In which we learn about being empty
She didn't remember much about the incident. That is, she didn't remember much of anything of importance. She remembered little things. They had had some time off and were enjoying it as much as possible; that morning they were gathered in one of the observation rooms, the one with the really comfy couches and the biggest window to the outside world. The ship was in aquatic transport mode and was rocking gently atop the Pacific Ocean, the sun shining just a tad too brightly on the waves. Clint was wandering around the room describing (with graphic hand gestures) just how ungainly his wife was going to be in a few months time. He was also attempting to avoid the projectiles hurled his way by Agent Hill (on his wife's behalf). She had already exhausted the room's supply of couch pillows and had moved on to the slightly stale peanuts she'd found in one of the cabinets. Bobbi was settled in one of the plusher couches. Quite literally "in"; once one found oneself on one of these particular couches, one did not easily rise again. She was trying to ignore the battle scene occurring around her and focus on Agent Coulson, who was trying to teach her how to knit. She didn't know why he knew how to knit, but, given that it was Phil, she wasn't exactly surprised. He had been trying to teach her for a week or so now, and she had already turned out one baby blanket. True, it was more holes than blanket and it contained some rather suspicious looking lumps, but it was her first effort ever and, by God, she was proud of it. Besides, knitting was a…motherly…sort of task, she was sure, not to mention to weaponries potential of the needles involved. All in all, a useful hobby.
She had just finished a row and was levering herself out of the couch in order to seek out the facilities adjacent to the observatory (the constant need for bladder relief was not a particularly pleasant facet of pregnancy and she had resolved, once again, to force SHIELD's sci-team to look into a solution) when it happened. And this was the part where things got a little fuzzy. One moment she was shifting to her feet and the next she was collapsed against the opposite wall, ears ringing and heart pounding. She didn't remember feeling any pain nor did she remember a lack of pain. She remembered being pleasantly numb, with a slight sensation of heat in parts of her body. Then she remembered…nothing.
When she woke up, she was in a hospital bed. And Clint was staring at her. And she felt empty. Despite her drugged up grogginess, the emptiness alarmed her and she tried to run through a mental checklist as she always did when finding herself in a hospital. Head? Check. Hands, arms? Check. Feet, legs? Check. Torso? Check. Bobbi silently congratulated herself on retaining all her major body parts. And then noticed that Clint was still staring. And she still felt empty. She ran through the checklist again, slightly more frantic now. I have everything, don't I? I'm not missing anything. I'm okay, Clint's okay, the baby… and then it hit her. The term "like a ton of bricks" is often thrown around in such situations but it hardly applied here. It wasn't a ton of bricks that hit her, it was a freeze ray. She could feel every atom of her body stop dead still as the realization dawned on her. She felt empty. The tiny life she had nurtured inside of her for these few months was gone and she was empty.
It was at this point that Bobbi Morse's brain, acting on the better part of valor, decided to shut down for a while and engage the autopilot. The next several months passed in a blur. Maria and Phil had not been badly hurt by the explosion, suffering some burns and a few broken bones. Clint had escaped nearly injury free, with only 2 broken ribs and a plethora of bruises. And she was empty. They were all eventually cleared for active duty, even Bobbi. She and Clint still partnered on missions, but she never seemed to really be there. That didn't mean she didn't get the job done. She executed her duties with flawless efficiency and a painful grace. Problem was, if there was no one else on the mission with her, Bobbi's targets tended to not walk away alive. Fury was less than happy with this turn of events, Clint was increasingly worried, and she was empty. He started requesting solo missions and she didn't stop him. Let him do what he liked, if it made him feel better then fine. After being called to the floor by Fury, yet again, and having him "request" that she stick to the mission parameters (oh and to kindly stop executing the people she was supposed to be watching and could she possibly see it in her heart to stop beating up his other agents in sparring practice) she wandered back to the quarters she supposedly shared with her husband. Clint was out solo again and she found she didn't care. About him, about Fury, about anything. A good agent, a good wife, a good person would care, she supposed. But then, she wasn't a good person, was she? She was just…empty. Empty of life, of feeling, of caring, of anything at all. And that was fine by her.
****Author's Note: trying to be consistent with my storyline (such as it is) here. Which means actually thinking while I'm writing. Which is no bueno, let me tell you. Thoughts? Comments? Concerns? Emotional outbursts? I welcome them all...****