Help Me Piece It All Together

By: Miss Mango

"We keep on running, running through a red light

Like we're trying to burn the night away,

Away oh away

Why are we always chasing after something

Like we trying to throw our lives away,

Away oh away

This is my favorite part so

Help me piece it all together, darling

Before it falls apart

Help me piece it all together"

-from "Quarter Past Midnight" by Bastille

A/N: The incredibly excellent song above (from one of my new favorite bands!) got me thinking about Wheeler's fragility as a person, as well as his endless quest to win over Linka (music and W/L always mix in my mind, LOL!). And so I wanted to capture all that in a story for you. Hope you like, like, like it and let me know about it! Much love… on with the show! MM

Chapter 1

Wheeler downed the shot in one quick gulp, the liquor burning its way down his throat. The small glass remained empty in his large palm. He wasn't surprised he'd chosen vodka. He was feeling damn lonely. And sorry for himself.

Spending Christmas day in Queens in a bar called The Dive wasn't exactly his idea of traditional or jolly or family, all things Christmas should evoke. The bar was surprisingly full of other lonely losers such as himself. Some of them were even bobbing their heads up and down to the alternative tunes vibrating off the invisible speakers. No Christmas jingles here.

To keep in line with his tradition of consistently wrecking his son's holidays, Wheeler's dad had been rushed to hospital two days prior. A grand Christmas present, like only he could deliver. It seemed like his liver had finally caved after years of poisoning it with alcohol.

His mother had called Wheeler in tears, and of course the redhead had rushed to New York. What else could he do? Now his dad was on a waiting list for a liver transplant, a new healthy one he would destroy in record time, no doubt. Wheeler wasn't all that shocked that he felt next to no pity for his father. He realized, not without some dread, that he'd even feel okay with his possible death. There wouldn't be much to miss about his dad. He'd been a terrible husband and a neglectful parent. No smiles or hugs or even a word of encouragement had ever been spent on his son. Wheeler hadn't found it easy to fake distress in the hospital, as opposed to his mom's very real tears. So even if the dimly lit bar reeked of depression, it was a step up from the hospital, hands down. And the alcohol was languidly numbing his unpleasant state of mind, drowning all bad memories.

The attractive American was about to order another round when his phone started vibrating in his pocket. He groaned aloud, not sure he was in the right mood to answer. He was considering his options when a tiny voice inside his brain reminded him that it could be his mom needing something, and so he dug out his phone with a sigh. Damn his sense of responsibility.

The name on the display acted as a cold shower on his cloudy senses. It was Linka. No big deal, just the girl he'd fallen for since day one with the Planeteers. Linka, who could aggravate him and arouse him like no other, all in the same breath. Linka, who he knew was too good for his sorry ass. Linka, who would beat some serious sense into him had she been sitting beside him now. Not that he would ever let her see him remotely drunk. It would be awkward and embarrassing, his dad had forever ruined social drinking for him. Wheeler figured it wasn't real unless others were attesting to it; he'd die before letting anyone compare him to his dead-beat dad.

Wheeler shook his head to clear his thoughts and ran a hand through his messy hair, unconsciously wanting to look his best even though the Russian girl could not see him. He cleared his throat, flustered, and answered rapidly. His heartbeat was loud in his ears like a revved up Porsche.

"Babe?"

"Merry Christmas, Yankee."

Linka's familiar accented voice was warm and beautiful. It felt so much like home Wheeler suppressed a sob. Get a grip!, he chanted like a mantra in his head. It had to be the alcohol, reasoned the American, albeit not too convinced.

"Uhm, Merry Christmas to you, too, darlin'."

He stood up on an impulse, holding his hand over his other ear to block out the background music, and made hastily for the exit door. He did not feel the place was adequate enough for someone as stellar as Linka, as if the ambiance could taint her over the telephone by mere association. Surely, she would disapprove of such a dodgy place.

"How is your father, Wheeler?"

Her query came as soon as the cold New York air hit his face. In his haste, Wheeler had left his jacket on the back of his stool, and he felt underdressed for the weather in his T-shirt. But the chilly air felt good, it helped sharpen his hazy senses. Wheeler filled his lungs with the below-freezing temperature.

"Not that great," he limited himself to answering.

A brief pause followed before Linka softly remarked, "I am sorry."

Irrationally, Wheeler did not want her to feel that way, to waste emotions on his old man like that. His dad did not deserve Linka's heartfelt declaration.

"Nothin' we ain't used to," he shrugged, trying to dispel the somber mood. "The important thing is that you guys are having a better Christmas, at least"?

"I wish that were true," replied Linka with a sigh, and immediately Wheeler heard the sadness her tone carried.

"What d'ya mean?"

"It seemed like both of us were destined to spend Christmas in a hospital. I am in Moscow. My Grandmother fell and broke her hip, as well as three ribs. I am expecting Mishka to get here later on today."

"Babe, you're kiddin'!"

Wheeler had met Linka's Grandmother – a very sweet old lady with a lively twinkle in her eyes – and could not be more shocked over the news. The woman had manifested an infectious energy and that was how he remembered her.

"I'm so sorry to hear that, Linka. That's horrible news!"

The American knew of the intense loving bond that tied Linka to her Grandmother, and he naively wished he could shield her from the current situation.

"It was not easy seeing her confined to that hospital bed. I cannot remember a time when she was ever inactive at home."

Her tone of voice pierced his heart and Wheeler suddenly wished they were not millions of miles apart. A wave of tenderness swept over him and he froze, unaccustomed to feeling so much. He wasn't a very emotional guy, rather, he did not like to show emotion in public. He hadn't cried since he'd been nine years old and his dad had smashed his toy train against the wall in a furious drunken rage.

Linka managed to awaken different sensations inside him, almost blotting out the negative emotions he had grown accustomed to, and that was why she filled his brain for the better part of the day. She was different, not just beautiful like so many other girls he could get next to if he so desired. There was incredible depth to her; she did not let herself get too distracted by his good looks and boyish charm, and that intrigued him. There were times when she effortlessly uncovered his worth when even he had trouble seeing it. She didn't take bullshit from anybody, and she in turn was reliable and honest in all she did. Not to mention she looked better than a Playboy bunny in a bikini. So, really, the reasons to fawn over her abounded.

"I wish I could do something, babe," he truthfully revealed. Then, "but I know how strong your Grandmushka is. She'll pull through, you'll see."

"Spasiba, Yankee," Linka replied just as sincerely, before there was some background commotion on her end.

"The doctor has just arrived. I must go now. I will talk to you later, da?"

"You bet. Keep me updated."

They said goodbye, and it was only then that Wheeler noticed it had suddenly begun to snow. Large, white flakes that settled on his skin, his hair, timidly making contact. Merry freakin' Christmas, the redhead thought, gloomily.