Title: Ride the Whirlwind

Author: Tearsofamiko

Rating: K

Disclaimer: I own nothing about Star Trek (2009), its characters or plotlines, including any recognizable dialogue.

Spoilers: Nah

Summary: The storm brewing outside doesn't come close to matching the one in his heart.

A/N: I picture this happening after Tarsus, but long before Pike stumbles across him in a dive in Riverside, and being kind of the starting point of all of his rebelliousness. So, I duhknow, he's what 16, 17? Young enough to still maybekinda care what Winona thinks but old enough to do mostly whatever he wants?

.:::.

Thunder grumbles through the sticky-stagnant air, an angry roll of sound that pulls him out of the house, off the porch, and down onto the lawn. He wanders aimlessly over crunchy grass, staring up at the clouds as lightning flashes just out of eyesight. A vague thought takes him farther and farther away from the house, until the faded white of the centuries-old structure is just barely visible in the distance. And still the storm grows, excitement and anticipation gathering hot and sharp at the back of his neck, in the pit of his stomach.

He's not afraid.

He blinks and realizes, distantly, that he's standing in the middle of a fallow field, more than a mile away from the house with nothing but rolling land and trees around him. He blinks again and looks back up at the sky, feels a light breeze shift into a fierce wind as lightning flashes again, as the ambient light around him seems to dim a little more. Swaying on his feet as another gust buffets him, he thinks vaguely about lightning strikes and tornados, how both are likely and deadly and more common than not, here in the middle of the American Midwest.

He's not afraid.

It's strangely exhilarating, the feel of the storm winds through his hair as the sky flashes and thunder rolls while not a drop of rain falls. It's heady and enticing and completely addictive, though he's only just begun to comprehend the siren-lure of it all. He closes his eyes, feeling his t-shirt mold to his body in the wind, feeling the air come alive with adrenaline and excitement and breathless anticipation. He lifts his arms, savors the sensation: flying with both feet on the ground, the wind in his face and electricity fairly dancing along his skin. (He falls in love with it, learns in that instant to crave it like air, like starlight, like his mother's love.) He gives himself up to the sensory rush, grinning and carefree, despite the rain beginning to fall in torrents and his mother's voice, shrill with anxiety and authority, rising against the roar of the summer storm.

He's not afraid.

He dreams of his father that night, blue eyes alive with the beautiful fury of the storm, as he flies through space with both feet on the ground.

.:::.

end

.:::.