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The gunshot sends him staggering, but it's not the sound that throws him down.
Malcolm can't breathe. The air rattles around uselessly in his lungs, but he doesn't get any of it. His ears are ringing, and there's a horrible hum buzzing through his head, and he pictures his father's face, eyes shut, skin pale, lying still in a casket. Wonders if anybody would come to the funeral. Wonders if there would even be a funeral, or if they'd drop the Surgeon in some random hole they found and bury him and all the horrible things he'd done. He's gasping but he can't breathe, dizzy as he tries to get a grip on the car behind him to push himself upright again, but there's a horrible image of Martin and blood and did they shoot him in the head? Or the chest?
He's choking. He's choking on air. Distantly, he hears voices, Gil and Ruiz and someone talking through a radio and the words target down are somehow louder than the gunshot. They have the same effect on him, sending him rocking backwards into the car, and a scream bubbles in his chest and doesn't make it past his lips. He can feel the hysteria rising, inching higher and higher with each second as he finally turns his attention back to the others, shaking, unfocused.
He thinks he's talking, but he can't hear himself. Then his eyes are back on the house. And he's wondering what clothes Martin would be wearing in his casket, if they'd even care to change him out of the clothes he'd been shot in. And then it hits him - his father's just been fucking shot.
It's unreasonable, unfathomable, irrational, and he's moving so suddenly another rush of dizziness threatens to catapult him right back to the ground. Distantly, he hears Gil behind him, yelling his name as he follows, and it only propels him forward quicker, and god he loves the man with everything he has but if Gil tries to stop him from getting inside he's going to go off-
There's so many guns - Malcolm wonders which one did the job and imagines bashing it into the face of the officer that had pulled the trigger - wonders if he'd miss the funeral if he went to jail-
He pushes his way through, frantic, feral, trying not to touch anyone because he feels like a powder keg about to explode, a land mine that'll go off the second any kind of pressure is applied, and it's taking just about all of his self-control to tamp down most of the hysteria that's building inside of him right now, everything he has and all his years of breathing exercises and all the tricks and tips to keep himself from fucking imploding and Malcolm thinks he just might anyway because- if there was a funeral, what songs should he play? Martin never specified-
Malcolm breaks through, freezes at the sight of Hector bleeding on the floor.
There was only one gunshot-
His eyes snap around rapidly for a moment, and he sees nothing and he's talking again but he can't hear himself, all he can hear is the others, and then Hector saying that Martin's not there and he'd never been there and all of a sudden he can breathe again, and he's gasping in as much air as he can as he throws himself toward the wall and presses himself back, because his legs feel weak like they're about to buckle beneath his weight at any goddamn given second.
Martin's alive.
He breathes, gasping again, feeling ridiculous by how much relief he feels and god he really hadn't been ready to plan a funeral that nobody would have attended but him and maybe Ains-
But he's alive, he's alive he's alive he's alive he's alive-
Malcolm doesn't know whether he's going to punch him or hug him when he sees him again-
Someone's talking to him, Malcolm thinks maybe it's Gil, but he doesn't care. His hand finds its way to his pocket and grips the Batman figure until he feels sharp edges cutting into his palm and blood welling up in response. Remembers the smile on his father's face and the warmth in his eyes as he'd leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead and every inch of him aches and thank god he doesn't have to see his father lying in a coffin yet he doesn't even know what color coffin to get, maybe red or maybe black, something simple he'd want something simple-
He's okay, he's okay, he's okay…
They're leaving. Everyone's leaving. Malcolm stays in place as they file out, one after the other, until only Gil remains. And he's looking at him the same way he's been looking at him all year, like he's about to break down, and there's a split second of complete, irrational rage and Malcolm suddenly wants to scream, to yell at him for not listening to him, for letting them rush in with guns blazing and Malcolm doesn't think he's ever felt so pissed off before, not at Gil.
His chest heaves, mouth open, eyes fixed on Gil, and the only reason he's not screaming right then is because he knows Gil will take him off the case immediately. He's not seeing the man that took him in, who had been practically a father to him; he's seeing Lieutenant Arroyo.
Lieutenant Arroyo, who would probably shoot Martin Whitly himself if given the chance-
Malcolm steps back, one foot after the next, and whips around to leave without a word. Because he doesn't know what he's going to say if he opens his mouth, but he knows he'll regret it.
He doesn't trust himself right then.