Hello, friends,
This is Twisted, the first installment in storm!verse, a world of storm chasing, and a whole lot of Brittana.
Enjoy!
As they approach the eleventh hour of the drive, Santana begins to feel restless. It's a familiar feeling: the cramping of her legs, the stiffening in her shoulders. It's a dull, prolonged ache that throbs more intensely through her body as the hours wear on. Mike calls it "the Twinge". Santana calls him a dweeb.
Rolling her neck, Santana fixes her eyes on the horizon in front of her. The normally bright sunshine of early summer hides behind darkening clouds, casting a shady gloom over the stretch of gravel for as far as she can see. Santana extends her arm out the window, letting the breeze dance through her fingers. She doesn't need her monitor to know that they're getting close; she can feel it in the heavy moisture between her knuckles, and the tiny droplets of water that trail down her palm.
In the driver's seat, Mike drums the fingers of his right hand on the steering wheel, subconsciously matching the beat of the country song that crackles through the old radio. He doesn't speak, and neither does Santana; both of them lost in the noisy silence that surrounds them.
She's transfixed by the pattering of the rain against the windshield, the Western twang from the speakers, the drumming of fingers. So much so, that the sudden blaring alarm from the computer in front of her jolts Santana upright, sending her knee to slam hard into the bottom of the dashboard.
"What the hell!" Santana curses, immediately grabbing her knee and squeezing, trying to relieve the sharp, searing pain. "Which idiot installed a fucking horn in the laptop?"
Mike keeps his gaze focused on the road ahead, but rolls his eyes. "I did, after you slept through the alert last time. We missed the whole storm, because someone took a snooze while I was getting gas."
"Well, it's the dumbest idea you've ever had. And no thanks to you, I'm gonna have a bruise the size of Texas on my knee."
"Oh, get over yourself," Mike chuckles, throwing a glance in Santana's direction. "How about you quit complaining, and actually check that alert."
"Jerk," Santana mutters, but she focuses her attention on the monitor, which illuminates with a new alert. Clicking on the link from the National Weather Service, she quickly scans her eyes over the newest weather report.
"We're looking at a big one, I think," Santana says, eyes widening as she reads the warning on the screen. "There's a supercell, roughly… twenty miles ahead?"
Squinting at the horizon, Santana sees it: a dark, rotating cloud, larger than the others that surround it. It's a clear sign, thank God, of the beginning of a tornado. She knows they can't get too close, or they'll inevitably get caught in a nasty hail storm.
"How's the wind shear looking?" Mike asks.
"It's vertical, and pretty damn strong." Santana releases a breath; it's been weeks since there's been a decent twister. Day after day spent in their beat-up, rubescent Ford, with only the dusty roads and grimy rest stops to look forward to.
On her left, sporting a grin that reaches his cheeks, Mike pumps his fist into the air. "Get those cameras ready, we're getting some shots today!"
"Don't get so ahead of yourself," Santana warns, but she can't prevent the smile that slowly stretches across her face. "There are still a bunch of things that could fizzle it out, you know."
"But I can feel it, Santana," Mike says, glancing in her direction. "I swear, one of us is going to get a shot that ends up in National Geographic, or something."
"Wouldn't that be nice…"
"I'm serious." Mike looks at Santana expectantly, and holds out a closed fist in her direction. "You and me, we're the best. If anyone's gonna shoot this sucker, it'll be us."
Santana stares at him a moment, before rolling her eyes and punching his fist with her own.
"You better be right, Chang."
When they arrive at a decent viewing location, what Mike calls a "shoot spot", they pull the car over to the side of the crumbling road. The clouds drizzle light rain on them, but they're out of range from any hail.
Santana opens the squeaky passenger door, deeply inhaling the fresh air that overtakes her. After slamming the door shut, and stretching out her stiff legs, she walks around to the trunk to retrieve her camera equipment.
"Let's set up the tripods over there," Mike says, gesturing behind them. "There's a dip in front of it, so we should get a good angle."
Santana nods in agreement, and pulls out her tripod and camera bag from the back of the car. She's just closed the trunk when a familiar smooth roar approaches on the road.
"Oh shit." Santana glares at the bright red Channel Five News symbol on the side of the pristine white van as it pulls over next to them. "Don't tell me Brittany and her crew of dumbasses just got in our spot."
Mike laughs. "It's not like we're competing with them, Santana. They're covering the news, and we're taking photos."
"Still," Santana complains. "They could, like, get in our way."
"I think you're just mad because you've been in love with Brittany for a year, and still haven't gotten her number."
Santana rolls her eyes. Mike's right, of course, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of admitting it.
The van's engine dies down, and only a moment passes before the doors open. Three people come out of the van; two of them, Santana knows, are Noah Puckerman and Finn Hudson, the idiots that make up the camera crew, but she barely notices them.
Her eyes are glued to the flowing blonde hair, and long, long legs, of one Brittany S. Pierce.
It's a shame, really, how little composure Santana has around Brittany. The first time they met, Santana clumsily slipped in a puddle while trying to get a shot, falling face-first into the mud. On a different day, by the time the Channel Five News van arrived, Santana had been standing in the pouring rain for an hour, waiting for a fucking rainbow, and looked like a drenched rat when Brittany saw her. Santana's yet to not make a complete fool of herself in front of Brittany, the girl she's been crushing on–or maybe more than just crushing–for a year.
Santana sharply inhales, when Brittany's crystal-blue eyes meet hers; she's not sure how people can actually pay attention to the news, when those gorgeous eyes are staring back through the television screen. They're mesmerizing, and Santana hardly notices Brittany walking towards her.
"Hey, Brittany," Mike says, waving to the blonde.
Brittany smiles her radiant camera-smile, the one that lights up screens all across the Midwestern United States during every major storm.
"Hey there, Mike," she responds, before looking at Santana. Brittany's smile seems to grow wider, warmer, and Santana feels dizzy. "Hi, Santana."
"Hey," Santana manages, through her scratchy throat.
Mike says something else to Brittany, but Santana doesn't hear; all she can think is stupid, stupid, stupid. It's usually not difficult for Santana to speak a coherent sentence, but Brittany somehow makes it impossible.
"It's supposed to be a big one, I've heard," Brittany says, her eyes glowing with excitement. "Apparently we're looking at a five-mile mesocyclone, and some serious updrafts."
Oh, yeah. Brittany's also a meteorological genius.
Santana may have done some Google chain searches, and possibly read some Wikipedia pages, to find out that Brittany-S-Fucking-Pierce not only got her degree in meteorology from Columbia, an Ivy, but graduated fourth in her class.
"Insane," Santana says.
Rather than laughing at her incompetency, Brittany beams, directing her stunning smile at Santana. "I bet you'll get some great pictures, San. You're seriously so talented."
Santana feels like a tornado. Spinning without control, about to be swept into the wind from under her feet. Brittany, the definition of perfection, just called her talented. She called her San. She doesn't get nicknames, aside from Mike's "Santana-Banana" shit, but this one, from the actual goddess Brittany, is kind of perfect.
"She's the best," Mike agrees.
Brittany gives her one last smile, before excusing herself to rejoin her crew. Santana watches as she walks away, and Mike shoots her a knowing smirk.
"Why don't you just ask her out?" he asks, as they walk to their viewing spot.
Santana gives him an incredulous look. "'Ask her out'? I'm not sure if you've noticed, but she's got her shit together, and I clearly don't."
"Give yourself some credit, Santana. Brittany's right, your photos are incredible, and the rest of the world's eventually going to see it too."
Mike sets down his tripod, motioning for Santana to follow suit. After placing her tripod on the ground, and securing the safety spikes into the dirt, Santana releases a breath.
"If I had to get stuck with somebody, Chang, I'm glad it was you. And for the record, your photos are pretty awesome as well."
Mike grins, a wide, goofy smile, and playfully punches Santana's shoulder. "Let's go take some kickass pictures."
It's slow at first. It always is, with storms, but Santana's used to waiting. Patience, it's something that took a long time for her to develop, but it's necessary, especially in her line of work.
After a while, the wind begins to pick up around them, creating a barely noticable change. The dark, circular cloud in front of them starts to spin faster, increasing the velocity of the fast-moving air.
"I think this is it!" Mike shouts, and Santana smiles as she positions herself in front of her camera. The long hours of driving, and waiting, and boredom, it's all worth it for these short moments; a few breathtaking seconds of rare, natural beauty.
Santana can't help but lose her breath as the tall funnel emerges, swirling beautifully, faster than anything she's ever seen. She's practically hypnotized by the magnificent scene, but she has to focus and take pictures, before it disappears.
Santana takes photos, as many as she can, and she knows Mike does the same, with the rapid clicking she hears on her right. The tornado spins haphazardly, yet smoothly; it glides like it's on ice, sliding gracefully across the flat land.
She suddenly sees a flash of bright, hot light dance across the sky, followed by the loud crack of thunder. An instant later, the twister falls away, swept up quickly into the air.
"Damnit, I don't think I got a photo of the lightning, it happened too quickly," Mike complains, and he turns to Santana. "Did you get one?"
Pressing back through her photos, Santana searches. She sees dozens of photos of the tornado disappearing, and then–
"Oh my God." She gasps, barely able to speak.
There, on the screen of her camera, is the twister, tall and beautiful, illuminated by a flash of jagged white lightning behind it. It's gorgeous, and perfectly representational of the moment.
"Woah!" Mike exclaims as he peers over her shoulder. "If that's not National Geographic worthy, I don't know what is."
Santana grins at her photograph, and can't help but look over at Brittany, who speaks animatedly in front of the video camera. Her crystal eyes dance, like swirling wind, and Santana knows, a storm like that deserves the enthusiastic reaction that only Brittany can give.
Turning back to Mike, Santana holds out her fist. He catches her eye, and with a sparkle in his own, connects his fist to hers.
When they've packed up the tripods, and loaded them into the trunk of the car, Santana sees Brittany and her crew loading their equipment into the Channel Five News van. As if she can sense Santana's focus on her, Brittany turns around, catching Santana's eye. Her breath catches in her throat as Brittany holds up a finger, as if to say one moment.
Brittany says something to Puckerman, who nods in response, before turning back to Santana. With twinkling eyes, as if they share a secret between them, Brittany walks in the direction of their car.
"Hey again, guys," Brittany greets once she arrives. Santana's about to respond, probably with something completely stupid, but Mike cuts in.
"I'm going to go over and talk to your crew for a bit, Brittany," he says, and with a wink thrown at Santana's look of desperation, he leaves Santana by herself, with Brittany.
Half of Santana wants to run away and hide, to escape the impending humiliation she's bound to create for herself. The other half, the half she pushes to the very back of her mind, wants to press Brittany up against her car and kiss her with everything she has.
So, naturally, she stands there, waiting for Brittany to talk.
With soft eyes, Brittany smiles. "Hi, Santana."
Fiddling with the camera that hangs from her neck, to distract her from all things Brittany, Santana bites her lip. "Hey, Brittany."
Brittany's eyes finally stray from her own, and glance down at Santana's camera. "Did you get any good pictures? If tornadoes can be photogenic, I'm pretty sure that one was a model."
Santana laughs, because seriously, Brittany's a genius, and meets her eyes. "I think so."
Turning her camera to the side to give Brittany a better view, Santana scrolls back through her shots, until she lands on the photo that captured the flash of lightning behind the swirling tornado.
Brittany's eyes become wide, and she gently grasps the camera from Santana's hands. "San, it's… wow. This is absolutely gorgeous."
Santana's heart flutters, both from the nickname, and Brittany's compliment of her work. "It's not much, really, but thanks."
Brittany hands the camera back to Santana, and looks at her, eyes narrowed in thought.
"Santana," She pauses, for a moment, seeming to consider her words.
"What do you see, when you look at yourself?"
Santana raises her eyebrows. She surely wasn't expecting that question, but then again, Brittany seems to always be surprising her.
"Um," she muses. "I guess, I see a photographer who wants to really make it, but isn't sure if she'll ever get there."
Brittany studies Santana for a moment. It doesn't seem like Brittany's scrutinizing her, but rather, looking into her. It should majorly freak Santana out, but it doesn't; it just makes her curious to know what Brittany's thinking.
"You know, I've been in awe of you for a long time," Brittany says.
Santana almost laughs, but then she notices Brittany's expression: serious, thoughtful, and absolutely sincere.
"You? In awe of me? "
Brittany nods, and tentatively, while searching Santana's eyes for any objection, grabs her hands, holding them softly, yet reassuringly. Santana's heart races, hyper-aware of the warmth and comfort of having Brittany's hands in her own, and she doesn't ever want to let go.
"Yeah, I am," Brittany says, gently squeezing Santana's hands. "Want to know why?"
"Why?" The word comes out as a whisper from Santana's lips.
"Because you're brave. Brave enough to do what you love, even if you don't have a direction. Especially then. And I know you doubt yourself, but you're the most passionate person I've ever met. I really admire you for that."
Santana can't speak. She can't move, can't anything, and Brittany softly rubs her thumb over her hand.
"All you need, Santana, is a little more confidence."
Brittany's words seem to ignite something in Santana. She feels like she's spinning, faster, faster, picking up wind and energy. She feels a surge of adrenaline, and courage, and confidence.
Releasing her hands, she brings them up to the sides of Brittany's face, and with one last look into the swirling blue eyes, presses her lips to Brittany's.
Santana doesn't notice the light rain over their heads, or the whoops and cheers from Mike and Brittany's crew. It's just Brittany, Brittany, moving her lips against Santana's with passion, and sincerity, and grace. It's Brittany's soft moan into her mouth, as Santana pulls her closer, closer, with Brittany's fingers dancing along her hips. It's a storm, their storm, and Santana never wants it to end.
It does end, though, with the loud honk of the horn from the Channel Five News van. Brittany pulls away, giggling, her eyes shining the brightest Santana's ever seen them.
"You're beautiful." Brittany says it simply, like it's the most obvious fact in the world. Santana can't stop the smile that stretches across her cheeks, and she trails her hand down the side of Brittany's jaw.
"When can I see you?"
Brittany shrugs, a playful smile lighting up her features. "Well, I don't know. That's up to you, if you plan to ask me on a date."
Santana feels like she's melting, because this girl is kind of perfect. "Brittany Pierce, will you go on a date with me this Saturday?"
"What's the weather forecast?"
Santana smirks. "A gorgeous blonde newscaster on T.V. mentioned it was going to be sunny and storm-free all weekend."
With sparkling eyes, Brittany leans in and gives Santana a soft, slow kiss, and Santana feels like she's floating.
"Then I'll see you on Saturday, Santana."
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