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It had certainly been a red-letter-day when, after nearly three weeks of recovery, Doc was finally released from Medical and allowed to stay in a more standard visitors’ quarters. Marty still seemed upset that Doc was using the cane and knee brace, and as they headed to their new room, Doc could sense that. There would still be a lot to deal with, for the both of them. But, for now, Doc would focus on Marty’s emotions.
“You have to admit that I’m much better than I was before, Marty.”
“Guess so…” the boy said. He suppressed a shudder, thinking about how close he had come to losing Doc—indeed, this was a much better state of affairs.
Doc saw the child shudder and placed his free hand on Marty’s shoulder.
“You know, Marty, you’ve been very brave through this whole thing,” Doc said. “I told you before—I don’t think I could’ve recovered this well if it hadn't been for you.”
“You keep saying that…”
“Well, it’s true.”
“But I didn’t do anything!”
“I know you feel that way, but it really was because of you…” Doc began, but he trailed off, his mind drifting off to the newspaper he had read a few weeks ago featuring the headline news about his supposed “death.” Survivors of the Hill Valley bombing had been interviewed—Goldie Wilson had eulogized him rather poetically, but Edna Strickland had wasted no time in blaming him for everything that had happened—
“He’d had promise in his youth, but he turned out to be a hooligan who got involved with too many dangerous things,” Edna had been quoted as saying. “This is all his fault, and, quite frankly, I’m glad he got what was coming to him.”
Doc had known there had been people who had wanted him dead—of course there were; it made sense that if so many powerful people wanted him alive for his knowledge, there would be those who considered him a danger as long as he was alive, regardless of the fact that the war and fighting were continuing even after he was believed dead and gone.
But seeing it in print was another thing altogether. And as much as he wanted to ignore the stinging comments, they still, nevertheless, pierced him in his weakened heart.
It hadn't been just the initial heart attack that Marty had helped him survive—it was also the following weeks of trying to justify his own continued existence when, perhaps, a good number of people would be better off if he had succumbed.
Marty was still looking at him in concern as they arrived at their quarters—and it took the boy quite a while to notice the chocolate cake with four candles waiting for them on the coffee table.
“Huh!?” he exclaimed, prompting Doc to smile for the first time in a long while.
“It isn’t easy keeping track of time—especially on the run,” Doc said. “But I finally had access to a calendar once I was getting better. Turns out it’s June 12 today—your fourth birthday. I asked Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin if they could get a cake for you.”
Marty stared with wide eyes at the cake, clearly ready to tear into it.
“Before you get started on that, don’t you want to make a wish first?” Doc asked.
Marty finally looked away from the cake to look at Doc.
“I don’t think I can,” he said. “I used up my wish already.” He hugged Doc again, tightly. “And it came true. You got better.”
Being strong for Marty suddenly became a very difficult thing to do; Doc hugged him back, shaking. It hadn't fully sunk in just how close he had come to leaving this life—and the ramifications that Marty would have had to endure.
“‘m glad you’re okay,” Marty said, trembling, too.
“Thank you, Marty,” Doc managed to say. “I’m glad, too. And hopefully, I’ll keep getting better.”
“Yeah,” Marty agreed, tightening his hug.
Hope was all they had—but they would certainly hold on to it.