Angela is fourteen, and reads in one of the many pregnancy manuals scattered around the house that a mother-to-be should avoid stress and serious physical exertion in the weeks leading up to labour. That plan goes right out the window when Mrs. Lindholm wakes her up at night to share the news:
"Torbjorn's been injured. They say he's in critical condition." The woman's voice almost breaks with the words.
It takes Angela a second to think of all the things she could say, before she discards them all in favour of sitting up to give the woman a hug, prompting her to break out in tears. Her hands shake as she secures her grip around the Mrs. Lindholm's shoulders. What vestiges of sleep cling to her mind disperse all at once as it goes into overdrive, muting out the choked sobs on her shoulder along with her own thundering heart.
She pushes away the anxiety threatening to flood her throat down, and forces herself to think of what's relevant. Namely, what would it mean for her if Mr. Lindholm died?
The most immediate concern would be whether Mrs. Lindholm would keep her. As she rubs circles into her caretaker's back, she comes to the conclusion that she should be safe. She's been nothing if not an exemplary child, and continues to be one even at this very moment by offering a shoulder to cry on. Money is also not an issue for the Lindholm household, it would take a hundred more additional mouths to feed to put a sizable dent in their finances. In addition, her own enthusiasm about the yet unborn girl would work in her favour here, seeing as she's already expressed her willingness to help with the new Lindholm. Unless the woman should find a new husband almost immediately - something Angela just can't see happening - she would be left alone to care for the toddler, and surely she doesn't want that.
Yes, Angela surmises. She should be safe.
That line of thought taken care of, Angela allows the less important question to surface in her mind. What would it mean for her to live here without Mr. Lindholm?
It wouldn't necessarily be that different, she thinks. The man is already mostly absent due to his work. It would just mean there would no longer be calls from him asking about her days, no longer would he listen to her recount what progress she (and his wife - mostly his wife) made into cracking the mystery of her nanites, or what new piece of zoological trivia she's learned of in her spare time. It would be… strange. Worse. She's gotten used to this, and even came to anticipate the outings they go to when he returns home for a few days - they always go out to have ice-cream. It reminds her of when he reappeared in Angela's life.
She hopes he'll be fine. The world would be less without him, and Mrs. Lindholm would be devastated if he died, too.
They fly to Zurich first thing in the morning, their flight uneventful but for the additional security checks Angela must again submit herself to. She's not been to the Swiss capital since her parents died, and the city stands in stark contrast to her memories of the ruins she'd left behind. It's all shiny and new. She likes it. There's enough grit and grime to go around everywhere else. It should stand to reason that the city in which the heroes of the world are stationed should be a shining beacon of what can be, that it should stand where but ash and dust once stood.
They find Mr. Lindholm awake and bickering with Mr. Reinhardt. Or, well. They find most of him. An arm of his looks to be missing, and his face is covered in bandages so that only one of his eyes is visible. The room goes silent for a split second, before Mr. Reinhardt puts on what's possibly the widest smile Angela has ever seen, and throws his arms up in a greeting. Though quite obviously pained, Mr. Lindholm also smiles brilliantly, even if it's nowhere near its usual width. Mrs. Lindholm all but runs over to her husband's bed, as if to make sure he's really there, leaving Angela unsure what to do with herself as the couple lose themselves in their own world.
Thankfully for her, she's not the only other person in the room, and once Mr. Reinhard casts a meaningful glance the door's way, they both leave to give the Lindholms some privacy.
"How's Ingrid taking this?" The giant of a man breaks the silence outside. Angela takes a few seconds thinking of what to say; should she just admit the woman cried herself to sleep in her arms?
"As well as can be expected, I think."
"Hmm. I understand. And you?"
This time, she takes a much longer while to respond. She doesn't know the man other than from the posters and his few visits. What does he want to hear from her, that she's fine? That she's worried? She doesn't understand why anyone would feel the need to talk about those things with her. Mr. Lindholm is the one hurt, it's his family that he should-
...ah.
"I've seen worse."
Her reply gives the man a pause.
"You have?"
Wrong thing to say, then.
"At the camps. And-" And nothing. If he doesn't know about Uncle, she's more than happy to let him remain in the dark.
"It's alright. I shouldn't have asked."
Angela shrugs, not knowing what to say to that.
When Mrs. Lindholm finally opens the door to usher them back in, Angela gives Mr. Lindholm a hug of her own, before settling in for a story narrated by the crusader there with them. One of falling into a trap, of the heroic rescue by Mr. Reinhard, and the even more gallant extraction of the wounded man from the battle. Angela finds she's not all that interested in such details.
What matters is that Mr. Lindholm is alive and relatively well. Maybe it'll even make things better in the long run if losing an arm will force him to retire from the frontlines and stay home with them.