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Doc had finally realized that being the center of a paradox left an unenviable reality—one could recall both timelines. That was fine and dandy when, for the most part, nothing deviated too much. Sure, the circumstances that he’d met Marty were vastly different—taking a troubled teen under his wing after a break-in versus being requested to be the boy’s godfather by a grateful George the day Marty was born. But the fact that he could remember both timelines made him appreciate both of his roles in Marty’s life as a supportive parental figure, whether as a replacement or as a supplement to his blood family.
But then came October 26, 1985. He had known his original fate; Marty had written it out in the letter that he had torn up but since reassembled—death by radiation poisoning. He had circumvented that with a better radiation suit. At first, Doc’s concern was whether or not he could convincingly pull off feigning his death so that the time loop would be stable and Marty would end up going to 1955 as he had in the original timeline; his second concern was the guilt he'd feel putting Marty though that agony, all because he knew Marty had to go back in time to preserve the timeline.
But as he realized that he was dealing with two sets of memories since 1955, a new worry struck him—
Would he remember how it was to die? How would the memories work if he was simultaneously dead and alive?
He found out the answer the hard way.
The night had started out the same as it had in the original timeline—arriving five minutes into the future and celebrating the DeLorean’s maiden voyage with Marty (and those girls—he still didn’t know who they were or where they’d come from, and worrying about that was the furthest thing from his mind, anyway).
He had reloaded the plutonium chamber—in concurrence with the other memory. And then, as he headed back for the case of plutonium, he felt it—both memories flickering back and forth as he reached the heart of the paradox that was now centered around him.
“Hey, Doc, what’s happening to you!?” Marty’s concern was the same.
And even though he wasn’t afflicted with radiation poisoning in this timeline, he could feel the pain of the other timeline.
“I’ve been irradiated, so stay back—stay way back! Or you will be, too…!”
He wasn’t acting now; as the memories flickered back and forth—as the space-time continuum warped around him, essentially forming Schrödinger's Box around him, the pain was very real as his entire body felt on fire from within. And yet, at the same time, it wasn’t. Every organ in his body was breaking down from the radiation. But he was somehow perfectly fine.
Either way, his subsequent crashing to the ground wasn’t voluntary—and Marty’s panic increased.
“Doc, you gotta let me help you! …Doc, you’re dying!”
His body was aglow, the very marrow in his bones illuminated by his dying cells. And yet, at the same time, it wasn’t.
He choked out the reminder of the county hospital, and the warning of not to hit 88 miles an hour. His throat was burning, his voice leaving him as his vocal cords broke down. But it somehow wasn’t, as well. He couldn’t see as his vision blurred… and yet, he could.
His collapse over the case of plutonium wasn’t voluntary, either; Marty had taken off in the car, his lead foot taking over in his panic. Doc couldn’t even react as he heard the triple sonic boom of the DeLorean.
He could no longer breathe with the fire raging in his lungs. And yet, he could. The fire in him burned more fiercely. And yet, it didn’t. The cry of pure agony stilled in what remained of his lungs as the darkness closed in…
…And yet, his terrified scream filled the parking lot of Lone Pine mall as everything ended—but somehow also did not end.
He gasped, scrambling to his knees in front of the plutonium case. Shakily, he looked around; there was nothing but the autumn air and the lights of the mall and its sign blotting out the night sky, save for the waxing gibbous moon that was almost full.
He had died. And he had lived.
And he had remembered everything.
It was all so much—far too much. He collapsed again over the plutonium case, this time, sobbing unashamedly from whatever he had experienced in that Schrödinger's Box.
He was also grateful for his 1955 counterpart for setting the DeLorean to return Marty ten minutes from now—he’d need every single one of those minutes to compose himself. Marty would be coming back thinking his warning had never reached him—the kid had been through enough without needing to see him fall apart, too.
Minutes passed by before Doc finally got back to his feet, still not perfectly steady. There were no more memories he could recall from the other timeline—either it was because he had passed the pivotal moment of the paradox… or because there were no more memories to be had. Or, perhaps both reasons…
Doc shuddered, still trying to get his emotions in order. He hadn't caught his breath yet, even as he hobbled towards where Marty would soon return; he’d dismiss it as exhaustion from running. There was no need for Marty to know how much of an ordeal that had been—not when Marty would most likely be mourning him upon his return.
And he had been right—he had arrived at the DeLorean’s arrival point to see Marty also weeping unashamedly, berating himself for what he assumed had been a failure in trying to save his best friend’s life.
Doc composed himself now and made his presence known. And the hug that he and Marty subsequently shared was needed just as equally for the both of them.
Doc had died, and he had lived. And his lifeline was still here, sobbing into his shoulder—relieved to have his mentor and father figure back, regardless of how the timelines had changed the way they’d met. And the fact that the boy would be as dear to Doc as his own son would be was something that would also never change.
If that was to be the only fixed point in an otherwise inconsistent and unpredictable space-time continuum, then Doc couldn’t ask for anything more.