hospital beds and soundless heads

"No one's going to want to take care of a broken girl."

Hospital in Iowa - January 3rd, 2016

Beep... beep... beep....

So went the heart monitor that could be heard proving that Christa was still alive. She felt it softly, felt the vibrations soar through the tiny space of air that separated her from the machines. And that's what she woke up to.

Her mind was groggy and her vision was unclear as she opened her eyes on the plain hospital room. As she blinked her eyes to see better she took in the room, and it took a moment for her to remember what had happened.

The bomb--the explosion--Angus--and... Hawkeye?

That had to have been a dream, but it also couldn't have been because Christa knew what dreams felt like and that had been too clear.

Too hot, too ashy, too noiseless, and much, much too painful.

But now the pain was gone--or numbed, at least. Christa was hooked up to a hospital like an android hooked up to its charger.

Now came the thought of Angus. He'd been there. And so had Hawkeye. Wow. Clint Barton, famous Avenger (she thought that part with her usual sarcasm), had been there to save her.

Angus. Where was he?

Sudden anxiety began to course through Christa. She hadn't been entirely conscious during that entire ordeal, sure, but she knew he was there, must have gotten injured somehow. But he should be here anyway. That loyal son of a bitch was always there. Something must be wrong. Something must be--

"Christa?"

Maybe that's what he was saying. She couldn't quite tell. And as she realized that... she was terrified.

Hawkeye walked gently into the room, and a woman followed close behind. The woman had long brown hair and soft brown eyes that looked like a puppy's. Her face seemed tired, but it also held kindness Christa was unfamiliar with.

Christa began to sit up in bed quickly, adrenaline beginning to pump through her. She wasn't quite sure why--but, of course, she didn't know what was going on. She fell back down as her head started to wail with pain, wincing and groaning.

Barton said something but Christa couldn't hear it. Or--maybe there was something there--maybe--

Barton paused in his words. He exchanged a look with the woman. Then he turned back to Christa. He looked around for a moment before the woman took a notepad and pen out of her purse and handed them to him. He took them from her and scribbled something down, and Christa knew what it would say and she thought she was prepared, but really, she never was.

You're deaf.

Those two words. Just those words.

Just those words.

Staring. Heart crumbling. Then scrutinizing the words.

"Dead too, right?" she felt herself say. "Those've gotta go hand in hand--the d and the f--am I right?"

It was a sad attempt at her usually fluently sarcastic self, she knew, but she'd heard Angus do worse, so she wasn't too embarrassed with herself.

Barton and the woman--his wife, perhaps?--yeah, his wife--both gave small smiles. Then he wrote down a few more words.

No, not dead. Just deaf.

Christa gave a sigh. It wasn't a sad sigh--just a tired one. She looked to the side and then back at Barton, saying, "Damn."

Just deaf. Who would've ever thought those words would apply to Christa?

There was a pause. Christa's attention was brought to the television, which had been on when she woke up but unnoticeable to her due to her confusion at her situation when waking up, and also the fact that she could no longer hear.

It was the news. Oh, what joy.

Christa sighed, then sat up a little higher in bed. The screen was showing a video with what looked like a very familiar neighborhood and the remains of a very familiar house.

"Reports say that this attack may have been caused by a terrorist attempting to bomb Avenger Clint Barton, more commonly known as Hawkeye," read the subtitles on the screen. A newswoman, who appeared to be speaking, was shown on the screen in front of Christa's house.

It was odd to see the place like that--broken down, burned, blown apart. Not fully destroyed but far too gone to be able to salvage much from it.

Her hearing... her home... her mother....

Christa seemed to have lost everything around her within a matter of days.

She finally noticed Barton and his wife exchanging looks with each other, and looked back up at the screen.

"It was an attack on... you?" Christa asked skeptically, raising an eyebrow and giving a small cough as she did so.

The couple looked back at her after exchanging another glance. Then Barton let out a puff of air, looking down at his hands in his lap. He took the last of paper and pen and after a moment, wrote something down.

According to the police and the news, but who the hell aims to drop a bomb on somebody from across the street in a neighborhood they don't even live in?

"Maybe they were drunk," Christa suggested after reading the words.

Barton let out a small chuckle. "Maybe," he said--if Christa had read his lips right.

Suddenly, anxiety began coursing through Christa. "Where's Angus?!" she exclaimed, sitting quickly up in bed again and regretting it instantly as she felt her blood pumping to her head.

Barton was saying something and making a gesture with his hands that Christa supposed was supposed to be calming, but it really wasn't, it really wasn't. Christa was fighting, the full realization of the boy not being there finally coming to her. Probably the drugs that kept her wounds and head from turning to firewood in a bonfire had kept her from coming to the conclusion that she should be feeling worry and anxiety because where the hell was he?

Eventually, Barton's wife shoved a piece of paper into Christa's hands and she stopped and opened the paper that had been crumpled in the exchange, heart pounding.

He's okay.

Christa glared up at the woman. "Where is he, though?!"

The woman wrote something else down and handed her the paper.

He's in another room. He got burned in several places, has a few broken bones, and a collapsed lung, but other than that he's fine.

Christa was so shocked that she started coughing violently. Wh... what? What? What had that IDIOT done to get so freaking injured?!

Christa, calm down. We're gonna get kicked out, came a quickly, messily scribbled note from Barton.

Christa scowled at them both. "Why do you care about staying here, anyways? Don't tell me you're getting all sentimental over a small, damn victim you saved."

Barton and the woman stared at her almost helplessly, both at a loss for words. Then, Barton wrote one final note before Christa would be instructed by a doctor to sleep, she would struggle, and she would be given the threat of not being able to see Angus soon until she did indeed fall asleep, and she did.

Why not?

| | |

"Why don't we just go home now? She's going to be okay.... Honey... what's wrong?" Laura's soft brown eyes were searching his as Clint Barton stared at the girl lying in the hospital bed in front of him, covered in injuries that were slowly turning to scars, hooked up to tubes and machines that she just shouldn't be. It was just a few minutes after she had been forced to go back to sleep.

Clint let out a long, rough sigh. Then he turned his head to his wife. Then he shook his head, turning back to the girl.

Laura tilted her head at her husband. "Clint... out of everyone you've saved--all those hundreds of people--what makes you so concerned about her?"

There was a pause. Then Clint, turning back to his wife, responded, "See... this girl--" he held up a piece of paper with her medical information on it "--she doesn't have anybody. She's an orphan whose mom just died, and then what happens? Her house blows up. She gets injured--nearly dies." He paused, looking back at the girl. "Best friend saves her life and mine, nearly sacrificing himself in the process. Means they must be close. But she still doesn't go into the custody of his parents. So what happens to her? She goes into the foster system."

Laura turned to stare at the dark-haired girl, looking somehow so small underneath those white bed sheets.

"No one's going to want to take care of a broken girl."

Clint sighed. "That's right. Her life's gonna be miserable from now on." He paused. "I don't want that for a kid."

"What are you saying, Clint?" Laura asked gently, stroking her husband's arm slightly, though she knew what. "We should foster Christa?"

Her husband turned back to her. "Laura... that's exactly what I'm saying."