From: Laura Jacquez Valentine 

Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative

Subject: NEW: First Contact (K/S, PG-13, 1/1)

Date: 12 Oct 1998 23:14:49 -0400

Organization: Carnegie Mellon, Pittsburgh, PA



I started this story on 6 Oct.  I put it aside because I was working

overtime to get a draft in for work.  Since then, Matt Shepard was

beaten and left tied to fence in Wyoming, and today, 12 Oct, he died.

So I sat down tonight to finish this, because no one was there in time

for Matt, and I couldn't leave anyone, even a fictional character, with

no one there for him.



This story is therefore dedicated to the memory of Matthew Shepard, who

will forever be 21.



Author: Laura Jacquez Valentine (laurav@stones.com)

Title: First Contact

Rating: PG-13 (violence)

Series: TOS

Codes: K/S

Parts: 1/1

Summary: "It was then that I carried you."

Disclaimer: Paramount/Viacom owns Star Trek.  I own this story, which I

have dedicated to Matthew Shepard.  The Casa Nova, incidentally, is

named after a Pennsylvania gay bar that has been suffering protests

since its inception.



---

I pulled my jacket closer around me.  It was chilly out, my car was in

the shop, and I'd had a creepy feeling I was being followed for the past

week.  So I'd gone to Casa Nova, hoping to pick up someone, failed

miserably, and now the feeling of being followed was even stronger.  The

recent police crackdown on the Jeep-and-club gaybashing set hadn't made

me feel particularly safe, not with Gary dead.



Gary.  It had been almost a year since Gary was killed.  Even though he

and I had broken up long ago, his death had *hurt* like nothing else.

He was my first real boyfriend, the first relationship I had that lasted

longer than one night, the first person I loved.  I'd gone to his

funeral, then gone home and thrown up, over and over.  Not that I'd seen

the body--it'd been closed-casket.  They hadn't been able to put him

back together enough to be seen.  That made it so much worse.  



I walked a little faster.  Someone was following me now, I was sure of

it.  I could hear the low hum of a motor behind me and to the left.  It

had been there a while, keeping pace with me.  Alleys and doorways were

not options; they'd only follow me there, and I would be trapped.  



And there was a slow, measured step behind me--oh God--I started to walk

a little faster.  If I could make it two more blocks, there was a bar at

the corner, and I could duck in there.  Just two more blocks.



I wasn't going to make it.  The streets were empty except for me, the

car, and the footsteps behind me.  I knew I wasn't going to make it

before I heard the first insult.



"Fag!  Hey, fag, you want some?  I'll take you home, prettyboy!"



The laughter was almost worse than the words.  The laughter told me

there were five of them.  And then there were the footsteps--but I

couldn't hear those anymore.  Still.  Six to one.  I'd faced worse, but

not half-drunk and exhausted.



One of the kids in the car threw something at me and hit me square in

the back.  It was heavy, and I had had too much to drink--and I felt my

chin split open on the pavement.  God, nononono...



There were only five of them.  Footsteps must have left.  I covered my

head and curled up on the ground.  Two of them pulled my legs down so

the others could kick me in the stomach and in the balls.  Soprano, I

thought, insanely.  I haven't sung soprano since I was eleven. I wonder

how I'll sound after all these years.  Then one of them started kicking

my chest and another pulled a Louisville Slugger from somewhere, and I

stopped thinking much of anything.



There was a strangled cry from somewhere--not from me, my mouth and my

lungs were full of blood--and one of my attackers collapsed next to me.

The beating stopped.  The kid next to me was just barely breathing--he

was out cold.  God.



I was trying to breathe and was succeeding only marginally.  I could

hear a fight, and looked up in time to see two more of my attackers hit

the ground, and the others jump into their car.  A 1996 Dodge Neon--how

the hell they fit five people in that car I will never know.  License

plate number BR--



My rescuer cut off my view of the disappearing car.  He was tall, and

thin, and had long dark hair, hair past his shoulders.  He knelt next to

me.  "I must get you to a hospital, but I am not from around here.

Where is the nearest one?"



It was five blocks away, but he managed to carry me the entire way.  I

rested against his chest and continued trying to breath.  In.  Out.

In.  Like that.  I couldn't hear a heartbeat in him, just a hum.

Between coughing blood, I managed to ask him "Are you a robot or

something?"  I think I wanted to lighten the mood--



"No," he said.  "I am an alien.  My name is Spock."



"Jim," I said.  "I'm Jim."



"I know," he said.  "I have been looking for you my entire life.  I have

been following you for a week, unsure how to introduce myself.  I was

planning to walk you home tonight, but--"



I couldn't help it.  It hurt like hell, but I started to laugh.  "You're

Mr. Footsteps."



He frowned at me, his hair falling forward over his face, before he

realized what must have happened.  I saw his eyes sparkle and a smile

touch his mouth just before he said "You talk too much, little human.

Sleep now."



His hand pressed against my shoulder, and then I was asleep, safe in his

arms.



---

The End

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