I want you all to know that I know of how just absolutely terrible I am. Worst. "BRB". Ever. But I'm back and in full force, for the record. Ignoring all of the incredible drama that happened to keep me away, I'll finish this AN with a good note. I just got a new puppy. Her name is Stella, and she's the bestest puppy ever. She's passed out on my left arm, making this difficult, but she's so freaking cute that I can't move her. Ok. Moving on.

Here is the sequel to "Like the Desert Sun." If you haven't read that, go read it. If you have….I'm sorry this took so long, but here we go.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I don't claim to own anything, especially belonging to CP and it's universe, from now til forever. Amen.

(Let's do this!)

Frozen Tempest—Ghosts and Memories

It was the thirteen missed calls on his cell phone that let him know exactly what day it was. He was so immersed in work that he hadn't even realized what the calendar mocked him about, the only blank day in his planner. The one night of the year he wouldn't remember.

There were eight voicemails, six from Gi, one apiece from Kwame and Ma-Ti. Where Gi's grew progressively more anxious, demanding he call her back, Ma-Ti's was full of forced happiness, as if he was trying to inject Wheeler with joy over the phone. Kwame's was more hesitant, but still kept a calm about it that made Wheeler relax for just a moment. Hearing their voices talking to him in such a short span made him ache to see his friends. Or hear just one more voice…

His phone was ringing again, snapping him out of his almost-memory, and the screen notified him brightly that Gi was calling.

He kept his voice upbeat. "'Lo?"

"Jesus, Wheeler, you've had me worried sick. What are you doing?" Gi sounded frazzled.

"Finishing up some work. I'm going to get something to eat in a few. Why?"

"I'm coming into town tomorrow. It's the first flight I can get, but I'll be at the airport at 9am. So I need you to pick me up. So you need to be awake."

"Okay."

He could hear Gi's teeth clenching. "Wheeler, I'm serious! So…"

He already knew where this was going. "So what, Gi?"

"So don't go out tonight. Please. We always worry when you go out. Just because it's…today, and…today, it's just…Please don't go. It's been years, Wheeler, please! This isn't healthy. This isn't the way to cope. You just have to realize that today is today…and it'll always be today and we can't change that."

"My way of handling this isn't healthy?"He laughed mirthlessly.

"No! Wheeler, it's not!"

"What's not healthy is that you can't even say what today is on the phone. Yes, Gi, it is 'today,' but it's a lot more than that. It's when L-"

"Don't you dare bring her up. Don't even think about it. Go watch a movie. Go read a book. Do anything else, but don't dwell on this. How dare you condescend me when—"

Wheeler rolled his eyes. "Okay, Gi, I'm going now. I'll pick you up at nine. Hopefully you're in a better mood. Bye."

"No, Wheeler, wait—"

He threw the phone on his bed, shoved on his shoes, and rushed out the door into the setting sun.

_CP-CP_

Wheeler stared blankly at the bottles behind the bar. The bartender, having gone through this with him several years already, didn't bother him, didn't cut him off, didn't even wince when he walked in. Instead, she gave him a sympathetic smile, patted the bar, and pulled out three shot glasses.

"I'm experimenting with you tonight," she'd said, filling the glasses with whiskey. "I just got some new bottles in, need to figure out some new shot recipes. I know you won't complain."

"No, I won't complain."

She'd poured an additional shot and toasted him. "Thank you in advance for the absolutely amazing tip you'll be giving me tonight."

Wheeler had laughed. "But of course." They had an agreement. She would let him drink himself into the ground, and in turn, when he was too drunk to even hold a pen, she'd sign his card and add her own tip for having to put up with him.

Now, the bartender flitted behind the bar, a tornado of activity, bottle tops flying, liquor pouring with ease. She flirted and joked with her customers, but she never forgot him, sliding shots his way every time he thought he was going to panic.

He knew he wasn't going to be able to get out of his head. Where any other day of the year enough alcohol and loud music could make someone forget their name, this was not the day. As Gi so poetically put it, it was 'today.'

The day he lost Linka.

Hands zip-tied together, her face panicked as she watched them walk into the room. Her desperate screams even over the ringing in his ears as the butts of guns sank into flesh. Her chest heaving, her lips red from where they'd ripped off the duct-tape, her brow furrowed.

Plunder, in his slimy, skeezy stride walking over, telling her to drink, grabbing her face in his slick, disgusting hands. Rage boiling inside Wheeler.

"I'll kill you!" He launched forward, and then what he thought was the worst he would ever see happened. They pressed a gun to her head. His blood turned to ice. His stomach dropped. God, please, no…

The gun turned on him, and while still terrified, his relief was powerful. It was better this way.

Her face was absolute terror. Her mouth opened, and tears flew down her cheeks. A cacophony of Russian spilled from her lips, and it sounded like a desperate curse. He was trying to figure it out, his brain sluggish to sounds, when he heard her agree to drink it, whatever it was.

"Linka, no, don't do this."

She ignored him. She always ignored him. "Please, let me have the drink."

"Linka, no!" He could feel himself collapsing into pieces, the very molecules of his body ripping into shreds. His heart was trying to punch a way out of his throat, and his hands clenched to rip away that drink, even as she poured it in her mouth. His body shook, trying to keep him alive, or together. "Damnit, Linka!"

The change on her was immediate. Her face paled, a sheen of sweat erupted on her face. He watched her tremble like a delicate leaf. Her mouth opened slowly, as if the effort was going to kill her.

"Wheeler?...I….lied." And then she collapsed to the ground, seizing violently.

He tried to fight—it was all such a blur. Everything blurred, how they left, how they stopped him, how they kept him on lockdown on Hope Island. The only thing clear were her final words. "Wheeler? I lied." Wheeler….Wheeler…

"Wheeler? Nope, no one by that name at this bar?" The bartender had the phone pressed to her ear, staring at him. "What's he look like again? Mhhhmm, mhhmm, okay, okay. Nope, haven't seen him but I'll keep an eye out. Yep. Yep. Alrighty, you too." She slammed the phone down and poured him another shot. "Some chick named Guy or something wants you to call her if you come in here."

"Yep."

"Girlfriend?"

"Nope."

"Huh."

"Pretty much."

"Well, you're a lot of fun. Some chicks just walked in a few minutes ago. It's one of their birthdays. Wanna be a nice guy and buy them a round?"

Someone actually was born on this hellish day? They deserved a drink. He nodded.

"Ladies! Come here. This lovely gentleman is going to get you a round for your birthday."

The three girls giggled over and called out their drink orders. Wheeler took his without looking over, raised it in a birthday cheer, downing the shot with a murmured "Happy birthday." The birthday girl neared him and held out her hand.

The room was a little fuzzy, and he stared at the hand a moment before taking it and shaking it.

"Thank you for the drinks," the girl said, and Wheeler's head shot up.

Blonde hair. Green eyes. Delicate skin and a slightly mischievous brow. Perfect lips, angular face. And she had an accent.

"What's your name?"

"Natasha, nice to meet you. And you?"

"Wheeler," he breathed. She slightly winced.

"What a strange name. Very Yankee."

"…What did you just say?"

She flushed. "I am sorry. I did not mean to offend you. It is just, your name, it is very unsusual."

"We're in New York. There's tons of Yankees around. Our baseball team is named after them. Do I look like a baseball player? I'm just confused as to where or why you used that word." He was having trouble breathing.

She frowned, not at all weirded out by his freaking out. "I do not know. It just…came out of my mouth."

"Lin—Natasha, if you don't mind me asking, what's your last name. With your accent and all, it's got to be something fantastic. Where are you from, by the way?"

"Somewhere in the Soviet Union, that is all my mother would say. I am adopted, so my last name is very American."

"What is it?" he asked a little too quickly, and she shied away. "I mean, how bad can it be, right?"

She thought for a moment, then shrugged. "You are very interesting, Wheeler. It is Blight. My last name is Blight."

Ending on that note, have to go to work! I'll be back for more, I swear!