At Marty's side, Einie stirs, waking from a deep slumber at the first sound of distress and sitting bolt upright with a look of near-human concern in his eyes as he glances between his dear friend and his master.
❝It's alright Einie,❞ Emmett says softly, remaining the picture of calm as he gives Einie a few encouraging scratches behind the ears. ❝Marty will be fine, don't you worry.❞
He brushes a few slightly damp strands of hair off Marty's forehead, tucking them behind his ear, and offers a kind smile.
Fever has turned Marty's eyes to glass and he could feel the heat radiating from the kid's forehead before the back of his hand even made contact. He's breathing heavily, but at the moment it's difficult to discern whether or not that's from fever alone or a combination of whatever memories or nightmares had been plaguing him, making what little sleep he could get restless.
To him, the entirety of the ordeal that Marty had just returned from was a thirty-year-old-memory, set to rest now that he had completed the Time Machine and defied fate but not forgotten. He could never forget the moment Marty barrelled into his life, three decades too early, all because of him—all for him.
But Marty, he has still not run off the excess adrenaline of those days out of time. It is fresh in his mind, the fear and urgency so real and tangible it could lock its icy grip around his throat and squeeze.
Emmett would wager the restlessness stemmed from his subconscious trying to make sense of it all.
❝Marty,❞ Emmett tries, and when it's clear he can't break through the panic that has thoroughly seized the boy in his current state, he switches gears, placing both hands gently on his shoulders to prevent him from leaping out of bed. The effort it takes to push against Marty's attempts aggravates his abused chest, reminding him with a jolt of pain snaking along his ribs that he, too, is far from being in excellent condition.
He should have died this morning, after all.
❝Easy, kid, easy. Everything's alright. It's only...❞ Emmett glances at the wall of clocks. ❝A little past five. You should still be sleeping.❞ Only when Marty eases up does he pull his hands back, sitting up straighter in spite of his body's protests.
❝I took a few painkillers while you were out.❞ Sleep had not come to him despite his physical exhaustion. The headache that had immediately followed his return to consciousness was one of the worst he had ever experienced. Even if he wanted to, there was no escaping the constant pounding in his skill or the feeling of sharpened drills being dug deeper and deeper into his brain.
A dense fog has settled in his head and no matter how bright a light he shines or how he attempts to push forward blindly, he cannot penetrate the curtain, cannot find what waits on the other side.
❝I'll be alright, Marty. There's no need to apologise. I'd rather you get some sleep. You don't have to push yourself for my sake; I'm not going anywhere. But you've been pushing yourself so hard you're running a fever. Let me get you something for that. Then I'll call your parents, let them know you've been here so they don't worry.❞
