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Doc found himself having to commandeer a few things from the ruins of the town; he justified it by promising he’d find a way to pay once he could regain access to his bank account—for now, all he had was whatever cash he’d had on hand before the government agents had escorted him out of town just before the town had been leveled. And that cash would be necessary for provisions and gasoline to get them across the desert—for Doc had also commandeered an old, silver-colored DeLorean he had found in a used car lot, which had been the least damaged vehicle he could find in town.
He’d put together a booster seat for Marty before making their exit from the ruins of Hill Valley. Their goal would be the U.N.C.L.E. safehouse just outside of Las Vegas, and they would have to take a meandering route so as to make sure that they weren’t being followed—the thought of being found by anyone other than U.N.C.L.E. was a terrifying prospect, not just for Doc being a prisoner and having his brain inevitably picked at in a variety of unpleasant ways, but the fact that little Marty, who had no one else in the world, would be cast aside, considered useless and expendable.
He kept his eyes on the road, but watched over Marty with his peripheral vision as they left the ruins of Hill Valley behind them. He hadn’t been able to give the boy more than a box strung with some rubber bands as a pretend guitar, but Marty had amusing himself with it as they drove, picking at the rubber bands and humming, before finally drifting off to sleep as the sun went down.
Now in the clarity of the moment, Doc was beginning to wonder what on Earth he had been thinking, agreeing to care for the lone war child just like that. And yet, it seemed right, and apparently Marty thought so, too—for there was no other explanation as to why a traumatized orphan would attach himself to someone he had only just met… the one who was, indirectly, the reason why he had been orphaned.
A fresh wave of guilt washed over Doc. He pulled off the road and opened the DeLorean’s gullwing doors, letting in the clear, night air of the desert. He got up to stretch his legs, leaning against the frame of the silver car.
He had been a party to so much death and destruction, first to thousands of nameless strangers, and now friends and neighbors—each life bearing an additional weight on his already heavy soul.
“I was supposed to go into science to help people,” he said, to no one in particular. He ignored the silent tears slipping from his eyes. “How did it go so wrong…? Why was this my purpose in life? …Is my life even worth anything anymore, if it’s only bringing such pain to innocent people—?”
He gave a start as a panicked screeching issued from the passenger seat of the DeLorean; whirling around, he saw Marty in the throes of another night terror, screaming and thrashing in his sleep.
“Marty!” Doc exclaimed. He ran to his side at once, unbuckling the seat belt and gathering the flailing child in his arms, unbothered as he repeatedly got smacked in the face by Marty’s wildly-flying arms. “Marty, I’m here—I’m right here! It’s okay—you’ll be okay, I promise!”
He continued to hold the child close, repeating his words of reassurance over and over again until Marty finally came awake.
“Marty! Marty, it’s me!”
“…Doc…?” Marty sniffled.
“That’s right—I’m still here!”
“…I want lights on,” Marty whimpered, throwing his arms around Doc’s neck.
“…Ah,” Doc said. They were out in the desert at night—there was no man-made light for miles around, other than the DeLorean’s headlights, and those clearly wouldn’t cut it as far as Marty was concerned. “Well, Marty, we have nightlights out here the likes of which you’ve never seen before! Look up at the sky!”
Marty didn’t let go of his neck, but he did turn to look. The stars were far more numerous than they ever would have been in Hill Valley—the arm of the Milky Way was clearly visible in the sky like a glowing, cosmic cloud.
It successfully captured Marty’s attention for a little while—until the sonic boom of a war plane zooming overhead filled the air. Crying again, Marty turned back to Doc, burying his face in his shoulder again.
“I’m sorry, Marty,” he said, his voice full of shame and regret as he continued to hug the child. “I’m sorry you have to endure all of this terror because of my mistakes.”
He gently took out a handkerchief and wiped the tears rolling down Marty’s cheeks as he cried.
“I’m sorry you’re so sad, and that I can’t do anything to help,” Doc finished, blinking back a few more silent tears of his own. “I’m so sorry, Marty. You didn’t deserve any of this—I’d give anything to make it right again.”
Marty trembled a bit more, sniffling, but looked up at Doc. He blinked for a moment, and then tugged the handkerchief from Doc’s hand. And then, to Doc’s surprise, Marty attempted to lift the handkerchief to Doc’s face to try to wipe the tears from his cheek.
“Oh, Marty, no…!” he said, gently pushing Marty’s hand away. “Marty, please, don’t… don’t feel sorry for me.”
Marty tilted his head in confusion, still looking up at Doc.
“But… you’re sad,” the boy stated.
Marty lifted his hand again, placing the handkerchief back on the side of Doc’s face. Doc didn’t move for a full minute, but then pulled Marty into a tight hug, shaking with silent sobs, but trying his hardest not to make them audible, for Marty’s sake.
And Marty just hugged him back—a kindness Doc was certain he didn’t deserve, but one that he would hold onto anyway.