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Doc gripped the wooden rails that had been set up in his recovery room, sweat pouring down his face from both effort and pain. Getting back on his feet after a massive heart attack and the subsequent open-heart surgery would have been difficult enough without having to deal with the effects of his knee injury, but he had that to contend with, as well. Five steps had felt like five miles.
“That’s enough—you don’t want to push yourself too far too soon,” the attending U.N.C.L.E. physician said, with a sigh. “Though… I am impressed that you were able to do this much. There’s no other way to say this, Dr. Brown, but, to put it bluntly, you are a spectacular wreck.”
“Thanks… I think?” Doc asked, trying to catch his breath.
“To put it even more bluntly, by all accounts, you shouldn’t even be alive right now,” the physician continued.
“…I know,” Doc replied, after a moment. He glanced at the small cot beside his hospital bed, where Marty was sound asleep, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets. The toddler’s night terrors had returned again—inevitable after everything they had been through—but, for the moment, he was sleeping peacefully. And Doc knew that it was because of his adopted son that he was alive now—that his damaged heart had found a reason to keep beating.
“At this point, we should be grateful that you’re alive, but regarding your knee…” the physician sighed, glancing at Doc’s knee. “You let that knee go untreated for too long and kept adding stress to it—and we had to prioritize your heart, which left it even longer. At this point, a full recovery for your knee is highly unlikely. There’s no other way around it; you’ll have to wear a knee brace for the foreseeable future—perhaps even indefinitely. And you’ll need a cane for the bad days—and there’ll be a lot of them for a while. I imagine Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin can set you up with one that can double as a weapon in a pinch.”
Doc sighed, knowing that his fate could have been far worse; considering everything that had happened, he had gotten off easy.
“I guess I’ll have to go with that, then…” he began, but trailed off as Marty started to whimper in his sleep. Determined now, he gripped the wooden rails and used them to slowly make his way back to his bed—and to Marty’s cot beside it.
He released one of the rails and used his now-free hand to gently ruffle Marty’s hair.
“It’s alright, Marty,” he said. “I’m here. In spite of everything, I’m still here.”
Marty’s whimpers faded a bit as he reached up in his sleep to take Doc’s hand.
“You should sit down,” the physician said, pushing over the wheelchair that had been left in the room for Doc. “I’ll send word to Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin about the defensive cane; try to take it easy—don’t get too worked up.”
“Thank you,” Doc said, sitting down as instructed.
For the most part, he was unlikely to get worked up; Marty was, more or less, alright, and as for himself, he would live—albeit having brushed shoulders with Death along the way.
But the concerns lurked in the back of his mind. The ruse of Illya reporting his death would only last for a while, as he and Napoleon had warned. What would happen to them then? Would he have a chance to recover enough to be on the run again?
He suppressed a shudder, and Marty, who was still grasping his hand, apparently felt it, as he stirred and opened his eyes.
“Doc…?”
“I’m here, Marty,” he promised again. “Go back to sleep.”
“Don’t wanna.”
“…You’re having bad dreams again?”
Marty didn’t respond verbally; he just wrapped both of his arms around Doc’s arm that was closest to him. Doc shut his eyes, wishing that he could ease the boy’s sorrows.
“Marty…”
“First they were just about Mom and Dad and Dave and Linda…” Marty said. “But now…”
“…Now it’s me, too?” Doc finished.
“…Uh-huh…” Marty replied, his voice cracking.
Doc shifted his arm to cradle Marty in a one-armed hug.
“I’m sorry, Marty,” he said, trying to keep his own voice steady. “I’m sorry I gave you such a scare and that you can’t stop thinking about it.”
Marty buried his face in the crook of Doc’s arm.
“…They didn’t think you were gonna wake up…”
“…I know,” Doc admitted. “But do you know why I did wake up?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Because you were there—I could hear you.”
“That’s what Mr. Solo said.”
“Well, he’s right,” Doc continued. “I woke up because of you.”
Marty was quiet for a while, and Doc continued to cradle him.
“…‘Cause of me…?” the boy repeated after some time.
“Exactly.”
More silence.
“I’m your guardian, Marty,” Doc continued. “Like I told you when we first met, I know I can never replace the family you lost, but, in a way, we’re family now—and there’s nothing that I wouldn’t do for you that they wouldn’t have done.”
Marty was still quiet for some time before mumbling something barely audible.
“I didn’t quite get that, Marty.”
“Don’t die, too,” he repeated, slightly louder.
Doc cleared his throat to keep from getting choked up—with limited success.
“I… I can’t promise that—no one can,” he said, tightening the one-armed hug. “But I will do my very best not to—that, I can promise.”
“…Okay,” Marty sighed. “And I promise, too.”
That one hurt to hear almost as much as it moved Doc—that, even at the age of three, Marty was well aware of his own mortality, but knew that they needed each other.
“Alright then,” Doc said, keeping his voice as steady as he could. “It’s a deal.”
“Deal,” Marty repeated.
He snuggled into the cradle of Doc’s arm and, slowly, relaxed enough to slip back into slumber and leave Doc to his thoughts.
He may be a spectacular wreck, but this spectacular wreck was going to do everything in his power to be there for his adopted son.
After all, he had promised.