

"That reminds me," Charlie said, pointing.  "Where did Will sleep last night?"

"He didn't," Maxwell said.

"Put him up on the couch tonight."

"No.  Then you'll start getting attached to him and feeding him and then I'll be stuck with him like I am with the dog."

"At least Will doesn't look like he has mange."

"The answer is no, Charlie," Maxwell said, finally breaking away to head for the garage.  "Now I have to go work at getting him out of the garage."

"Right," Charlie said, walking him to the door.  "Well, I'll come get you two when dinner's ready, and I'll have the couch set up."

"What did we just discuss?"

"I thought we agreed that off the stage, I was the boss."

"I don't want the yutz in the house."

"I'll start up on the couch."

"What did I just say?"

"You misunderstand," Charlie said, smiling.  "Either he sleeps on the couch, or you do."

"That's not fair."

"I know.  Have fun!"

"Dirty fighter," he groused as she shut the door.  "One of these days, I'm going to win one of these whatever-these-are," he said as he headed for the garage.  "And it will be a good day."

He paused with his hand on the doorknob.

"Actually, no it wouldn't," he decided, pulling the door open.  "She'd sulk until it turned into a win for her.  Hey!" he projected into the garage, looking for the yutz.  Nobody in the immediate line of sight, but one of those ridiculous wing-doors on the time machine was open—there.

"Hey!" Maxwell called again, crossing over—he was busy with some newspaper.  "Hey!" Maxwell snapped, slapping him in the shoulder.

The effect was instantaneous—the kid yelped, saw who it was, yelped again, and tried very hard to stuff the newspaper away, all the while yammering "So sorry didn't hear you there—"

Maxwell wasn't a magician for nothing though, and his talents had uses off the stage as well—he had the newspaper in mere seconds.

After giving it a cursory glance, he spotted what had the kid so flustered.

It only took a few more seconds to have the kid by the shirt collar.

"What is this!?" Maxwell snarled, with a bit more elaboration.  Not surprising, considering right now he could hardly think straight.

"I-I-I don't know," the kid stammered.

Maxwell threw him and kicked him in the stomach for good measure.  It gave him a moment to collect his thoughts enough to be coherent.

"This," he snarled, holding up the newspaper.  "According to this, Charlie is dead by this time next week!  What kind of future do you call that!?"

"I don't know!" the kid yelped, curled up into a ball to ward off further impacts.  "I don't know why that's—"

"Why that's what?" Maxwell growled, irritated by the kid's sudden stop.

"I just," the kid managed finally.  "I thought you—future you—were going to the future, because of a comment you made—will make—but maybe you planned on coming back here to stop that….That would have made a horrible paradox."

"How do you figure?"

"What if you had run into yourself?  That could have rent the time-space continuum irreparably."

"How irreparably?"

"It would have wiped out time.  Backwards and forwards.  Theoretically."

"Ah ha….Well, how about this for a paradox?" he asked, hauling the kid to his feet by his throat.

"You either help me fix this," he snarled, nose to nose with the kid.  "Or the next time you see 1985 will be as a corpse."

The kid paled.

Maxwell dropped him and stormed out.

He needed to think.

Chapter Text

As Maxwell was sulking in his study, it was up to Charlie to go drag Will out of the garage and to the dinner table.

Dinner itself was very uncomfortable, as no one was talking and Max was looking murderous.  Will absolutely refused to look at her—or look up, for that matter.  As skinny as he was, he was only picking at his food—she had figured he was one of those high-metabolism kids.

She did manage to get Will on the couch with a pillow and blanket, although when she asked what was wrong, he wouldn't answer.

So it was very irritably that Charlie crawled into bed that night.  After a few moments, she propped herself up on her elbow.

"All right, what did you do?" she asked.

"Hnnh?"

"What did you do to Will?"

Maxwell rolled over slightly to look at her.  "I did nothing."

"Then what happened?"

"I resisted wringing his scrawny little neck."

She blew out an angry sigh and flopped back on the bed.

"You do this every time," she told him.  "You start to sort of get along with someone, and then blammo, you're done.  People can't be perfect all the time."

"Well they should be."

"No human is."

"Well they should be."

"They used to be."

"And who's fault is that?"

"Adam—he shouldn't have eaten that fruit."

"And then his wife would have been mad at him."

"Sounds like a similar situation occurring right now."

"I noticed."

"This wouldn't be a problem if you told me what was wrong."

Silence.

Finally, he rolled over to look at her.  For a long time.  Like he was trying to memorize her face.

"What would I do without you?" he asked finally, all fight gone.

"Flounder," she said immediately.  "You'd sit in a chair and never bother with anyone except to make their lives miserable.  And you'd pick up smoking again."

"You didn't have to be specific."

"What brought this on?"

"I was reading the obituaries."

"You never read that."

"I know."

"What brought that on?"

"I blame that kid, personally."

"What happened?"

She knew that expression—he was searching for an answer because the truth was unpalatable.

"I'm worried I'm going to be stuck in a rut," he said finally.

Well, that answer seemed honest enough….

She kissed him on the nose.  "Not while I'm around."

And with that, she rolled over to go to sleep.

After a long time, he did the same.

Chapter Text

Maxwell descended the steps, making a beeline for the kitchen and coffee.

He needed it, considering he hadn't gotten an ounce of sleep.

"What do you say to you visiting your mother's for a week?" he asked Charlie as he grabbed his favorite mug and poured himself a cup.  That would get her tidily out of whatever harm was to befall her.

Charlie stared at him as she pulled more plates out of their boxes.  "You want to visit my mom?  The one who called you a ragamuffin charlatan among other multisyllabic insults?"

"Actually, I was hoping to miss the fun.  I could stay here and finish unpacking for you."

"But then I wouldn't know where everything is."

"We don't now."

"But we're putting them up so we know where they are," she said.  "Now go wake Will up—I think we may actually be close to making breakfast."

Maxwell closed his eyes so his eye roll and subsequent twitch was unnoticeable.  There were a lot of things he'd like to do to that yutz, but most if not all would result in a ruined couch, and Charlie wouldn't like that.

So instead, he turned on his heel and walked into the living room.

He had to stop upon entering.

"That can't be comfortable," Maxwell observed, looking at the odd contortion the kid had managed on the couch.  "Hey, moron—wake up."

Nothing. Well, the odd snore, but no sign of returning to wakefulness.

Maxwell returned to the kitchen, put his cup on the counter, and started fishing through boxes.

"Is he up?" Charlie asked.

"He will be.  Ah-ha!" he noised, finding the desired object and returning to the living room.

The blast from the air-horn probably woke up the next three houses, but it was worth the potential neighborly ire to see the kid flail and fall off the couch.

"Was that necessary?" Charlie called from the kitchen.

"Very much so," Maxwell said, before returning his attention to the disoriented kid.  "Say, pal, you don't look so good."

"You blew an air-horn into my ear—of course I don't look all right," the kid groused.

"Here, let me help you up there," Maxwell said, hauling the kid to his feet.

"Well, it's good to see you two getting along," Charlie said.

"Oh, sure," Maxwell said, presenting the kid—and digging his fingers into the kid's collarbones for good measure.  "We had a nice chat—didn't we?" he asked, upping the pressure.

"Nh-hnh," the kid whimpered, managing a pained smile.

Charlie glared at Maxwell.  "No killing him," she ordered.

"No promises."

"So, pal, any ideas?"

To be honest, no ideas were forthcoming.  The obituary hadn't given any details as to the nature of Charlie's death.  But the Professor Carter of the future seemed convinced that it could be undone, so that ruled out genetic or health issues.

Which just left plain old accident and downright murder.

Oog.

"Um," Wilson noised, knowing he'd have to provide an answer soon.  The blow to his kidneys still throbbed, and he didn't want to provide impetus for another blow.  "Well….I suppose an extended visit to family?  Or vacation?  A breakfast?  A big one?  With a change of clothes."

"You're reaching, kid."

"At least I'm trying!" Wilson snapped, sitting up.  "I don't hear you providing any pearls of wisdom!"

"Right," Professor Carter snarled.  "Because I had a very restful night knowing that I was lying next to a dead woman!"

Wilson didn't have a response to that, and was very grateful when the phone ringed.  As he was the one closer, he answered it.

"Hello, Carter residence," he said flatly.  "How may I direct your call?"

He looked up at Professor Carter when he got the response.

"We'll be right there," Wilson said into the phone.

Chapter Text

"And why should I be doing this?"

"You work there now, remember?" Wilson asked, pointing.

"If I recall, that's your fault," Professor Carter grumbled, turning the car off Main Street and towards the university.

"No, that was your own fault—you took the job to annoy Professor Strickland."

"You should have stopped me."

"This is not my fault."

"This is your fault."

"Charlie isn't my fault."

That was the exact wrong thing to say—Professor Carter stood on the brakes and rounded on him.

"Listen, you insignificant ant," he snarled.  "As far as I'm concerned, everything from the apple down is your fault.  I don't care about you and your little problems, I care about my problem, and right now, my problem is keeping Charlie alive.  You got that?"

"Yes?" Wilson squeaked, feeling for the door handle.  He wasn't about to stick around if Professor Carter turned violent again.

"Good.  I'm glad we had this little chat."

And with that, Professor Carter went back to driving.

"Um," Wilson noised.

"Shut up," Professor Carter ordered.  "As soon as this is resolved, I never want to see your stupid self again.  If I do see you again, you'll be in little pieces.  Capiche?"

"Yes," Wilson muttered, before something occurred to him.  "What about a stable time loop?"

"What?"

"Well, you'd have to run into me eventually to send me back here to ensure that a paradox doesn't occur and the time-space continuum doesn't collapse—"

"Shut.  Up."

"Fine."

Mr. Skits was quite pleased when the kid and his accomplice showed up again.

He tapped DC to get his attention, and they followed the sedan to where it parked in front of the university.  The kid and the guy got out, arguing the whole while, and went into the university.

Mr. Skits and DC crossed the road, opened the back door of the sedan, and slid inside.

About fifteen minutes later, the kid and the guy exited the university, still arguing, put several bundles of cables in the trunk before sliding into the driver and passenger seat, still absorbed in their argument.

"And furthermore—"

"Aw, will you shaddap already?"

Mr. Skits exchanged a slow look with DC before pulling out a gun and cocking the hammer.

That little sound made them shut up and look back, finally registering that they weren't alone in the car.

"Drive on, James," Mr. Skits ordered.

The guy looked at the kid.

"This is your fault," he told him.

Chapter Text

They rode on in silence.

"Turn up here," the short guy with the gun said suddenly.

They did so, leading into warehouses.

"What is this?" Wilson asked.

"Did I say you could talk?"

"I think we have a right to know."

"The warehouse district," the big guy supplied.

"DC, we talked about this," the small guy snarled.

"Before you kill us, can I shoot him?" Professor Carter asked, pointing at Wilson.

"No.  People with holes they're not supposed to have are hard to explain.  Here we are."

They stopped in front of a pier.  The two goons in the back got out.

"Okay," the short guy said, coming over to the driver's side.  "Here's how it's going to work.  You're going to drive off this pier.  If you surface, we shoot you.  Got it?"

"I'm not driving off a pier," Professor Carter argued.  "I'm two months away from paying this car off!  That's like getting tackled at the one-yard line."

"Don't you have insurance?"

"What about the chores?" Wilson pointed out quickly, feeling that he grasped Professor Carter's plans—or maybe the professor was just being difficult.  "His wife has a huge list for him—who's going to handle that?"

"I could," the big guy offered.

"DC!" the short guy snapped again.

"Well…maybe we could mug them!  That would work, right?"

"Excuse us," the short guy said, herding the bigger guy away—probably to explain the nuances of proper thuggery.

"I can't believe this," Professor Carter grumbled.  "We're being bumped off by amateurs!"

"That is more than a little embarrassing," Wilson observed.

Silence as the two thugs argued.

"What am I doing?" Professor Carter asked suddenly.

Before Wilson could ask for clarification, Professor Carter had flung the car into reverse and was peeling out of there.

"Darn, I missed," Professor Carter observed before spinning the car around and driving off, thugs shooting after them.  "And stop screaming already!"

That would explain why his throat had gotten so sore.  "I'm sorry," Wilson spat.  "But I'm unaccustomed to that sort of behavior!"

"That explains a lot."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

Mr. Skits emptied his gun before throwing it away angrily.

"That doesn't seem helpful," DC observed.

"Excuse me?  Those two lunks got away—again!  We can't let them get away with this!  If word gets back to the boss, he'll—"

"Mr. Skits?"

Mr. Skits froze before turning to look at another member of their mob, stepping out of an alley and looking chagrined.

"Uh…I hate to be the bearer of bad news," the mook said.  "But the boss wants to see you."

Mr. Skits regretted not having a pair of cement overshoes on at the moment—it would have saved him a lot of misery.

"Oh good, you two are back!" Charlie observed brightly, Chester barking happily by her side.  "Wait—what happened?"

"This kid is a pox," Professor Carter said, pointing at Wilson as they got out of the car.

"My first instinct isn't to be difficult," Wilson said.  "Unlike some people."

"No?  Tell me, have you always been this much of a pest, or did I just not notice until now?"

Ah, irony.  He had gotten along fairly well with the Professor Carter of the future—

But then again, reflecting on it, Professor Carter had never invested a lot of time in socializing with anybody—including his tenant.

"Was this always there?" Charlie asked, directing Wilson out of his musings.  He and Professor Carter circled around to where Charlie was standing at the boot of the sedan—

And delicately putting a finger in a bullet hole.

Wilson couldn't help but tug at his collar.  Less than a handful of inches higher, and one of them would have been shot—possibly brainless, if he guessed the trajectory correctly.

Professor Carter was similarly tugging at his tie.

"I'm telling you, this town is crazy," he managed finally.

Mr. Skits was nervously straightening out his tie.

He kind of wished he could tighten it too far and save himself the trouble of being here in this dark warehouse, but he doubted that would appease the Shadow Man.

The pressure in the room increased somehow, and he knew that their employer had arrived.

Mr. Skits tensed, closing his eyes and bracing himself.  Not that closing his eyes would help—but it wouldn't hinder, either, considering they couldn't see anybody coming right now anyway.

Measured steps circled them, slowly getting closer.

DC whimpered.

"So," came from right next to Mr. Skits' ear, making him jump.  "Why don't you tell me what happened?"

Oh boy.

Chapter Text

"Well, today could have gone better."

"Oh really?" Professor Carter asked, handing him the last bundle of cables before poking a finger into the bullet hole in the car.  "What was your first clue?"

"We don't need angry mobsters coming after us repeatedly," Wilson moaned, sinking into the nearby recliner and rubbing his face.  He allowed a moment to marvel at the fact that Professor Carter had apparently kept the same layout for thirty years before hitting upon an idea.

"We have evidence of the mobsters shooting at us," he said, sitting up.

"We also have evidence of you lacking a brain," Professor Carter observed.

"No, no—we take up the matter with the police!  They have to do something about this sort of thing."

"Unless they've been bought out," Professor Carter pointed out.

"O ye of little faith," Wilson replied, already at the phone and dialing.

"Give me that," Professor Carter said, snatching the phone away and hitting the redial switch.  "Obviously you don't know how to use a phone either—more evidence of no brain in there."

"And what makes you say that?" Wilson asked huffily.

"Operator?" Professor Carter asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Oh," Wilson noised.

Within the hour, the police had come, taken their statements, taken pictures of the car, assured them they'd do something about the mobsters known as Skits and DC, and departed.

"There, see?" Wilson asked.  "Problem solved."

"The only way this problem would be solved is if I made a preemptive strike and fitted you with cement overshoes myself," Professor Carter snapped.

"Well that's settled then," Charlie said, waving her hands at them.  "Come on then, let's go!"

They turned to stare at her.

"Go?" Wilson asked.

"Where?" Professor Carter asked.

"That block party thing they're having," Charlie said.  "We're going to go do the mingle thing, remember?"

"No."

"I'm fairly certain you agreed to it when you weren't paying strict attention."

"That doesn't count."

"Yes it does."

"No it doesn't."

"Will, will you come with me?" Charlie asked, lacing her arm through his.  "I need an escort, and Max doesn't seem too obliging at the moment."

"I would, but I fear that would be the impetus he needed to act on his murder plans," Wilson said.

"Max, we've talked about this."

"It's bad enough we're feeding him and letting him sleep on the couch," Professor Carter said.  "Now you want me to be nice to him too?"

"It's important to continued happiness in your marriage."

"Oh please don't drag me into that," Wilson moaned.

"Sure thing—you'd protect me though, right?"

"To be honest, your h-husband gives me nightmares."

"Really," Professor Carter asked, an interested note in his voice.

"You stop that," Charlie scolded.  "Now come on!  We're going to be late!"

"To what?"

"The party you agreed to."

"What if I decline?"

"Then I take Will and allow rumors to start."

"I think I should maybe decline," Wilson said quickly.

"Nonsense!  Now come on, let's get you two out of this stuffy garage."

"Eh…." Wilson noised, exchanging glances with Professor Carter and digging his heels in.  "We really shouldn't…."

"My dear Will," Charlie said, smiling at him.  "There is a thing you must learn very quickly: I don't lose these discussions.  You boys are going, and that's that."

The phone rang.

"You put through a request," the Chief of Police said, when the line was picked up.  "We've found the two who've been giving your boys grief—they just filed a police report."

"How very ironic," the Shadow Man purred.  "And I suppose there's a lot of pertinent information in that little police report, is there not?"

"There is.  Would you like to hear it?"

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure."

Chapter Text

Okay, Maxwell had to admit that this…block-party thing was a nicer shindig than he had initially supposed.

"Isn't this great?" Charlie asked.  "And then there's a dance at the school next week—and you thought this place was boring."

"It is boring," Maxwell told her.  "It's Small Town, USA—look, there's even a guy grilling hot dogs and hamburgers."

"I want a hot dog."

"Is that a declaration of fact or an order?"

"A request.  And while you do that, I'll get us something to drink and find out where Will went off to."

Probably trying to sneak back to their garage.  "Funny that you say that like I've already agreed."

"Max, tell me, and be honest: have you ever said no to me and meant it?"

"Yes.  That elephant from that train wreck that you wanted to adopt: I distinctly remember putting my foot down then."

"Actually, you pointed out the infeasibility of keeping one in the apartment and the parking tickets I'd get leaving it on the curb."

"So I won at least one discussion."

"Are we keeping track?"

"I need a moment—this is a big deal for me."

"Well, while you're feeling nice about it, go and get some hot dogs."

"Right.  I—hey, wait a minute," he noised, turning.  Nope—already gone.

He grumbled throughout the whole ordeal, although he had to admit they were good when he sampled the one he designated as his.  And yeah, it was a nice place—if a person wasn't used to city life.  Little towns and suburbs like this were built for family life, and according to that one doctor, a dog was the closest they were ever going to get.

He scowled at that, wondering as he searched for Charlie what gave a quack doctor the right to ruin a person's life like that—she had been disconsolate for days, until Maxwell had finally convinced her it was for the best, as he probably wouldn't have been good for the kid's health.  And then he got her a dog, Chester.  Hopefully, he'd have ten or so years before he'd have to worry about replacing him—maybe he could sneak out and find a carbon-copy of him….Or invent dog-cloning.

Of course, if they missed their window—they had, what, maybe four days left?  Then they'd be stuck with Wilson permanently—somehow, he didn't think Charlie would be too miffed at the idea.

Speaking of, where was she?  Ah, there, and with the yutz, playing some sack-toss game.

Said yutz was turning it into a precise endeavor, aiming, shifting, aiming, shifting….

He was so sunk into it that he didn't notice Maxwell come up behind him.  "Oh, just throw the stupid thing already!" Maxwell snapped, startling him—he juggled the sack before finally flinging it into the hole.

"Gee, thanks Max," Charlie said.  "I was winning until you did that."

"Oops?"

The kid was ecstatic, though.  "Did you see that?  I got one in!" he cheered.

"Woo," Maxwell noised, handing the uneaten hot dog to Charlie.  "What happened to drinks?"

"Things happened," Charlie said, accepting.  "I had a title to defend."

"You have a title in sack-toss?"

"I did for five minutes."

"You.  Stop that," Maxwell ordered, pointing at the kid.  "And stop smiling—you look like an idiot."

"But I finally got it," Wilson noised.  "Of course, this flies into the face of my experimentation with this game—"

"I'm going to shove one of those sacks into his mouth," Maxwell said to Charlie.  "Would you mind too terribly?"

"I would," Charlie said.  "I was actually wondering about the feasibility of adopting adults."

His worst fear confirmed.

And then the kid vanished.

He was quickly located in the meaty fists of one of the local high school jocks, however.

"You cost me five hundred bucks in car repairs!" the guy yelled.  "And I'm going to take it right out of you!"

"Oh boy," Wilson squeaked.

"Max, help him," Charlie ordered.

"Which one?" Maxwell asked.

"Will."

"Honey, you're asking a bean pole to rescue a corn stalk."

She made a dismissive noise.

And then, before he could stop her, she marched over and squashed her hot dog right in the guy's face.

"Put him down," Charlie ordered.

Aw, great….Now he had to save her.

A second hot dog collided with the guy's face, forcing him to redirect his attention to Maxwell, who was forced to admit that the guy was taller than him and a lot wider.

Maxwell gave a nervous chuckle before taking off like a shot, slipping in his Oxfords.  Okay, good news—angry guy had dropped Wilson and left Charlie alone.  Bad news—he was going to break Maxwell in half when he caught him, which he would, considering he played football.

New strategy—need a new—ah, there.

He pulled a cooler down behind him, spilling drinks and ice, and ducked through an alley as he heard the guy slip and fall—

He paused behind a house to catch his breath and check for pursuit.  Ah, success—lost the loser.  He straightened up and sorted his jacket back into respectability as he rounded the house to go down an alley and back to the party—

A shiver shot up his spine, prompting him to turn around.

Nothing.

Except a feeling of being watched.

He picked up the pace and was very nearly in a flat-out run upon reaching the other end of the alley.  He didn't know what that was, but it felt…predatory.  It had not been good.

Small Town, he had said.  Maybe Racket Town would have been more accurate.

And forget the four-day time machine deadline—he had to figure out what to do to keep Charlie's life extending past next week.

If only he had more information.

"There you are!"

He jumped slightly as Charlie appeared next to him—she must have been working on a magic trick to pull that off.  Or maybe he was just distracted.

"I think Will's had enough fun for one night," she said.  "Are you ready to go?"

He had been up until two minutes ago.

Now, he had a vested worry in whatever was lurking in the dark past the strings of light.

He tried a grin on for style and added some charm when he responded.

"Nah—how about we stay a while?  It is a party, after all."

Chapter Text

Wilson was muttering floridly to himself, quite aware that people were giving him odd looks.  Understandable, considering he was currently setting the street up for a temporal displacement.

Of course, the officially faked papers that he had drawn up were sufficiently couched in obfuscating terminology that it wouldn't be clear, but someone had to do something—

"I can't believe it," he continued to grouse as he tightened the wire.  "Why do I have to set this all up by myself he's the one who invented it he should be out here helping—"

The he in question was, of course, Professor Carter, who seemed more preoccupied with keeping an eye on Charlie.

"No idea why considering I was the one who defanged the situation," Wilson muttered.  "Doing all the work while he sits on his duff—"

"Excuse me—"

"WHAT!?" Wilson snapped, rounding on the poor dope, wrench at the ready, before seeing that he had just snapped at a police officer.  "I mean—I'm sorry, what do you want?" Wilson moaned, rubbing his forehead.  He was looking forward to going back to his home-time and getting a good long night's sleep without a whole lot of worry.

The policeman, meantime, looked like he was sincerely contemplating arresting Wilson right then and there.  "What are you doing?" the officer opted to ask instead, indicating the wire now stretching across the street.

"I'm setting up for an experiment," Wilson explained, pulling out his jargon-filled pages to hand to the officer.  "I have the permission of the local university to conduct an experiment on the twelfth from nine-thirty till ten o' clock PM on this street."

The officer made a face as he read.  "Uh-huh.  You want to raise that wire a bit?  Delivery trucks might drive by."

"I was told that the police would be handling redirecting the traffic."  He pointed at the papers.  "If you'll consult section 47 paragraph—"

"I'll take your word for it," the officer said, handing the paper back hastily after thumbing through the rest of it—of which there was quite a bit; any shorter, and someone might be tempted to actually read it.  "This experiment thing—is it going to take the whole street?"

"From that movie theater there all the way to in front of the park there," Wilson said, pointing—that had been the length he had calculated necessary to get the DeLorean up to speed by the time he reached the wire.

"Uh-huh.  Well, just so you know, this street will have to be open until nine and after ten for the dance at the school."

"I don't anticipate starting before nine and I hope to be done by ten."

"All right….And you're doing all this by yourself?"

"My colleague deemed other matters to be more pressing."

"All right," the officer sighed again, walking away.  "Just don't hurt yourself."

"I'll try not to—oh, wait!" Wilson called, twisting around on the ladder.  "Did anything ever come of that investigation?"

The officer looked back, bemused.  "What investigation?"

"Into those two mobsters—Mr. Skits and DC."

The officer shrugged, still looking confused.  "I never heard anything about that.  Sorry."

And with that, he continued on his beat.

Wilson, meanwhile, felt rather cold inside.  Shouldn't there have been at least some news?

Unless—

Unless nothing had ever come of his call.

Unless Professor Carter was right, and the police were bought off.

Suddenly, the idea of staying home and protecting Charlie was sounding pretty palatable.

He quickly gathered his belongings and ran for the Carter residence, trying very hard to shake the feeling of being exposed, of being in the crosshairs—

Of being the target of a predator's gaze.

Chapter Text

Charlie decided that whatever had crawled into Max's head needed to crawl back out.  He had literally been following her all day, to the point that he was tripping over Chester and she was tripping over them both.  Some more unpacking had been done, but she was starting to reach the end of her rope.

"Where's Will?" she asked finally.

"Who?" Max asked, pulling things out of another box.

"The kid you've been doing science-things with in the garage."  Hopefully not on.

"Why?"

"You killed him, didn't you?"

"I'd like to."

She sighed heavily.  "Max, we've talked about this.  You do this every time.  Sometimes I think I'm the only other human on this planet you like besides yourself."

The odd, odd look he gave her just added to it.  "Will is good people," she told him.  "And I don't think you see that."

"The kid is a pain in the—"

"Max," she interrupted.  "You were getting along just fine with him up until a few days ago.  What happened?"

He was glaring at the box like it had done him wrong.  Ah….

"Fine, don't tell me," she said.  "Obviously, it's embarrassing.  Or maybe you think I can't handle it."

"It's not that.  Or that," he added, now glaring at a spot on the floor.  That had to be hurting his knees, sitting like that.

"Then what is it?  And no evading the topic this time."

He was staring at the far corner now, not quite glaring, set of his jaw saying he was upset over something.

"I'm…just worried," he said finally, sounding like he was struggling with it.  "That one of these days, I won't be able to protect you."

How sweet.  And vaguely evasive.  But it had the ring of truth in it, so she sat down next to him and leaned against him.

"You're sweet," she informed him.  "But I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself.  And we have a dog now, so there's that.  But we do need interactions with other people.  Social interactions.  It's not like you're that great of a kisser."

That prompted him to finally look at her with a dumbfounded stare.  "What?"

"I kid, obviously.  But not about the 'we need other people around' thing.  You're allowed to have friends, I'll have you know."

He sighed, resting his head on top of hers.  "I'm going to be in very deep trouble if I ever lose you," he said.

"There you are being morbid again—have you been reading the obituaries again?"

"We should get a bird—that's all the paper's good for."

"Are you seriously suggesting we get another living thing in this house?  Who are you, and what have you done with my Max?"

"Or we could stop getting the paper altogether."

"But then the paperboy would be out of a job."

"Ours isn't the only house he visits.  And then we wouldn't have to worry about him breaking a window or flinging the paper all over."

"Maybe if you hadn't threatened his life that one time."

"He threw the paper at my head."

"You shouldn't have been in the doorway."

"So I'm not allowed to leave my own house anymore?"

"Nope—you have to stay here with me all day."

"I've been doing that—I seem to be getting on your nerves."

"You don't have to be my own personal shadow, I'll have you know."

"But then I'd get the cool hat."

"This is true."

They sat in silence for the longest time, just enjoying each other's company.  This was nice, Charlie thought.  They should really do this more often.  Just sit together and watch the sun set.

"We need a porch swing," she decided.

"Is that a declaration of fact or an order?" he asked.

"A little bit of both.  I wouldn't mind having a porch swing—then we can sit on it together, watch the world go by…kibitz…."

"I do like that last one."

"I knew you would.  And we could have public displays of affection and offend the neighbors."

"I like that one too."

"See?  Now you want a porch swing."

"I do," he noised, putting his arm around her.  She hugged him, reflected that she'd have to learn a few recipes so it didn't feel entirely like hugging a scarecrow, but she had no complaints.

She blinked, noticing something in the growing gloom.  "The garage light is on," she noted.

"Hmm?"

"Oh, Will must be back."  She tapped him on the chest.  "Go invite him to dinner."

Max had his I don't want to and I'm going to bellyache about it expression on.  "Why?  I think we're doing quite well by ourselves."

"Because you're a terrible kisser."

"He probably is too."

"And you like sharpening your wit on other people."

"I do enjoy that."

"Will is other people.  And you actually win altercations with him."

"I thought these were discussions."

"Go get him, Max."

He sighed heavily, detecting that he had lost yet again and yet not fully willing to accept it, but struggled upright anyway.  Charlie accepted his proffered hand and stood with a little help—ow, feet were asleep.

"Thank you.  Now you go do that," she said, waving him along.  "And I'll…um…how does pizza sound?  That other people made?"

"Do I get to threaten the delivery boy?" he asked.

"No.  Do I get to flirt with him?"

"Do you want to help me hide a body?"

"No. I'll go call in the order then."

"And I suppose I'll go get the yutz," Max sighed, heading for the back door.

"Good boy," Charlie said, heading for the kitchen and the phone.

She made it into the hall when Max surprised her with a hug.  "And what's this for?" she asked.

"I need to be in a very good mood before I go deal with that kid.  And for the record, I'd actually like to not have other people in the house with us tonight."

She hugged him back.  "It's nice to have a dream," she informed him.  "Now go get Will."

He did so with much grumbling.  Satisfied that he was actually doing it, she turned to head into the kitchen—

Chester was growling.

"Chester?" she noised, heading into the front sitting room to investigate.  She really needed to turn some lights on….Feel along the wall…here we go!

She flicked the switch, illuminating the scene before her.

Chapter Text

Maxwell entered the garage to find the kid trying to negotiate with the operator.

"No, I'm not being silly—I want to contact the police to see if anything came of my earlier call—hello?"

"Do I even ask?" Maxwell wanted to know.

"I think the operator is refusing my calls now," the kid noised, fiddling with the phone now.  "Or maybe I got a hold of a party line—or some random person—dah, why don't people have actual numbers!?"

Maxwell waited for the kid to get through his little phone-focused tantrum and calm down before speaking again.  "Charlie wants me to let you back in the house."

"That's nice," the kid noised, forehead against the post and eyes closed.

"I told her it was a terrible idea."

"Cheers.  To be fair, I didn't like the last dinner we had."

"You have a problem with Charlie's cooking?"

"I have a problem with receiving concentrated ire all throughout the meal—it tends to ruin my appetite."

"And you're saying you're not deserving of it?"

"I'm not—if anything," the kid noised, standing upright and pointing at him.  "This is your fault."

"My fault?  How is any of this my fault?"

"You could have at least been a little more forthcoming with the information in the obituary," the kid said, crossing over to the time machine and swinging open the wing door.  "You could have given a specific cause, instead of us scrambling trying to figure out just what—"

The kid had his upper body in the car, giving Maxwell the perfect shot—size eleven straight to the back pocket.

"OW!  Hey!" the kid squawked, struggling to get upright—he had booted him straight into the passenger seat, Maxwell was pleased to note.  "What was that for!?"

"It was wide-open," Maxwell informed him.  "I would have been crazy not to take that shot."

He wouldn't have been surprised if steam was coming out of the kid's ears as he spluttered.  "I—you—why am I even helping you!?" the kid yelled finally.  "Why did I ever even talk to you!?  I should have transferred the first day I ever met you!"

"I wish you had—or will," Maxwell informed him, leaning on the car.  "It'd save me a lot of grief.  Hey, I ought to use this thing when I make it to keep your parents from ever meeting—I'd save the world at large a lot of grief."

The kid had his face buried in his hands—Maxwell could actually hear him mentally counting to ten.

"I'm curious," Maxwell noised.  "How did I ever gain the misfortune to meet you?"

The kid had his forehead resting against the dash now.  "I was in your class," he muttered.  "I was your least-irritating student, apparently."

"I'm beginning to regret taking that job."

"Although now I suppose you probably kept me around for the stable time-loop—so in reality you were just using me."  Somehow, the kid sounded disappointed at the realization.

"That sounds like me," Maxwell agreed.  "What, did you think I liked you?"

Long, long silence.

"Did I lose you in there?" Maxwell asked, leaning to look in the car again.  The kid had the back of his head to him, still resting against the dash, arms dangling like the strings had been cut.

"I suppose I entertained the notion," the kid said finally.  "It was nice to have…I don't know—I suppose an adult figure…a bit of a stretch, really….I suppose it was nice to delude myself into thinking there was someone in an authority position who thought I had…potential."

Maxwell blinked, digesting that notion.  This kid had to be joking.  The idea that he had even play-acted being…tolerable of someone else's existence….Charlie would love the notion, he was sure.

He went into the car and sat in the driver's seat, arms crossed, one foot on the garage floor, and waited for the kid to look at him.  As he did, he couldn't help but look in the rearview mirror.  Something he made actually worked.  He had done something right in his life besides marry Charlie.

The kid was looking at him now.  "I'm not any good at this sort of thing," Maxwell informed him.  "So for Charlie's sake, let's just pretend that we had this big, enlightening conversation and came out the other side with a different understanding of each other.  And try not to screw the story up when Charlie asks."

The kid made a face that might have been bemused, but leaned more towards abject confusion.  "Coming from you, that was almost heartfelt," the kid said finally.

"I only have enough mush to spare on one person—and news flash, you're not it."

Again, the face—and then the kid started laughing lightly.

"What?" Maxwell asked.

"I just—I suppose I liked having someone to talk to who could actually talk to me at my level instead of giving me that aren't you a dear tone.  I guess your acidity was refreshing."

"It's not for everyone, I'll admit.  Although I also have to say—I feel sorry for future me, getting stuck with you."

"On the positive side, if we can actually get the time machine working on the night it's supposed to, you'll have twenty-three me-free years to look forward to."

"I thought it was thirty."

"No, I went to Shanter University in '77."

"I wish you had gone to Cal Tech."

"To be fair, it would have been less of an experience—no practical applications of time travel there.  That we know of."

"At least Shanter's not as boring as I first thought."

The kid made a waffling motion with his hand in agreement, having sat back cross-armed in imitation of Maxwell over the course of the conversation—and it occurred to Maxwell that he was actually sitting in a car and having a conversation that was relatively polite and pleasant and even-keeled and—heaven help him—that he liked.

He swore under his breath, prompting the kid to ask, "What?"

"This isn't fair," he declared, hands still crossed but one finger up and wagging towards the house.  "She fights dirty—I don't even know how she does it, but she fights dirty."

The kid's expressions went through a number of changes, probably as he thought of things to say and discarded them, expression getting notably more morose as the silence dragged on.  The topic was obvious, and neither one of them wanted to address it.

The kid sighed finally, reaching in between the seat and the middle console and pulling out the paper.

"It isn't fair," the kid said, staring at the paper.  "Nice people like Charlie shouldn't die young."

"Life isn't fair," Maxwell told him, despite agreeing fully.  He was fairly certain there wasn't a limiter on what he would do to keep from losing her.

"But…we only have to worry for a few more—"

"What?" Maxwell asked, looking at the kid sharply—the sudden cutoff worried him.

The kid held the paper so he could see.  "The date changed."

"What?" Maxwell asked, snatching the paper away to look.  "What's the date now?"

The kid swallowed hard.  "Today."

And then they heard the gunshot.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Wilson thought he was going to throw up.

This was not good.  This was so not good.

He kept trying to get his brain to work, to focus on getting out of this rather than having his mind run around in circles trying to puzzle out this paradox—assess the situation.  That'd be a good starting point.

Except the situation wasn't all that hot.  He was currently sandwiched between two thugs, with a third driving the car and apparently heading for the docks.  Charlie and Professor Carter were both in other cars, probably separated from each other—his stomach flopped again, and he was forced to press his lips together and grit his teeth and focus on his breathing to keep from losing…breakfast.  He hadn't eaten since breakfast.  And if he threw up in here they'd shoot him and he'd never get back and the space time continuum would go on without him and oh Charlie….

He'd never see Willow again.  Charlie would be dead and buried, Wilson would be a no-name corpse….Maybe he'd be lucky and they'd donate his body to science.

Charlie….

He wondered how Professor Carter had thought he'd undo what had been done.  Walk into his own house and walk out with Charlie?  Drop a line to himself telling him to get out of town?  Blow up these goons' hideout?  Call in an air strike?

Stop—stop.  Focus, Dr. Higgsbury—yes, you are a doctor, he reminded himself.  You are a brilliant scientist, you have a canny mind, and you are quite capable of making connections and figuring things out on a dime.  Focus.  How are you going to get yourself and the Carters out of this?

Good question, he thought.  When you figure it out, let me know.

He scowled, clenched his fists, concentrated on not looking at any of the goons and giving them a reason to shoot him before they reached their destination, wherever that was.  He risked a glance out the windows—waterfront area, but he didn't recognize any of it….Of course he didn't recognize any of it!  He had never been to the waterfront, had never had reason to go to the waterfront, would never be caught dead near it because it was where—

Oh no.

It suddenly occurred to him just who those goons worked for.

The Shadow Man.

It also occurred to him how he must have gotten that moniker—Wilson had been within a foot of the man, and yet he hadn't heard him approach, hadn't seen him standing there until he spoke, hadn't seen any detail to his face…if he didn't know any better, he'd have thought the man was…magic.

No.  Magic wasn't science.  There was a perfectly good explanation for all this, for why he couldn't discern the man's face, for why his very presence had made Wilson want to run away and hide and yet simultaneously freeze in place—there had to be a reason.  He was a ruthless gangster with a predatory aura—there.  That was a good reason.

And yet Wilson couldn't shake the feeling that wasn't the whole of it.  There was something about the man, something beyond humanity's normal capability for sinister—

"Oi," the thug to his left said.  "We're here.  Out."

Wilson looked—saw the interior of a warehouse before he was dragged unceremoniously out by the scruff of his neck.

Wilson felt even worse when he realized this looked like a processing warehouse.  There were much too many machines that could become very, very painful in a very, very short amount of time.

"So," the Shadow Man said, sitting on the hood of a sedan before him—again, no lights were on, and Wilson couldn't shake the phrase night monster out of his head.  "Here's how this works.  I am going to kill you.  But I'll let you talk first, and if I like the answer, I won't kill you as painfully."

Wilson glanced around—saw the Carters—maybe this was the real reason Professor Carter befriended him: he was brutally murdered in front of him and perhaps….

Wilson's world suddenly sharpened into clarity.

He had an idea.  A crazy, stupid, insane idea, but he had an idea.

Now here was hoping it worked.

"What do you want to know?" Wilson asked.

Maxwell stared at the kid.

What was he doing?  A minute ago he looked like Maxwell felt—scared out of his mind.

Bluffing occurred to him—the kid was trying to bluff his way out of this.

Maxwell quickly discarded that notion—the kid didn't have nearly enough street-savvy to bluff his way out of a situation like this.  There had to be something else—

And then the kid looked at him—only a second, but in that second, he saw something that turned his stomach.

The kid's expression—it was the sort reserved for those who are about to die and know it.

And then the kid's attention was riveted back on the Shadow Man as he made his demands.

"Why don't we start from the top?" the Shadow Man demanded in a predatory purr.

"That might be a lot to ask for," the kid said.  "But I can give it a shot—my name is Wilson Percival Higgsbury, born April thirteenth, nineteen-fifty-eight.  I came here in a time machine to ensure a stable time loop—we can't have any paradoxes, now can we?"

Yup, definitely cracked—which was what the Shadow Man's body language said he thought as well.

"Do I look like I was born yesterday?" the Shadow Man asked.

"Ah, but of course, you want proof—and not just that from my drivers' license either, as that can be easily faked.  No, I see you'd want a demonstration, and I can give it to you—in the garage at 2013 Klei—I conned these good souls into harboring both myself and the machine—take the time machine out to an open stretch where it can get up to eighty-eight, and I guarantee you'll see some serious fireworks."

The hard swallow was obvious, but the kid managed to remain remarkably straight-faced as the Shadow Man pulled out a knife and laid it against his neck.  Maxwell had barely seen him move.

"The only reason I didn't kill you in that house is because killing you there would be pointless," the Shadow Man hissed, before nodding at one of his underlings.  "Killing you here is not.  Show him the door."

It was an innocuous enough statement, but the Shadow Man's delivery and his underlings' reactions told Maxwell that that was not a good thing, even beyond the imminent death it promised.

"Hold it!"

Everyone turned to look, the kid's face fell—oh wait, it had been Maxwell who said that.  Now what?

Rule number one of being a magician: always be the smartest person in the room.

Rule number two: misdirection is key.

Rule number three: when in doubt, bluff as hard as you can.

And if there was one thing Maxwell was certain of, it was that he was an excellent magician.

Now here was hoping he could sell it.

"Don't tell me you're falling for that line of bull," Maxwell said, pointing at the kid—please, catch on, keep them looking in two different directions, please…."That kid lifted that from a Flash Gordon comic!"

"Really," the Shadow Man said blandly.

"Oh sure—we were planning on yanking the chains of the guys at the university—and then your two idiot pals there fell for it first.  Honestly, they're as dumb as a bag of hammers, and that's with me being generous."

"Since when were you generous?" Charlie asked—ah, playing the lovely assistant.  Here was hoping his move to better block her from view went unnoticed.

"I'd fire those two if I were you—they make your whole organization look bad."

"Hey!" the short one protested.  "We do not!"

"You did have to explain the finer points of mugging to your partner there," the kid pointed out—yes, just what he needed.

"That is depressing," Maxwell rejoined.

"That is," the Shadow Man agreed.

And then bam bam!  Two dead goons.

"See, that was their mistake," the Shadow Man said, turning back to a horrified Maxwell.  "Now back to yours.  Those two weren't remotely the smartest tacks in the box, but that shouldn't have mattered because they worked for me, and that should have been enough to dissuade errant stupidity from random smart mouths."

"Well," Maxwell tried—his mouth felt dry.  "It's not like they were wearing name tags or something like that."  Movement—the goons were distracted with getting rid of the bodies, and the kid—

The kid was actually taking the opportunity to move.

Maxwell grinned at the Shadow Man.  "I don't know, maybe you ought to get into a different business, pal."

"Oh yes," the Shadow Man said.  "Maybe I ought to get into the magic business—you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?  The Amazing Maxwell.  All smoke and mirrors and parlor tricks.  You're not trying for that now, are you?  It would really be a pity if you tried to pull a fast one on me."

"Oh yeah," Maxwell said, squashing the thrill of horror at the fact that this guy had known his stage name, when he hadn't made it well-known here, and practically guessed his entire scheme.  "I'm rigging it up so a piano falls on your head.  Funny, huh?"

Bam.

Maxwell went to the ground with a yell of agony as white-hot pain laced across his leg—shot—shot in the leg—blood seeping between fingers—

"No, that's funny," the Shadow Man said flatly.  "As is this."

Even through the fog of pain, Maxwell could see the Shadow Man swing up the gun to point it at Charlie, who had fallen to her knees behind Maxwell, half-reaching for him—

"Say goodbye to your pretty wife," the Shadow Man sneered.

No—

A flood of bright light—a snarling roar—a loud squealing—

And then hot air, the sound of steel hitting a body—OW!

Maxwell barely registered the kid landing on him—all he had eyes for was the sedan slamming into the Shadow Man, driving him through the wooden wall and into the bay.

Silence reigned for a long time.

And then what had happened registered.

Guns clicked, pointed—

"I hear sirens!" the kid said loudly.  "I think I heard the FBI was in town!"

The goons exchanged glances—

And apparently decided it wasn't worth the trouble of finding out.  They fled as fast as they could, like shadows vanishing in daylight.

Maxwell let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding in before sagging against the ground.

"All right, get off me," he said finally, shoving at the kid.  "This is awkward."

"Sorry," the kid muttered, rolling off of him.  Charlie was instantly patting him down once he was nerd-less.

"You'll live," Charlie said finally, poking at his gunshot wound.  Ow.  "It's just a graze.  Your pants are the only fatality."

"That's good to know," Maxwell sighed.  "You know, except for the fact that I liked this outfit."

"You'll survive, I'm sure."

The entirety of this was sinking in—he had vanished so quickly, but….

"Now I know why you limp sometimes," the kid said, prompting Charlie to look at him.

"About what you said," Charlie said.  "About time travelling and stuff…."

"Uh…it's involved, and…stuff…."

"The kid's a yutz, Charlie, leave him be," Maxwell said to her, savoring the realization that the Shadow Man was either dead or not in a position to do anything, Charlie was alive….

And wonder of wonders, it was because of the kid.

Okay, that was enough.

"All right, I've had enough fun for one day," Maxwell said, struggling upright to a sitting position.  "I'm ready to go home now."

"Me too," Charlie said as she helped him to a standing position, ducking under an arm to give him someone to rest his weight on as the kid simply opted to help haul him up.

"Um, sorry about your car," the kid said, glancing at the hole in the wall.  "It was the first one I got to—"

"Wait, what?" Maxwell asked, glancing around.  There were a bunch of black sedans…but there wasn't the black sedan, with the front tags he recognized.

"Well…I just went with the first one I got to, and it still had the keys in it—"

"My car," Maxwell said weakly, when what the kid said sank in.  "Why—why my car?  I was two months away from paying it off!  And you sank it!"

"What he means to say is thank you, Will," Charlie said, managing to loosen one hand enough to reach over to pat the kid.

"That's not what I mean—my car!"

"Your money or your life, Max."

Maxwell was quiet for the longest time.

"That decision can't be that difficult," the kid said finally.

"That was a lot of money invested over a chunk of my life," Maxwell countered.  "Yes, the decision is that difficult."

"Your money or your wife."

Maxwell glared at the kid, who shrugged blandly.  He felt arms around his chest—

That was right—the kid had been willing to throw his life away to save theirs.

Not that Maxwell was going to give him any credit for that—that would just be against character, and they couldn't have that.

So instead, after giving Charlie a quick hug, he hobbled over to bend down next to the nearest unconscious goon and rifled through his pockets until he found a set of keys.

"It seems fair," he said, by way of explanation.  "Now let's find out which of these cars this kook owns and go home—I've had enough excitement for one day."

"Me too," Charlie said, leaning heavily on him and still seeming remarkably sad for someone who had just cheated death.  Cheated death….She was going to live.  She had to.  After all this, after—

Oh.  Right.

The dog.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The drive back was vaguely within the speeding limit, and Wilson was back into his usual clothes in record time.  The drive to the square was equally frenetic, and Wilson surprised himself with how he hugged Maxwell's bumper the whole way—kind of sore it wasn't working, since he was pretty certain he had hit eighty-eight a couple of times.

"Okay," Maxwell said, greatcoat flapping in the increasing wind as he filled up the DeLorean's tank.  "You've got that clock set?"

"Got it," Wilson said, winding up the little alarm clock and setting it on the dash before stepping back out—his vest might have cut down on the severity of the wind hitting his torso, but said wind found plenty of other body parts to whip at, and ways down his collar besides.

"Great!" Maxwell said, tossing the empty can away before pointing down the road.  "So!  You drive down there, speed back this way, hit that wire when the lightning hits that tower, and…I guess that's all she wrote."

"And we hope the whole thing doesn't explode," Wilson called over the wind.

"If I were you, I'd be more concerned about hitting that building down that way."

Wilson glanced at the building in question, glanced at the clock tower to check the time—this was it.  This was when they found out whether he was going back to the future or not.  He couldn't even begin to describe the bundle of nerves he was right now—he was shaking, and his insides felt empty except for the contents of his stomach, which were insisting on imitating lead.

"Say, pal, you don't look so good."

Wilson glanced back at Maxwell, who looked similarly nervous as he stuffed his hands in his pockets—

Shift to confusion as he pulled a letter out of one of them.

Oh.

"What is this?" Maxwell asked, having to shout to be heard over the wind.

"You'll find out in thirty years," Wilson responded, gripping the DeLorean to keep himself upright—partially from nerves, partially from wind, wincing as the first drops stung him.

"What is this?  Is this about the future?"

"It's important!  And no, it's not the winners of the next World Series."

"Give me something useless then," Maxwell said, putting the letter in both hands.

"NO!" Wilson yelped, jumping forward.  "If you never do me another favor in your life!  PLEASE!  Don't tear up that letter!"

"What is this even about!?"

"It's—it's important to keep Charlie happy."

"Do what?  What is this!?"

"I told you!  You'll find out in thirty years!  Just—"

CRASH.

Wilson jumped backwards, Maxwell did the same, as a bough from the nearby tree broke from the wind and crashed down, landing on the wire—

And ripping it clean from its moorings.

Wilson yelped in alarm, Maxwell ran forward, Wilson did the same—

Maxwell spun around, glaring at him and stopping him in his tracks.

"Not you!" Maxwell ordered, jabbing a finger at the DeLorean.  "You get in that car and you get to your starting line!  NOW!"

"But—" Wilson started.

"No buts!"  This with a finger jabbed at the clock tower—Wilson couldn't help but eye the letter gripped in his fist.  "You see that?  You're out of time!  Now get in that car!  I'll take care of things here!"

And with that, Maxwell was running off, coat billowing in the wind.

Wilson stood there, frozen for several moments—

Before bolting for the car, levering the door shut—buckling his seat belt after a moment's thought—hooking a U-turn and speeding to the line in front of the park, skidding around to face the square when he reached it—

He was shaking, he realized.  There was a chance—a very real chance—that he wouldn't make it.

And there was a chance—a very real chance—that Maxwell would simply throw that letter away.

He couldn't risk it.  There had to be a way—there had to be something he could do to make sure Maxwell didn't meet his untimely fate back in 1985!

And then the answer hit him with such immediacy and obviousness that he had to slap himself in the forehead.

Idiot—he was in a time machine!  He had all the time in the world if he used it to his advantage!

Flex his fingers as he looked the time circuits over, debating about how much time would be necessary—it wasn't too terribly long a drive from here to where the Twin Pines Mall would be…fifteen minutes ought to do it.

"All right!" Wilson cheered, once the circuits were adjusted.  "Time circuits on—flux capacitor…fluxing," he noised, twisting in his seat to check the device before facing forward again.  "I'd say we're ready to go!"

Which was when all the lights in the dash went out and the car stopped making noise.

"What?  NO!" Wilson yelped, twisting the key and mashing on the gas.  "NO!  No, no, no—you can't die on me!  Not now!  Wait until we're in 1985!  I beg of you!  Please!  Work, you stupid piece of—"

BRIIIIING!

He stared in horror at the alarm clock dancing across the dash.

He was out of time.

Maxwell was bolting up the steps, calling the kid every single name in the book—if he gave himself a heart attack—

"Stupid idiot kid got a flyer predicting a thunderstorm but couldn't predict where a stupid limb would fall," he muttered, reaching the door for clock maintenance and barging through—

And very nearly swallowing his heart upon stepping out and finding himself looking three stories down.

He flattened himself against the wall, apologizing for the language that came out—because he certainly didn't want to be going on to the next life with that fresh on his record—

That letter.

He glanced at it—saw the do no open on the part still sticking out of his fist—

Later.

He stuffed it into his pocket, trying his best to focus.  Think.  This was just another stage.  A very, very, very narrow stage.  With lightning destined to strike in only a few minutes.  Right.  Probably shouldn't dally.

Shuffle along, hook his fingers on the clock hands—nine forty-four, oh man he had less than a minute—reach down carefully, manage to hook the plug that had been hanging precariously on the lip of the edge, reach it up triumphantly for the other end of the plug—

It came up short.

He panicked, yanked harder, reaching up for the other plug to try to yank it—he had literally seconds—

And then the ledge broke.

An instinctual tightening of his fist on the hanging plug saved him from a messy fate as a pancake on the front steps of the town hall.  It didn't do much to stop his heart from jumping into his throat and pounding like a tripwire, for which he decided he probably ought to be grateful—

He didn't have the other end of the plug.

Cast about frantically—it was hooked on the hem of his pants.  Oh boy, that was….

Starting to rip.

Oh man oh man—angle his body, reach his arm down and lift his leg up, trying to find purchase with his other leg while keeping a death-grip on the plug….A steadily weakening death grip as he reached for an increasingly ripped pants hem—almost—

Got it!

With one worry down, he was able to dedicate his entire attention to returning both feet to the ledge—

In time for the clock to strike nine-forty-five.

The gonging of the hammer against the bell was unbearable this close, nearly knocked him off the ledge and definitely affected his hearing—it felt like the hammer was hitting his head and ringing his ribs.  Cover his ears in an attempt to keep the noise out—

Ice cold water suddenly flooded his veins.

The clock tower was struck at nine-forty-five.

They were out of time.

Chapter Text

Some clinical part of Wilson's brain told him that jumping up and down on the pedals and calling the car every name in the book was not a conductive way to get it to start working.

The more immediate part of his mind, however, the part that was currently screaming at him about how he was going to be stuck in the past for the rest of his life, was governing his thought processes at the moment, and said part of his mind told him that being in absolute panic was somehow helpful.  Clinical part of his mind argued that a heart attack before he was thirty was not helpful, but it was fighting a losing battle.

Especially considering that the less sensible part of his mind then hit on the idea of banging his head against the steering wheel.  Wilson yelped at the pain that blossomed through his forehead.

And then he stared in absolute consternation as the dash lit back up and the engine turned over.

"I…never mind.  Not important," he said, shifting the car into gear and slamming on the gas—ostensibly, his less sensible part of his mind said, before the car could change its mind.

The clinical part of his mind was firmly back in charge and trying to smother the absolute panic that was the tiny fact that the bell had rang two minutes ago.

He was so very much screwed.

But—but!  The clock tower hadn't been struck yet—there was hope!

That hope died upon seeing Maxwell running for the plug, aiming to connect the two.

It didn't matter if he was going eighty-eight—without that strike—

He winced, ready to slam on the brakes, knowing that this was the end—

And then a resounding boom, a sudden flash of light—

Maxwell screwed up his eyes, bracing himself for the strike—he wasn't sure what being electrocuted would feel like, but he was certain it was going to be unpleasant—

The gonging ceased—

Nothing happened.

He looked at the clock, looked up—

"Wow, thanks," he managed to gasp out.  Of course, he still had a full minute of nine-forty-five—

Yank hard on the plug to get the two ends together, desperation lending him strength—

They connected—ha HA!

…They had too much slack.

He looked down, followed the line down—

It was hooked on the branch and unplugged from the main wire stretching across the street.

"Oh come ON!" he bellowed, resisting stomping his foot in irritation—that most certainly wouldn't end well.

Okay, new plan.

Haul up some slack in the line, loop it and fling it onto the minute hand—nine-forty-six—hope his gloves were thick enough—

"Oh this is such a stupid idea," he muttered—

Right before jumping off the edge, hooking his heels onto the wire and hanging on for dear life as he went zipping down the line—

He landed hard and with a pained ouffh!—rolled, bounced back up, yanked on the wire to try to loosen the plug from the branch—started ripping at the branch when that didn't work—

He heard an engine revving, tires peeling—

Out of time.

Yank hard—free!  Run for the other plug—

Yank back as he came up short again.

"Oh come on!" he yelled again, reflecting that he'd have to expand his vocabulary soon as he yanked as hard as he could on the cord—some slack came, prompting him to glance up—no, the other end was still plugged in.  Run for the other plug, jab it in—

Just as a blinding flash of light flared on top of a rolling crash of thunder—

Electricity flared through the wire, sending him flying backwards and flat on his back, breathless from impact—

And then another immediate crash of thunder, a blinding flash of light—

Maxwell sat up just in time to see two treads of fire burn off towards the end of the street.

No time machine.

No kid.

It worked.

He walked out to the street in a daze, stood between the twin trails of flame for the longest time….

And then suddenly started cheering madly, jumping up and down and pumping the air.

It worked!

He had made something that worked!

Well, will have made—but who cared!  He ran down the street, then back to look at the clock tower—

Nine-forty-five, when the flyer had said.

But it had struck nine-forty-five earlier….

He checked his pocket watch—dead from the shock that had knocked him flat.  And frozen at nine-forty-seven.

His weight, he realized, when he had used the clock hand as an impromptu zip line and then yanked for the slack line—he had pulled the minute hand off by two minutes.

But who cared—it worked!

He glanced over the whole setup, looking at the rig….The kid had actually been pretty sharp, he realized.  Maybe he'd have to be nicer to the kid when he saw him again.

In thirty years….

He couldn't take it anymore—and thus, ignoring the perfectly good sedan still parked nearby, he ran for home, Oxfords slipping on the pavement, not even considering slowing down until he was up the stairs and nearing the bed where Charlie was dozing, clutching a pillow to her—

And then jolting awake as he made a little jump and flopped down on the bed.

"Ngh—wha?" she managed, looking around blearily.

"I have great news," he told her.  "I made something that works."

She tried to focus on him through sleep-addled eyes.  "Congratulations?"

"Well, if we want to be technical, I will make something that works—"

"That couldn't wait until morning?"

"You remember the kid?"

She stared at him.  "You didn't kill him, did you?  We talked about this."

"No," Maxwell stressed, then thought about it.  "Maybe.  I don't know."

Now she was sitting up.  "Max?  What did you do?"

He was grinning as he looked up at her, trying very hard not to burst out in excited laughter.  "I made a time machine."

Her response was about what he expected.

"Do what?"

Chapter Text

A blinding flash of light—

And he drove right into a building.

Wilson yelped in alarm and then cursed as he reversed the car and fought its way back out of the plate glass windows, some small aspect of his mind recalling that the toy car had run into the model buildings when they had tested it—

The car died upon emergence, prompting Wilson to use a few more of Professor Carter's preferred curses as he exited the vehicle and looked around—

And looked around again—

The graffiti, the stores, the bum on the bench muttering about crazy drunk drivers—

He was back.

It had worked.

He couldn't help but dance in the street at the revelation, pumping the air and gripping hanks of his hair and telling every last bit of 1985 that he loved it to death—he was back!  He was home!

He was needed somewhere else.

He ran back to the car, frantically tried to start the engine—he had only given himself a fifteen-minute head-start to warn Professor Carter—

He glanced up as lights flashed in the wing mirror—

To see a VW van turn down the street and head towards the mall.

His blood ran cold as he realized he had seen the silhouettes of guns in the van.

Forget the stupid car—he ran for the Twin Pines Mall as fast as he possibly could.

Lone Pine Mall, he quickly amended upon arriving out of breath—

And just in time to see Professor Carter gunned down.

Again.

He heard a loud scream, connected it with—

Himself.

He was looking at himself, down in the parking lot, frozen in fear and braced for the end—

And despite it being probably Libyans and not Shadow-Man goons, the gun jammed again.

Wilson sent a quiet thank-you upwards for the save and watched, riveted, as his—past?  Future?—self dove into the DeLorean and pulled the door shut after a moment's hesitation.  The time machine pulled away, pursued by the van—

Wilson knew what was coming, and it was odd to know this and see it from another angle.  There, right there—that long stretch of open lot that enabled the car to get up to eighty-eight—

And then a blinding flash, and it was gone, leaving two flaming treads and a vanful of very confused goons who collided painfully with a bus stop, rolling the van and leaving it to crash in a burning heap against the mall's exterior wall.  Having been on the receiving end of those bullets, Wilson didn't feel much empathy at the moment for them.

Besides, he had an entirely different focus.

Nonono please don't be dead, he thought, that mantra taking him down the slope and across the lot at record speed.  Don't be dead don't be dead don't be dead—

He reached Professor Carter, skidded to a halt and dropped to his knees—

He wasn't moving.

"No," Wilson breathed, checking for him breathing.  "No…Professor!"  Ear to the chest—nothing.  "Max!  No!"

But there was no denying those bullet holes and the lack of a rise and fall in his chest.

Wilson fell back, strings cut. He was dead. His teacher, his colleague…his friend….

Dead.

He was aware of his eyes and throat burning, buried his face in his hands—

He heard a light cough.

He jerked upright in time to see Professor Carter stirring.

"Ow," Professor Carter managed.

"Y—you're alive?" Wilson gasped, unbelieving.

Professor Carter looked like he very dearly wanted to give a smart comeback to that, but the breath had evidently been knocked out of him.  He instead settled for struggling to a sitting position.

"Wait—how?" Wilson asked, wanting to keep him from further injuring himself but not wanting to risk the head slap.  "How did you—"

Professor Carter unzipped the radiation suit and pulled it open.

"A bulletproof vest," Wilson muttered, realizing, staring at the slugs buried in the Kevlar—the impact must have knocked Professor Carter clean out….

He looked at the professor properly now.  "But…how did you know?" he couldn't help but ask.

Professor Carter was still wheezing as he fished through his pockets, finally pulling out an old letter that had been damaged by wind and rain at one point—

Wilson's letter.

"Say, pal," Professor Carter finally had the breath to crack.  "Better close your mouth before a fly gets in there."

Wilson finally managed to string two thoughts together.  "What about what we discussed?" he asked.  "About—about ruining the space-time continuum and all that?"

Professor Carter gave one of his customary grins—

"I decided—what the heck."

It was a clear night, and Shanter was absolutely quiet as they drove home.  All was right with the world.

Wilson—now that he wasn't having to worry about a million things—was finding himself nodding off again and again, pure unadultered relief adding to his drowsiness—

"Hey, wake up—we're home."

Wilson jerked upright and rubbed his eyes as the DeLorean made the turn into 2013 Klei Street.  In the proper time this time around.

He unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door, letting the cool night air revitalize him for a moment before looking at Professor Carter.

"So," Wilson said finally.

"So," Professor Carter rejoined.

"So now what?  What were you planning on doing now?  Or would the more appropriate question be when?"

Professor Carter shrugged.  "About thirty years," he said.  "Check out the next millennium."  A sort of cough-laugh.  "Get the winners of the next thirty World Series."

"Look me up when you get there—I'll probably be some renowned scientist by then."

"The only one that plays electric guitar."

"I'm certain I'm not the only one…."

"Sure sure—get out."

Wilson shrugged, turned and levered himself out, made to shut the door—

"Wilson."

Wilson blinked, bent back down to look at Professor Carter in mild surprise—that was the only time he could remember him using his name—

Professor Carter was smiling, and not meanly, either.  "Thanks."

Wilson returned the smile.  "Thank you," he said.

He shut the door, waved Professor Carter off as he pulled out of the driveway—

He was halfway to the steps when he heard the familiar whine of the time machine warming up, stopped and turned, watched it zip by, lightning arcing off of it—

And then a blinding flash of light down the street, and then silence.

Wilson heaved a sigh, filled with emotion he couldn't quite describe—

He unlocked the door and entered the house, keeping enough presence of mind to turn and lock it before making a beeline for the couch and collapsing on it.

He was asleep in moments.

Cautious steps made their way down the stairs, having heard the thump—

Sigh upon spotting him on the couch—

And then a minor grunt as she got him upright and an arm draped over her shoulder, dragging him upstairs to his bed.

Honestly.

Chapter Text

Another new school year. Another six months of cooking up new ways to torture Strickland and the new kids.  Ah, he loved tenure.

After marching in and giving his usual you're doomed speech as he wrote on the board, he turned to face the class—

And stopped dead.

The kid seated front-row-center—

He knew that hair.

"Hey, down in front!" he snapped.  "Eyes up here!"

The kid looked up, startled—

No mistaking that face either—the kid in the time machine, Wilson.

That was him.

He kick-started his brain before anything could be made of the recognition.  "Now that I have your undivided attention," Maxwell snarled, mind racing as he sketched out the rest of the lesson.

Wait until Charlie heard about this.

The first opportunity he had to call home was lunchtime, at which point he rapidly dialed the number.

"Carter residence," Charlie chirped into the phone.

"Charlie," Maxwell said, trying to keep his voice calm and even.  "You will not believe who I saw today—"

"Burt Reynolds?"

"No," Maxwell said tetchily.  "What is it with you and that guy?"

"While we're on the subject, how's getting me a Trans Am coming?"

"Forget the stupid car—and if I recall, I was the one who wanted a Trans Am."

"Excuses.  Now what were you going to say?"

"I've decided to keep it a secret."

"Max…."

"Front-row-center in my class today—very familiar face today.  You remember back in '55, Will-son, the car, the time machine—"

There was a tremendous crash on the other end of the phone.

"Charlie?  Charlie!" Maxwell yelled, once he returned the receiver to his ear.

"Sorry—sorry," she stammered, back on the line and sounding shaken.  "Sorry—I dropped the phone."

"Oh, is that what that was?"

"And a pan or two.  Max—you know what you have to do, right?"

"Yeah," Maxwell muttered, rubbing his face.  "Stable time-loop and all that."  The only question was how.

"You should invite him to dinner," Charlie said, hitting upon her own solution.

"I can't do that," Maxwell said.  "He might get the impression I like him."

"If memory serves, you did."

"It'd ruin my reputation as a terrible teacher."

"I told you to play nice with the other kids."

"It's embarrassing."

"That's not my problem."

"You don't play fair."

"I know.  Now go invite him to dinner."

Joy.

Maxwell left his office, stalking through the halls with a briefcase and a certain look that he had long-practiced and that struck fear into the hearts of the populace.  Mostly because right now he'd really love to visit some pain on people.

He found the kid walking down the hall, nose in a book with the exceptions of when he was getting a boot to the behind.

"Ha ha, that's very funny!" the kid spat finally, spinning around to yell at his tormentors—Maxwell rolled his eyes at the Kick me sign taped to his back.

"Yes, see?" the kid continued, thinking the others were shrinking back from the confrontation—well, they were, just not because of the kid.  "You should all feel ashamed of yourselves!"

"You should," Maxwell agreed, ripping the sign off the kid's back and holding it up for perusal.  "This is the best college students can aspire to?  It gives me a dim view of the future."

The other kids tore off, leaving Wilson to leap in alarm at Maxwell before glaring in open-mouth dejection at the sign.

"Making friends, I see," Maxwell observed, as the kid took the sign from him.

"Not hardly," the kid growled, ripping the sign to tiny shreds.

"Uh-huh.  Ever think about just punching them and getting it over with?"

"That's a very coarse way of approaching things."

"Uh-huh."

"Don't question my logic."

"I'm sorry, who's the student here?"

"What is this?" Strickland demanded, coming down the hall.  "I hear you've been torturing the students again, Carter."

"No more than usual," Maxwell replied blithely.

"I'm sure.  Higgsbury!" Strickland snapped at the kid.  "I've been getting complaints about you from your dormmates!"

"What?" the kid yelped, holding a book up to protect himself.  "What did I do?"

"You existed," Maxwell interjected.  "Strickland, I know you're winding up for an out-of-the park pitch, but I do have to go.  Come on, useless."

Biff Tannen looked up, put his mop in his bucket, and started to follow.

Maxwell wagged a finger at him.  "Not you," he chided, grabbing the kid by the scruff of the neck.

"Wha-me?" the kid squeaked.

"Where do you think you're going?" Strickland asked.

"Oh, you see, my wife likes me to take students home for dinner," Maxwell explained.  "And I figure this kid fits into the pot nicely.  Ta!"

The kid's stammering gave him some hope.

Maybe he could pull this off and still keep his reputation and the space-time continuum intact.

It was with a small amount of trepidation that he drove the kid home.

He had to admit, there was some weirdness there—the kid probably figured it was because he was technically a professor while the kid was a student.  Inviting students to dinner—especially ones that had just met—was technically not done.

Mental calculation—another seven years before he could say anything.

Because how could he explain to the kid that they had met twenty-three years earlier?

Thank goodness he had called Charlie earlier, he decided as he pulled into the driveway—there she was, bouncing at the porch railing in the growing twilight.

As he stepped out of the car and watched her run over, he reflected he'd never get tired of seeing her.  Ever.

Charlie, meanwhile, seemed to have to restrain herself to keep from hugging the kid, instead settling for shaking both his hands once he exited the car.

"You must be Wilson," she bubbled.  "Max said you were coming."

"Uh," the kid noised—he wondered if it had occurred to him that Maxwell did indeed have a name beyond Professor Carter.

Charlie, meanwhile, had let go and run around to leap onto Maxwell, seizing him in a hug and whispering excitedly in his ear.  "It's him!  It's really him!"

"I recall saying that," Maxwell returned in muted fashion, returning the hug.

In short order, she was buzzing around again, dragging them both up the steps and into the dining room, shoving them down in their respective seats and chattering away happily—thank goodness she had had a few hours to compose herself, otherwise she might have exploded.

"So Wilson," she noised after finally taking a deep breath, knocking her knuckles together.  "How do you like campus life?  How's your dorm?"

"I…uh…dislike it immensely," he said, poking at a pirogue.  Maxwell was focusing on his own dish in lieu of participating in the awkwardness and wondering how the kid felt about having his favorite foods served by people he had never met.  "I'm sleeping in the stairwell, actually…."

"What?  Why?"

"My roommate said he'd break me in half if I went back in the room."

"Ouch," Maxwell muttered, trying to stifle a grin.  The nasty little part of him that was often scolded by his mental Charlie voice would have paid money to see that.  At the very least, it explained the Kick me sign decorating the kid earlier.

"That's terrible," Charlie said, something in her voice prompting him to look up—she was looking at him out of the corner of her eyes.  Uh-oh….

"Uh," Maxwell noised, pointing with his fork.  "We have a couch," he said slowly.

"Wonderful idea!" Charlie said, leaping on it immediately.  "You'll stay with us."

"What?" the kid asked, at about the same time Maxwell started kneading his forehead.

"It's a great idea!" Charlie said, beaming.  "You stay here, go to school with Max in the mornings, come home at night—and you both can putter around in that lab in the garage."

"Lab?" the kid echoed, completely lost.

"Come on," she said, already bouncing up and dragging the kid out of the chair.  "Let's get you settled."

"I really shouldn't—" the kid tried, but too late—he had already been steamrolled.

"It's no trouble!" Charlie told him, tugging him out of the dining room.  "Come on!  Let me show you your room."

"Room?" Maxwell echoed, before leaping to his feet and running after them, fork still in hand.  "Charlie!  Charlie!  There's a perfectly good couch right there!  He doesn't need a room!  Charlie!"

Too late—the situation had run completely away from him, and he had no choice but to sulk at the foot of the stairs.

He reminded himself how things would have gone without the kid and the paradox, and decided that he could probably get over it.

He glanced down at Chester, sitting next to him and panting happily.

"My worst nightmare has come to pass," Maxwell told the dog.  "She's adopted him."

Chapter Text

Wilson woke to the incessant buzzing of his alarm.

He managed to hit it, pull himself out of the contortion that he had been in, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and reflecting on what a nightmare he had had.  What a dream—time travel!  Stuck in 1955 for a week!  And Professor Carter had been married!

Actually, come to think of it, that had been a vivid dream….

And he was having quite a few conflicting memories.

He finally looked around, not strictly paying attention at first, before his surroundings registered on him.

He wasn't on the couch.

Instead, he was in a room that looked very much like how a room would look if he were allowed to decorate it.  Huey Lewis posters and tapes and CCR and a guitar tucked neatly in the corner, while science stuff littered the rest of the room.  It reminded him a bit of his room back home, to the point that he was expecting his mother to come in and tell him to pick up this junk at once—

"Oh boy," he muttered, jumping up out of bed—still in the clothes he had worn the night before, and his shoes, but apparently he had the sense to half-pull off his suspenders and take his waistcoat off.  He pulled his suspenders and waistcoat back on and pulled the door open, sticking his head out cautiously.

He was half-tempted to use one of the swear words Professor Carter was fond of—this looked very much like the Carters' house in 1955.  But that couldn't be!  Didn't the time machine work?

Didn't it?

He cautiously made his way down the hall and stairs—no one yet.  And still looking like 1955, with a few minor variances.  He debated on heading for the garage when he heard something thump against the door—the morning paper.

Well, that would solve things nicely, he decided, heading for the door.  He opened it and bent down, picked up the paper, glanced up as he stood….

And stared at the street.

These were not the cars he recalled from 1955.

These were the cars he recalled from 1985.

He stared at the street, turned to stare inside the house—1955 in there, 1985 out here.  What?...

He checked the paper's headlines, searched for the date—

1985.

He was back in 1985.

What was going on?

He put a hand to his head, feeling very, very confused.

"I've got to be dreaming," he decided finally.

The back door opened, claws ticked against tile—

"Hullo, Chester," Wilson noised, looking down at the orange dog bounding about happily around him.

"Morning, sunshine!"

Wilson looked up—

To see Charlie waving as she headed into the kitchen.

Wilson blinked, blinked again, looked at the newspaper, the street—

He stared at the newspaper as he dazedly walked into the house and to the entrance of the kitchen.

"Professor Carter isn't playing an extremely elaborate joke on me, is he?" Wilson decided to ask.

"It's difficult to say," Charlie admitted, putting the coffee on.  "Are you okay?"

"Fine…ah…what year is it?"

"Huh?"

"Humor me, please."

"Nineteen eighty-five, why?"

Somehow, hearing that from her did it—all the wind left him and he pitched face-first onto the floor.

"Wilson!" Charlie exclaimed, running over and shaking him slightly.  "Are you okay?"

"I don't know," Wilson moaned, face still pressed to the floor.  What a sight he must make, some part of him reflected.

"Oh, right—Max said this might happen."

"So he is playing an elaborate joke on me."

"No more than usual—how did the time machine work?"

"Is it really 1985?"

"It is."

"Not 1955."

"Not for about thirty years now."

Wilson finally sat up, staring at her.  Still as pretty as ever, he noted, and looking amused at his confusion.

"Max explained it all to me," she told him.  "You're adopted, by the way."

"What?" Wilson asked, confused.

"It's why you have a room instead of a couch."

"But I liked the couch."

"You liked your room, too."

Wilson still felt absolutely lost, but one or two pieces were beginning to fall into place.  "Then it worked," he said.  "The time machine…everything…."

"It did," she said, winking.  "But then that was a given.  Where is Max, by the way?"

Wilson thought back, felt the sides of his mouth quirk up a bit at the memory.

"The future," he said finally.  "About thirty years or so—something about getting the winners of the next thirty World Series."

Charlie laughed, a light sound that made him feel wonderful now that he knew it was here to stay.

"Yup," she said finally.  "That sounds like him."

"Yes it does."

Wilson leaned against the doorway, nursing a cup of coffee and staring out through the screen door.  All was right with the world.

He had to actually take a few moments to absorb that.  He was back in his own time, with Walkmans and color TV and Charlie and Willow….He really ought to call her.  Soon.  Once he had collected his thoughts properly.

The whole enormity of his past week sank down on him, making him glad he was leaning against some support.  Time travel.  Paradoxes.  Righting what once went wrong….It all sounded like a weird television program.  He took a sip of coffee—

And nearly choked on it at the sight presenting itself.

He maneuvered to put the cup on the coffee table next to the door without taking his eyes away from the apparition in front of him, turning at the driveway.  The cup finally connected with something solid, enabling him to leave it and push open the screen door, practically at a sprint, skipping the three porch steps and crossing the space between the house and a bemused Willow in the time it took for the door to swing shut.

"Oh…I…look at you.  Give me a minute," he said, hands hovering over her arms, not daring to touch her or take his eyes off of her.  "You're really a sight for sore eyes."

"Thanks?" Willow noised.

"Listen, I'm sorry I didn't call—things…happened. But I promise, that's going to change."

She still looked amusedly concerned.  "What, did one of Professor Carter's experiments nearly kill you again?"

Again?  Well, yes…."I just…."  He finally touched her arms—real.  His face split in a grin.  "I just had a very, very long night."

"I'll say," she laughed, patting his chest.  "You act like you haven't seen me in a week!"

That wasn't an exaggeration.  "I don't suppose we could make up for lost time?"

"I don't suppose.  What do you think of a movie?" she asked, stepping in closer.  "Nice seats in the back."

"Ah," he noised, glancing up at the house; they had an audience behind the screen door, Charlie and Chester, both smiling.  "Which movie?"

"I was thinking about that new one—Back to the Future.  I hear it's a good one—time travel and everything."

Wilson couldn't help the expression on his face.  "Fine then," Willow laughed.  "You pick the movie.  How's that?"

He realized they were very close now, glanced up again at the door; Charlie was beaming as she winked at him.

He smiled, first at her, then at Willow, wrapped his arms around the latter.  "That would be…just fine," he said.  And then, realizing the inevitability of future action, dipped his head slightly closer to her.  "Uh, Willow?"

"Yes?" she asked.

"I think we—"

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end just as he heard a very familiar whine—

"I think we should move!" he quickly amended, taking a step and quickly shoving her out of the way, diving away and into a roll—

A fender stopped mere inches from his head.

Outta-Time was on the license plate.

"You!" Wilson stormed, shaking his fist at the driver, irritated at having the moment ruined and angry at having his life threatened yet again.  "You!  What is it with you and running me over!?"

The wing door of the DeLorean opened and Professor Carter levered himself out, looking at Wilson with amused irritation.  "What's with you standing where I drive?" Professor Carter rejoined.

"It's a driveway!  People don't drive in them!  They park!  And they certainly don't go from ninety to zero in them!"

"Then why do they call them driveways?" Professor Carter asked.  "Hi honey," he added, addressing the approaching Charlie.

Charlie slapped him in the chest in response.  "What have we talked about?" she asked.  "No running over people."

"Where's the fun in that?"

Wilson finally stood and crossed over to check on Willow, who was smothering nervous laughter while examining the DeLorean.  He was glad to note that she patted him to check if he was all right.

"I know he races the Sedan," Willow said, gesturing to the DeLorean.  "What, did he trick out a DeLorean?"

Sedan-racing was news to Wilson—although a second set of memories was trying to snarl into what he recalled.  "Well," Wilson noised.  "It's like this….Uh…remember that movie you wanted to go see?"

"Explain later," Professor Carter said, walking around the DeLorean and playing around with something that had Mr. Fusion printed on the side.  "Get in—road trip."

"What?" Wilson asked flatly.

"Did I stutter?"

"But—wait a minute!  I just got back!"

"And?"

"And I would really like to get situated in this time before going off—gallivanting in the space-time continuum!"

"Do what?" Willow asked, confused.

"Just go with it," Charlie advised, gesturing for Chester, who came bounding.

"I would, but I lost track of the conversation somewhere along there."

"Let me say it in small words then," Professor Carter said, closing the Mr. Fusion thing.  "We're going to the future.  We including you two—it's pertinent."

"How so?" Wilson asked.  "What, do we die horrible deaths or something?"

"No, but your kids have issues."

"What?"

"Kids?" Willow echoed, sounding floored.  Understandable, since Wilson was feeling much the same way.

"I think you could take at least some time to explain some things," Charlie said.

"I could, but this is more fun," Professor Carter said, gesturing to Wilson and Willow.  "Just look at those expressions.  Now come on: everyone in the car."

That was a bit of a tall order, as the DeLorean didn't have much of a backseat thanks to the flux capacitor, leaving only the front seat and a small amount of space right in front of the time-travel device.  Wilson ended up with Willow on his lap (not a bad thing) as they closed the wing door, with Chester on top of her and Charlie (seated on the middle partition) and breathing in Wilson's face as Professor Carter squeezed into the driver's seat and shut his door.

"Comfortable?" he asked as he maneuvered the car out of the driveway.

"I have dog breath in my face," Wilson complained.

"Why did you bring him?" Professor Carter asked Charlie.

"You said everyone in the car," Charlie returned.

"I'm not talking about the dog."

"Would you like me to tell you about the statement before that?"

"Uh," Wilson noised, freeing up an arm enough to gesture.  "Why did we stop?  There's not enough road here to get us to eighty-eight miles an hour."

"Roads?" Professor Carter asked, grinning as he put on a pair of sunglasses—Wilson noted the odd make.  "Where we're going, we don't need roads."

Wilson didn't have time to ask what he meant as the parked cars sank away, realized the DeLorean was flying—

And then a tremendous flash of light—a pure white-out—

The End