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Marty’s pretty sure he’s the only teenager in the world that dreads payday.
It’s not that he hates the money. It’s good money. Doc Brown pays him more than anywhere else in town would pay a kid like him, and Marty knows this for a fact because some of his friends have jobs. He makes more than Sam who works at Blockbuster and Mike who works at McDonald’s. He even makes more than Needles at Scratch Records, which always comes in handy as a reminder whenever Needles gives Marty a hard time for ‘selling his ass to an old man.’
But it’s awkward taking money from a friend. It puts a dollar value on Marty’s relationship with Doc, makes it feel transactional in a way Marty doesn’t like. Getting paid to help Doc with his experiments makes Marty worry that all Doc values him for is his labor, or worse, that Doc thinks all Marty wants from him is his cash.
It’s not true on both accounts. Marty’s logical enough to realize this. But still, once a month, he can’t meet Doc’s eyes as he stuffs the roll of bills Doc gives him deep down in his pants pockets.
“Are you hungry? Do you want to get something to eat?” Doc asks, as if paying Marty weren’t enough. He’s always got to try to feed him too.
Marty scratches the back of his head. He can’t accept two handouts in a row. “Nah, I’m good. My mom’s probably making dinner right now. I should get home.”
It’s not technically a lie. There’s a chance Marty’s mom could be sober enough to cook tonight. And if she’s not, Marty’s got other money now that he earned. He can buy himself a hot dog at 7-11.
“You’re going home now? Are you sure?” Doc is giving him that look, the grim, concerned one that makes Marty feel thirteen years old again.
Almost at the same time, their eyes flash to the twin bed in the corner of the garage; the bed that Doc bought for Marty after so many nights spent crashing on the couch or in a sleeping bag on the floor. It’s times like this that Marty feels less like Doc needs him and more like he needs Doc, like Doc Brown is doing him a favor by putting up with him just so that Doc can mitigate some of the effects of Marty’s dysfunctional family.
It pisses Marty off.
“Look, I’m not some charity case, alright?” Marty’s voice comes out bitter and sullen, and he crosses his arms in front of his chest. Typical teenager. He hates how textbook it is, how driven by hormones and impulses he can get, but for the life of him he can’t make himself take the words back.
Not even when Doc’s face falls. It’s only by degrees, but Marty knows his friend well enough to tell that his words have hurt him. It’s in his bushy white eyebrows; they crumple a little.
“Is that what you think this is?” Doc gestures between the two of them, then around the lab. “Charity?”
“Well, isn’t it?”
“I ran out of money for charity a long time ago, Marty.”
“So then why do you pay me?” Marty takes a step forward. He feels stupid—where is he going? What is he going to do when he gets there? “If you can’t afford it, why don’t you just stop?”
In opposition to Marty’s heightened emotional state, Doc is growing calmer; more subdued. “I pay you for your assistance. I pay you for the hours you spend helping me with my projects when you could be out there enjoying your youth. I think that seems only fair, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but…” Marty saws into his lower lip with his teeth. He’s uncertain of how to explain himself. Hell, he’s not even fully certain of what he’s trying to say here. “Look, I hang out here because I want to be here. I’m not sacrificing my time by spending it with you. This isn’t—this isn’t just a job to me.”
Oops.
Now he’s gone and done it. Why couldn’t he have just taken Doc’s money and kept his stupid mouth shut?
As Marty watches, the carefully neutral mask Doc has been wearing since Marty raised his voice softens. “I think I understand. And I hope you know that I don’t think of you as just my employee.”
“Yeah. I mean…yeah.” Marty looks down at the ground and scuffs his sneaker over a grease stain.
This is uncharted territory. Up until now, the exact parameters of their relationship have remained more or less undefined. Marty always felt like the depths of his feelings for Doc were self-evident. Now, he suddenly feels the need to put a label on things. “You’re kind of like my best friend, you know?”
It’s the understatement of the year, but the real confession simmering just beneath the surface is something Marty will continue to guard close to his heart. The timing isn’t right. Marty will be damned if the first time he says ‘I’m in love with you’ is following an argument, and at a point in which Doc could still shoot him down based on legality alone. For now, best friends is as good as it’s going to get.
Fortunately, Marty isn’t left disappointed. Doc’s face crinkles up in a smile at his words, and he walks over and claps Marty on both shoulders with his hands. “The feeling is mutual.”
Marty breathes a sigh of relief. “Good. Listen, Doc, I’m sorry I yelled. It’s just…Well, it’s sort of awkward taking money from a friend.”
“That I can understand. But what you’ve got to understand is that it’s money you’ve earned, Marty. The work you help me with is of great scientific importance. I trust you to assist me on these projects because I know what you’re capable of. Does that sound like a handout to you?”
Marty shakes his head sheepishly. “No.”
“Exactly! So stop devaluing yourself and take a little pride in your work. After all, not many kids your age could say they’ve built an engine from scratch, could they?”
“I guess not.”
“Or had a hand in building their own guitar amp?”
“No.” Doc’s grin is infectious, and eventually Marty can’t help but return it. “Alright, alright, I see your point. Now cut it out before I get a fat head or something.”
“I’m just stating the truth.”
“Yeah, well, there’s such a thing as too much of a good thing.”
Marty shrugs out from under Doc’s hands, but he doesn’t go far; just enough to regain control of the flush heating his ears and cheeks. He’s still got Doc’s money burning a hole in his pocket, but the earlier desire Marty had felt to flee with it has all but vanished in the wake of Doc’s praise.
“Say, you wanna go get a burger or something?” Marty pulls out his hard-earned dollars and holds them up for Doc to see. Fuck 7-11 and fuck his mom’s shitty cooking. Burger King with Doc beats them both out any day. “My treat.”