His fingertips tremble on your bare chest, resting there. You know the hand was put there to push you away, but he just can't make himself do it.

"Marty," he protests, looking up at you. He's on the right cushion of the couch, the one he likes best, and you're leaning over him, shirtless, asking for things with your eyes in a way you can't quite ask for them out loud.

He could get away. You could stop. There's this almost awkward sort of standoff and you can see the change in his gaze, the confusion, the doubt, the knowledge that you're still so young.

And you don't care. You've been through so much with him. It doesn't have to be weird. It wouldn't be weird if he'd stop trying to analyze it before you'd ever even gotten anywhere.

You smell like grass. It's kind of a hot day and you were out mowing his small lawn and trimming the hedges. Not for pay or anything, just as a favor. You insisted because of that record he gave you last Saturday.

In his other hand is a diagram of some sort that he'd be glad to talk to you about, enthusiastically, under normal circumstances. But this is abnormal. Maybe above normal. Either way, it's unusual.

You're slightly sweaty already, a little hot from the outside, and you know that this time it's now or never. It's not like you hadn't been dropping hints and he hadn't been receiving them. He'd ignored them, maybe, but he was a smart guy. Hell, he was the smartest.

But, even as he slides the hand up to your shoulder and pushes back just a little, you know he wants it. His brown eyes have given you looks before that he had to know he was giving, no matter how voluntarily he was betraying his inner desires.

Because you're one of the hottest guys at school, or so you've heard. You believe it. You'd totally try out your own body. Doesn't matter that you're a guy. And Doc...he's not so bad either. He's 65. That's almost as old as Grandma Baines. But he doesn't seem old like Grandma Baines. He's got this vigor and this verve and this hidden sensuality and he's, like, the bravest guy you've ever met.

How unfair was it that Emmett Brown got all the brains in the world and the bravery too? And he was pretty strong. At 65! And he just had this way about him that made you wonder, secretly, how many girls had fallen for him. Of course, he'd have to get away from his inventions for that to ever happen, but.

"It's okay, Doc," you say. "Just don't think about it too hard." You lean forward just a little more. Your leg is situated between his knees, and when you step in toward him, you can see him swallow.

The hand is still on your shoulder, its weight tangible not only on your shoulder, but in your mind, in the stuffy air of the room between you. He starts to pull it away, but then grips the flesh again, tightly, pulling you down in a moment of split-second decision making.

You lose your balance, perfectly, and you rest your cheek against his. "You got nothin' to worry about," you reassure him quietly.

"We're at entirely different stages in life. This kind of a union is a blight on any suburban American town, Marty," he says, voice a little tight, but more or less just like it always is. You let your eyes close as he keeps talking. It's probably weird that you think his tone is soothing. "And if you consider the homosexual factor, which up until just a few years ago was a diagnosable mental disorder, that's just asking for trouble."

"You don't want try it? Come on, don't be a wuss about it, Doc," you tease lightly, eyes still closed, the heat and firmness of his body under yours comforting and very exciting all at once.

"I didn't say I don't want to try it." Your eyes open, though you don't really move much, just a slight shift. There's that bravery. "I'm just aiding the decision with a healthy dose of extrapolation."

You pull back, looking at him again. "Well, no further extrapolation necessary. I'm sure about this, Doc."

He nods, fingers running over your bare chest, eyes and fingers both taking in information: the contours, the softness, the smoothness of the skin, the slight tan. He looks...enraptured by the sight. For a long moment, exploring your chest and shoulders is all he does. Then he stands, giving you a gentle push toward the couch. The material is slightly rough and it rubs against your back as you lie out on it for him, looking up.

"You won't go alerting the authorities, will you?" he asks in a hard tone, though you're sure he doesn't think you will. He's just taking precautions.

"Only if it's not any good," you tease, and he's on top of you.

Your next words are stolen because he's kissing, kissing like he was starving for it and, well, you figure since you sort of unintentionally paraded yourself in front of him all shirtless and sweaty, maybe he is. It doesn't take you long to start kissing back, matching his intensity and passion, ready for whatever will come.

He's not bad for an old guy. He's almost as old as Grandma Baines, but, hey, who cares about Grandma Baines right now? This happens to taste much better than milk and cookies and you're sure it's much more interesting than stories about what friend of the family just died or what Grandma read in the paper that morning.

His hands may be a little wrinkled, but man, are they steady. He seems to pulse with life above you. Maybe it's never having been married and given his life up to a family. Maybe it comes from being more comfortable with machines than people over the years. Whatever it is that makes him so alive, you'd like to kiss that reason too, because Doc is...well, he's sexy. You're hard for him. He's 65 and, shit, who cares?

He's tracing your chest again, with one of those hands that don't seem at all decrepit. You have to gulp when he moves it down toward the waistband of your jeans, and you have to swallow an embarrassing sound when the other hand joins it and he starts unfastening.

"Oh god, Doc," you breathe. Those hands look amazing down there, opening your fly, making you squirm, just a little bit. Who could blame you? Doc is a determined creature when it comes to finding the answer to a problem, or coming up with just the right dimensions on a scale model, but, man, how could you have foreseen this side of him, all business with a side of incredulity as if...shit, as if you were some sort of a god and he was your worshipping devotee?

You suck in a breath as he tugs the jeans down, feeling a lot younger than you normally feel as you realize you're basically only wearing your underwear, your purple underwear, and he's going to make you his completely, with his charm, his unbelievable grace—he should be awkward here, shouldn't he? But he's not—and his burning hot gaze.

He's not looking you in the eye yet. You think eventually he's got to, but it's a bit distracting, the way he's only got eyes for your body. Like a starving man given a meal. He's going to make himself sick with this feast, you can tell, but if you have anything to say about it, he won't have any regrets. You want this.

Fuck, how you want it.

"Doc," you coax. Your voice is a little needy, but so what? It does the trick. His fingers touch the white of the elastic waistband and you swear you could cum with just a little more, a little more Doc, a little more Emmett Lathrop Brown. What kind of a middle name is Lathrop anyway?

The gasp that escapes you when he curls his fingers into the waistband decisively makes him lick his lips and you think you might die if he stops being so...so...whatever. If he stops this.

The elastic is stretched just a bit and the Calvin Kleins slide down, down, and you think you might be flushing because your face feels a little hot, though not as hot as the rest of you, because those brown eyes are taking in your nudity. The rawness makes you shiver, just once.

Your Nikes are still on, trapping your jeans and those purple Calvin Kleins, but it's all immaterial at this point because it's not your legs you're dying for him to touch, is it? No, not quite.

His tongue is between his teeth in a deep look of concentration as he reaches out and touches it. A brush of his knuckles against the side that draws another shiver from you, and you're ready to beg the moment he finally takes you into his not-at-all-decrepit hand.

The fingers are warm and strong and you're inside someone's hand for, yeah, you'll admit it, the first time. A gasp, a groan, a rush of pleasure right up through your spine and out into the rest of your body. Oh yeah. This is it. This is what sneaking into a house at night should be all about. This should be you and a girl, say, Jennifer, all alone while her parents are out of town. But it's not. You like it this way.

If he had more visitors, anyone could come in. Heck, you're surprised Einstein hasn't bothered the two of you. It's not a big place, and it's just past noon, and the window has its shade lifted halfway, but it's beyond propriety now. You're beyond caring. Because Doc Emmett Brown has his hand where you've wanted it on and off for the past couple weeks and he hasn't pulled back in disgust.

He strokes you. God, you're on fire. You're tingling. There's not enough air in the room for you. That sounds stupid. There's plenty of air. But it feels like you're drowning all the same. Not that he'd ever let anything like that happen to you. He's saved your life so many times, just like you've saved his.

He's gentle but rough at the same time, like this mighty being of sexual pleasure. You chalk it up to, what, 50-plus years of masturbation, but, man, whoever said that wasn't constructive? Whoever they were, if they did, they were wrong, because this is good. He's got a great rhythm going, and you can't keep yourself from praising him with pointless words and wordless sounds and soundless expressions. You're close. You know it, and he knows it, and his fingers know it most of all.

Intense brown eyes meet yours.

The orgasm hits you like a flying DeLorean, and you spurt all over your naked body, and your eyes close. When they open, he's looking at you in the exact same way, and you wonder if you've died for just a second as you scream, because that's how long it takes for you to start breathing again.

"You okay, Marty?" he murmurs. The tone is low and full of a half-hidden lust. The lust his eyes advertise clearly.

You realize you're nodding seconds after you start doing it, and his palm against your forehead makes you chuckle weakly. "Aw, c'mon, Doc."

He seems a little sheepish as he pulls his hand away, and it's your time to surprise him, because you're sitting up. It's awkward, with the Nike's still on, trapping the remainder of your clothes, so you get rid of them, and then you look at him sincerely, and say, "Thanks, Doc."

"No thanks necessary, Marty." He's a little breathless again, and even though he's clearly hard as a post in his fabric confinements, his eyes are on your face. Gentle. A little concerned.

You trace his cheek with your younger hand, a little clumsy in your post-orgasmic state, and you rise for a kiss. It's brief, and soon you're working on his shirt, unbuttoning it, coaxing him down onto his favorite cushion of the couch, the right one. He ducks his head a little as he works on the fastenings of his pants, and you have a feeling he might be a virgin just like you, and you don't interrupt him as he decides to do it himself.

After they're open, he hesitates, and that's when you make your move. You feel like a clumsy teenager as you reach inside his underwear, coaxing him out to freedom, stroking him.

He watches as you touch him, very silent, eyes still burning, and it's a little unnerving, but you relax when he leans in just a bit, kissing your cheek. "You're a quick study," his voice rumbles in your ear.

It doesn't take a whole lot longer before he's coming for you, just like you did for him. He looks beautiful. His eyes flutter, his cock pulses, his voice groans, really groans, "Marty", long and drawn out. Your name. You long to hear your name said that way again, maybe not again that day, but very soon.

He's sticky. You both are. He gathers up your clothes, hands you a towel, and directs you to the outside shower you've already seen a number of times, even just earlier in the day when you were out working on the yard.

The faucet squeaks a little. The water's damn cold, but it feels okay, temperature-wise, in comparison to the thought that the shower lacks Doc. If he hadn't been forced to live in what used to be his garage, and had that big old mansion still, maybe you could be in some nice indoor shower together—maybe even a tub!

But, as it is, you get cleaned up quick, and dress, and head back inside to wait as he takes his turn. Einstein comes over for a good scratch behind the ears. You have a feeling things won't get all that weird between you and Doc. The two of you are still okay.

The clocks chime, and while Einstein takes it in stride, you jump. Still creepy.

Doc comes in, as cool and wet as you had been, and he finds a record and puts it on before taking his spot on the couch.

You let him rest your head against his shoulder. His fingers stroke through your short hair. It's relaxing, and you let your eyes close. You think you might have fallen asleep.

Anyway, when the time comes to leave, he shows you to the door. He hesitates. "Well...ride safely, Marty. You know how tricky those things can be."

It feels oddly intimate, this concern, and you match it with a sincere answer of your own. "I will, Doc."

He looks like he might add more, telling you to put on a helmet or something. You're not ready to be babied by the man who just showed you a good time on his couch. He thinks better of it, though, and you hop on the board and start toward home.

You glance back, for as long as you can. He stands with the door wide open, Einstein at his side, and watches you skateboard out of sight.