FIC: And Years Went By 1/1 (ST:XI, NC-17)
And Years Went By
By Keelywolfe
Pairings: (in order of appearance) McCoy/Kirk, Spock/Kirk, McCoy/Spock, Spock/McCoy/Kirk
Word Count: 7200
NC-17
Summary: He was the Senior Medical officer on the Starfleet Flagship and that was true, but he was also a maudlin old man who was drinking the most expensive brandy he could afford with the same grace as the boys back home would swill backwoods moonshine. And he was drinking it alone.
Notes: I'm not usually so sappy about my own stories but I really hope people like this one because I'm honestly thrilled with it. Enjoy. :)
~~*~~
Say what you would about the Saurians, they knew how to make a damned fine glass of spirits. Just looking at it was an experience; even the cheapest brandy that was affordable to a poor commissioned officer of Starfleet practically glowed when you poured it, some inner light in the thick amber liquor. The smell of it washed over a person like the sweetness of a long-forgotten dream and when a fellow finally took a sip, the bare wash of it over the tongue warmed you like standing in Georgia sunshine in August.
And that was the cheap stuff.
The glass McCoy was sipping right then wasn't cheap by any means and the taste and smell of it would have a connoisseur weeping on the floor for just one more drop. It was just a shame at that moment the depth of flavor was escaping him and it sure as hell wasn't warming the coldness that had settled into his chest.
The small viewscreen on his desk was still open with a message and he'd been expecting it; of course he had. Their last mission had been whatever the Starfleet approved term for the word clusterfuck was from the very start. No fault of theirs and that was what it would come out to in the end. It was just getting through the red tape and the waiting for the higher authority to come to the same conclusion that everyone else had.
Being the youngest captain ever to head a ship might be good for the ego but it sure as hell didn't grease the wheels of bureaucracy much.
McCoy took another sip of his brandy; let the earthy flavor with just a breath of oak wash over him. Didn't look at his viewscreen with its tersely worded message that stated that the captain was still in conference with Starfleet command over the incident and would be unable to meet with him at the designated time. And he sure as hell didn't think about what the message didn't say, it didn't say, Bones, I'm so sorry, I'll make it up to you, I swear.
It didn't have to say it; he knew James Kirk the same way he knew a well-loved book, like the lines of his daughter's face in the pictures he was sent far too rarely. He knew and he even knew Jim meant it, knew how earnest those blue eyes would have been if he'd actually had time to tell him.
Didn't matter. McCoy tossed back the rest of his drink with a grimace; the richer, smokey notes turned sour when you drank it too fast but that didn't matter, either. He swallowed it down anyway and poured another glass. Held it up to the light and looked at his quarters through a lens of costly liquid amber.
Strange the way life worked. Ten years ago, he wouldn't have believed he'd be here on this ship in the cold recesses of space if someone had come back from the future with photographic evidence. Five years ago he'd climbed on a shuttle with a week's worth of hangovers catching up on him and the implacable urge to be somewhere, anywhere else than where he was right then, and he'd sat his ass down next to something like destiny, looked over at the battered face of the man who would become the best friend he'd ever had. Two years ago and the Federation was turned sideways from the loss of Vulcan, and he'd taken a permanent berth on the Enterprise, these very quarters had been his from the beginning. That brought him to now.
He was the Senior Medical officer on the Starfleet Flagship and that was true, but he was also a maudlin old man who was drinking the most expensive brandy he could afford with the same grace as the boys back home would swill backwoods moonshine. And he was drinking it alone.
Pure self-indulgence, that's what it was. He was sitting here moping because he was alone on his birthday, like a kid who'd dropped his ice cream cone on the sidewalk in the dog days of summer. His own damned fault, maybe, but he didn't think so. McCoy was not a man who made friends easily and especially not here.
Not with entirely too young faces surrounding him from every angle and no matter how many times he tried to convince himself he wasn't that old, damn it, there was no way to make himself believe it. He felt old, felt the weight of every day that had ticked past like an old grandfather clock of his life, felt it in his bones. Too young faces but none of them were quite as young as when he'd met them, were they? Even Jim, who had seemed so impossibly youthful when they'd met, was maturing into a competent captain and when the hell had that happened?
Another wasted sip of fine brandy that he was almost too drunk to properly taste and if had been any other day, McCoy's frugal nature would have gotten the best of him and he would have switched to a nice, cheap whiskey, saved the good stuff for a special occasion. Only this was a special occasion and if you couldn't waste the best on your birthday, then there was no point in waiting for tomorrow, now was there? Even if the glass on the other side of the table was empty.
McCoy let his eyes drift nearly shut, gazing out through his lashes as he considered that empty glass. Five years he'd known Jim Kirk and this was the first birthday since then that he'd spent alone.
His first birthday with Jim, damn, now that was a memory. They were best friends, the best of friends but that didn't mean that McCoy had any urge to play any of the games that Jim was so fond of. Didn't spend his evenings in bars, didn't traipse back to their quarters in the wee hours of the mornings, stinking of sex , filthy sex, didn't have any interest in that. He'd done his time as a wild student when he was in Med school and just being a student again had been bad enough as far as was he was concerned. No need to do a repeat of the dumb shit he'd done back then.
Jim had known all that and other people would probably be astonished as how thoughtful he could actually be, when he tried. Without McCoy murmuring a word about what day it was, Jim had stayed home that night, bought him a very nice bottle of brandy and the two of them had sat there and killed it between them. Had sat there and Jim had listened when McCoy actually talked about his ex-wife, something he hadn't done since he'd mentioned the divorce. Just sat there and absorbed all the bitterness that McCoy was pouring off of him like acrid sweat, until a knot that he hadn't even realized was still sitting in his guts had eased, and he could laugh, just a little, the resentment easing into something that didn't cut.
"Y'know," McCoy had said, peering into his nearly empty glass, "I think the only thing I'll miss about her is from today." He had tipped back the last of his brandy, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before he rasped out a laugh. " 'Bout the only time that woman would ever use her mouth for something useful."
Jim hadn't laughed, only a smirk curved his lips, slouched back in his own chair with a sweet alcohol haze shining his eyes, "Are you telling me the only time she ever blew you was on your birthday?"
"Guess I am," McCoy had shrugged, drunk enough and warmed enough that the memory hadn't hurt, not too much. "She could use her mouth pretty well when she wanted to."
And Jim had laughed, his own mouth soft and pink in the light, and McCoy would swear it was the brandy that made him stare, not the flick of Jim's tongue over them, wetting them before he had murmured. "I bet I can do better."
And he had, holy blue fuck, he had. The memory was almost as sweet as having Jim here right now, almost, when he'd started to laugh it off at the time, trailed into silence when Jim slithered out of his seat to his knees because he'd meant it; of course he'd meant it, crawled up between McCoy's legs, slow and smooth as he'd neatly opened the fly of his pants, ready to let him say no, ready to let McCoy push him away. Like he could have, would have, damn, that mouth. He'd watched the whole time, watched dark lashes flutter down over too-blue eyes, watched those pretty lips open so he could push inside hot, slick wetness. Watched Jim's cheeks hollow and fill as he'd sucked, watched until the weight of his coming orgasm was crawling up his spine and then he'd just tightened his hands in Jim's sleek hair and come hard into his welcoming throat.
McCoy didn't remember when he'd closed his eyes, lost in that particular little memory, but opening them only brought him a view of two empty glasses. He filled his own again, drank half of it down before he even tried to remember his second birthday. One drunken blowjob between friends could be dismissed; McCoy couldn't even pretend to be as worldly as Jim but even he knew that. Don’t talk about it the next day, give it a mental write-off and all was well.
Until the next year and one drunken birthday blowjob was a write-off but two was the start of a tradition and that time he'd thrown his head back, clenched his hands into Jim's hair from the beginning and fucked that eager mouth. Jim had obligingly let him, rode every insistent thrust, every perverse little hair pull like he'd been made for it and drank down every drop that McCoy had spilled like he was finer than the brandy he'd bought.
The third year McCoy had brought the brandy because he was damned sure that getting two presents from your best friend wasn't fair and besides, he had better taste when it came to liquor.
The fourth year...McCoy shifted in his seat, leaned forward to pour another couple fingers of liquor and didn’t even flinch when it slopped over the edge of his glass, only sucked his fingers clean and didn't think about the fourth year because that had happened here, right here in these quarters and he'd been sitting in this chair with every other word out of his mouth either 'fuck' or 'please'.
That was what his sex life had consisted of, a yearly pity blowjob from his best friend and now that he'd lost that...fuck it, he had no idea what came after that. Jerking off to old gynecological medical journals maybe, that seemed appropriately pathetic.
Shit, when had he gotten to be such a moony drunk? It was just as well Jim wasn't here to say the same thing, with those pretty, soft lips that weren't going to be wrapped around McCoy's dick this year. Not this year, not again, not when he'd found himself a steady partner. Not that McCoy hadn't already known; he was old and grouchy but that didn't mean he was stupid, thank you. This year he would have sufficed to just have Jim here, maybe a little drunk, a little flirty. Jim was his best friend and, shit, if McCoy hadn't been missing him. Just because a certain pointy-eared -
The door chime startled him, almost sent him sprawling to the floor and that was pathetic enough but the lurch in his chest was worse, wretched little bit of rising hope that it wasn't someone with some health-related question or another that they deemed too personal to risk talking about in Medical, not a chart that he hadn't signed, or something equally pointless. Just now, the only person he wanted on the other side of that door was someone who cared about him.
It was just a fucking shame that the person he got was the one who didn't care about anything at all.
"What the hell do you want?" Tumbled out of his mouth before he could formulate something better, a little more appropriate for a higher ranking officer that he had to work with every day and who tomorrow wouldn't be sitting in his thoughts as the fucking bastard who was stealing away the best friend he'd ever had.
Say what you would about Spock's mama, not that anyone would, but she must've taught him some manners because he never batted an eye. "Doctor," he said, inclining his head slightly. "May I come in?"
"Why?" McCoy asked, not even bothering to try for better.
"The Captain asked me to join you at your quarters. I believe there is a ritual of sorts that you are undertaking and as he is unable to assist, he asked that I partake."
McCoy couldn't have stopped his laughter if Spock had given him that little neck pinch. He'd be on the ground unconscious and it would have still been pouring out of him, helplessly, honest humor because he'd always known the universe had it out for him but he'd just never realized how much.
Spock only stood there, hands clasped behind him as he waited for McCoy to get over his oh, so human hysteria, scrubbing at his face with the back of his hand hard enough that he staggered a little. Never had much in the way of liquor legs, anyway.
"I surely do appreciate the offer," McCoy managed finally, still fighting down the occasional chuckle, "But I believe I read that Vulcans don't drink."
"Alcohol does not affect us as it does humans," Spock agreed. "However, it is my understanding that the true requirement here is commiseration. This, I believe, I can provide."
Commiseration. Right. McCoy leaned against the doorway, let his head tip back against it and closed his eyes. Maybe the universe didn't have it out for him; maybe this was just proof that Jim was out of his damned mind. These two together; it was almost more than his brain could bend around sober and right now it was a damn near impossibility.
Like two flavors that refused to mingle, chocolate and asparagus, marshmallows and caviar. Jim, his Jim that he knew painfully well, who all but exuded every kind of passion out of his pores with Spock, who wouldn't know passion if it leapt up and bit him in the tiny package he carried behind him that passed for his ass.
But damn it, Jim was his friend and it might be his birthday but maybe it was past time he gave Jim a present for a change.
He moved to the side enough to let Spock past him. "Come on in."
~~*~~
Fifteen minutes later, he was wondering what the hell he'd been thinking. If drinking alone was wretchedly pathetic then drinking while someone else just sat and watched was damn near unbearable.
Maybe it wasn’t just the watching but who was watching that made it all the worse. Spock was staring at him like he was a particularly interesting puzzle to be solved or, hell, maybe he stared at all drunken fools like that. McCoy had never been good at reading his lack of expression, not like Jim who seemed to border just on the knife-edge of telepathy, when he wanted.
That was key, wasn't it? When he wanted, when he wanted, Jim was a compassionate, empathic human being, just this side of heroic, really, and McCoy wasn't quite sure what it said about him that he could even see Jim like that when he'd also been the one patching him up from his attempts at heroism. He'd washed blood off his hands more times than he could count, hands dripping and cold with it, and then watched as Jim stood right back up and went back for another round.
So yeah, when he wanted, Jim was as compassionate as he was passionate. But sending Spock to him today was barely two steps from pleading with him to play nice, when all McCoy wanted to do was cry in his damned beer and pass out.
Thanks a fucking lot, pal.
But since it was Jim, he was going to make the attempt to behave. That was an even payment for four blowjobs where Jim had nearly sucked his IQ out through his dick.
"Mind telling me what the hell I'm supposed to be talking about," McCoy slurred to the ceiling. Looking at Spock looking at him was making eyeballs ache.
"I confess, I am uncertain. Jim did not specify a topic of conversation."
McCoy risked a look to see Spock had leaned forward, his hands folded together as he regarded McCoy steadily. Goddamned pointy-eared bastard. McCoy was familiar with Vulcan physiology; he knew that they damned well had to blink. It wasn't the stare that made a sudden burn start low in his gut, no, that was from one little word, a name that he hadn't even noticed Spock had started using.
He wasn't jealous, he told himself, tossing back another glass of brandy, wiping away the rivulets that leaked carelessly out of the sides of his mouth and filled the glass back up to the brim. It was just that Jim was his best friend, the best he'd ever had, and he hadn't anticipated having to share him like this. Not today.
A hand on the back of his own stalled him, startled him so much that brandy spilled out, splashing a wide pool of amber over the tabletop. "Careful," McCoy hissed, swiping up what he could and sucking it from his fingers. He would have two-handed it, might have swayed down to slurp it right from the tabletop but Spock hadn't let him go.
If Spock thought he was going to come in here and lecture about how unhealthy drinking was to the ship's chief medical officer, then Jim was going to be unpleasantly surprised to have his First Officer sent back to him in fucking pieces....only, Spock hadn't spoken. Wasn't even holding his hand down really and when McCoy warily picked up his glass with his left hand, Spock didn't say a word. Only touched him, lightly, almost stroked the back of his hand and down to his fingertips.
Well, what do you know? Maybe it was some Vulcan form of soothing? Maybe they did actually feel compassion or pity, whatever it was that Vulcans felt towards helpless, drunken Humans. Who the hell knew; even with only a bare handful of Vulcans clinging to the galaxy, they were so damned private, so internal, that no one knew what the hell any of 'em were doing. Except Jim; Jim would know. Pretty damned inconvenient that he wasn't here right now, wasn't it?
Whatever it was, it actually felt pretty good. Relaxing. McCoy let his hand drift down to rest on the table and Spock followed it, long, cool fingertips sliding over his knuckles, tracing little patterns that could be obscenities in Vulcan for all he knew, he'd never been very good at languages. Latin was damned well enough for him.
Not that any Latin was going to come spouting through his sodden brain anytime soon. The best he managed was a sigh, closing his eyes even as he made sure he kept a good grip on his glass since he had no intention of licking brandy from the floor. Odd that Spock's hands felt so cool, weren't Vulcans supposed to be hotter than Humans? But he was, those lingering fingertips were as gently cool as a river in summertime.
Cooler still on his overheated face and McCoy flinched, nearly spilled brandy down his pant leg when Spock moved suddenly, shifting to crouch on the floor in front of him and clasping McCoy's face in both of those cool hands. He stared at Spock blearily, confused. Whatever this little bit of Vulcan custom was, it sure was strange. He didn't think he'd ever seen Spock just touch someone like this and to feel it was just plain odd.
"Perhaps we should simply forgo further conversation," Spock said, softly. "It has always been...difficult, between us."
McCoy might have asked him what he meant, might have pulled away and finished off his glass before he dropped the damned thing. Might have, if Spock hadn't leaned forward and pressed their mouths together, hot tongue darting between McCoy's parted lips as if to lick the taste of brandy out of it. It was proof of how drunk he really was, how starved for contact, that at first all McCoy did was lean into it, their teeth clacking painfully as he twisted, sucking on the tip of Spock's tongue and tasting faint blood, had he bitten himself, had Spock, fuck, Spock--
He yanked away, barely registering the wet slop of liquid over his knee as his glass finally clattered to the floor. "What in the blue fuck are you doing?" McCoy sputtered out, licking his own lips and tasting, Jesus, that was not brandy on his mouth, not at all.
Spock's mouth was open and wet, and just the sound of his breathing, too quick and sharp, made an ache start in McCoy's groin. Dark eyes blinked up at him, clearly confused. "It was my understanding the culmination to this ritual is a sexual act, preferably one of an oral nature."
Ritual? "Did Jim tell you this was some sort of Human religious rite or something?" McCoy demanded. "Because if he did, I'm gonna-"
Spock looked at him like he'd said something spectacularly stupid, even for him. "Doctor, I have spent the better part of a decade amongst Humans. My mother was also Human. I am quite familiar with most Human religious rites, including many that would be considered obscure by most. When I said ritual, I was only speaking of the traditional one between you and Jim. It does end with a sexual act, does it not?"
Well, yeah, it always had, but that didn't mean he wanted some green-blooded devil to act as a stand-in. He wasn’t Jim, nothing like Jim, even on his knees, and it was damned hard to think with too much booze sloshing through his veins and burning in his gut, and with smooth Vulcan hands tracing along the back of his hands again and, Lord, Spock was leaning down to kiss his fingertips, licking just the tip of each one, dark eyes flicking closed. That had to be the most emotion he'd ever seen on that normally expressionless face, something like want twisting over it.
Words came to McCoy sluggishly, thickly, "Jim is...he's my friend."
Spock had one of his hands in both of his own, turning it over to press soft kisses into the palm, murmuring into the cup of his hand, "Are we not friends?"
No, they weren't friends, not like him and Jim, there was no one like Jim, but Spock was nuzzling against his hands like they were some kind of fucking erogenous zone and hell, maybe they were. He felt like stone locked behind the zipper of his pants and he was way too drunk for this kind of thinking, "Sure," he sighed, sagging back in his seat and holding both hands out, offering. "Have at it."
Just his luck that Spock had apparently had enough of getting off on McCoy's hands and he pulled away, paid no attention to the curses that were already stuttering out of McCoy's throat, goddamned teasing-but McCoy bit them off when Spock settled down on his knees, leaning in to press his face against McCoy's belly and inhale, scenting him maybe, like a damned dog and he might have said so if it hadn't made lust stutter its way through the alcoholic smog smothering him. Cool hands pushed up his shirt, sliding over his bare chest to pluck lightly at his nipples even as Spock licked lower, tangling his tongue softly in the faint trail of hair leading down to his pants.
Something about the way that Spock efficiently opened his trousers, tugging them down and out of the way, made it all right for McCoy to touch, finally, sliding his hands into that perfect, dark hair, mussing it. It felt different than human hair, heavier, hot silk gripped in his fists and Spock groaned softly as McCoy's fingernails scratched against his scalp, his breath hot enough to seep through his shorts.
His own groan was embarrassingly high when Spock leaned down and buried his face into McCoy's lap, did that same scenting sort of inhalation with almost ludicrous eagerness and, Christ, maybe he'd actually gotten drunk enough to fall down and crack his head open, maybe this was just a last ditch rush of insanity before his brain finally called it quits. Even drunk, saturated in booze inside and out, this didn't quite seem real.
Except for Spock's hands yanking his shorts out of the way, careful to pull up the waistband so's not to catch his cock in them. Except for Spock doing that same sort of snuffling breathing over his bare skin, nose nudging against his balls and upward before his tongue followed it, licking the glossy wetness already welling at the tip of his cock before wrapping his lips around it and sucking hard enough that McCoy's eyes rolled back a little, hands clenching tight in that too-slick hair.
"Goddamn it," McCoy sobbed out, barely aware of saying anything at all, hips shoving up and up, his cock insisting that all that wet heat was perfect, thank you much, so get fucking deeper while you can. He wondered dimly if Vulcans even had a gag reflex, one little tidbit that he didn't remembering reading in any biology book. Didn't seem to matter one way or another, not when he was balls-deep down Spock's throat and he just rode every thrust easily, no, eagerly, sucking and licking with a mouth hotter than a sidewalk in July.
Shit, if this was what Jim was getting every day of the week, twice on Sundays, then McCoy was forgiving him for everything, anything, for letting him have it just this once. Hell with it, Jim was the best friend ever.
It was just a damned shame he was too drunk to last, snarling wordlessly up at the ceiling and jerking his hips up, once, twice, orgasm clapping through him like thunder and just the feel of Spock swallowing around him made him whimper, quaking through every little flicker of tongue, the faintest scrape of teeth until Spock finally let him go, pressing one last, soft kiss against the tip.
McCoy slumped back in his chair, felt like the very definition of ridden hard and put away wet. He slit his eyes open, every breath out of him more of a wheeze, and Spock was still kneeling there, unreadable eyes watching him and it might have been more disconcerting if his mouth hadn't been darker and faintly swollen, all evidence there of the fact that he sucked dick with skill that rivaled...
Having the floor suddenly under his back was something unexpected, swerving neatly off the well beaten path of birthday gifts and into unfamiliar territory, and McCoy might have protested, at the very least a, "What the fuck?" if cool glass hadn’t pressed lightly against his mouth. He opened automatically to the spill of brandy between his lips, more than he would have drunk himself, actually, but Spock held the bottle steadily until McCoy's head was swimming with it again. Spock's mouth followed it, tongue probing softly and the salt taste of himself on that mouth was the best chaser possible. Better to just kiss that mouth drowsily, to not think, barely registering that Spock was easing his trousers down and off, moving him easily. Arranging him.
A niggling little suspicion started working its way through the stuporing fog of alcohol and sex still hampering him, but thinking was just so much damned work. He was more than half-asleep, licking lazily into Spock's mouth as those cool hands rubbed his thighs, encouraging him to draw his knees up and why not, why not just lay here and let Spock-
"Ah!" he yelped, eyes flying open as Spock pressed a finger between the curves of his ass and into him, obscenely slick with some kind of lubricant, and he was already too relaxed for it to more than twinge, booze and orgasm numb, even as Spock kissed him again.
"Relax," Spock said softly, "Relax, I only want to pleasure you." Almost crooned it to him and Christ, he'd never have guessed the bastard had that in him, seduction trembling in that deep voice that he was mostly obeying before he even thought about it.
"There," Spock murmured, the pleased tone sending a jolt of liquid pleasure through McCoy, almost as much as his sliding finger, and the withdrawal made him start, made him shiver even as he let Spock move him again, let Spock rest between his legs as he tipped his head up for another kiss.
"You feel good," McCoy slurred out, because it was true and he had to say it, hot skin against him battering away the seeping cold of the floor. The confusing mixture of cool hands mixed with the hot hips sliding against his own, the pressure of Spock's dick against him, was it, did Vulcan's have-yes, he knew that, flicking bio-texts jabbing behind his eyes until Spock began to push inside him and McCoy hissed out a whimper, let Spock swallow it into his own groan and fuck, he felt huge, and it had been years since he'd had so much as a finger in him, years stacked on years.
"As do you," Spock breathed and McCoy opened his eyes, looked at the face above him. Spock was watching him, always damned well watching him, but never like this before. Not with sweat leaving damp trails at his temples, his hair a tousled mess, not with that heat shining in his dark eyes, impeccable control shattered.
McCoy didn't even think; tangled his hands into that wild hair and pulled Spock down to kiss that wet, swollen mouth as fiercely as he could, muffling his moans into it as Spock moved strongly into him, hands braced under McCoy's knees holding him easily, spreading him out even more. It hurt, hurt, Spock cramming into him almost more than he could take, would be more if Spock wasn't making his own little noises above him, sounds that tangled into the lust still burning hot in McCoy's gut.
A soft, questioning kiss against his temple made McCoy's eyes flicker open again, blinking against the unexpected concern in the dark eyes above him.
"You are not a virgin," Spock said, not quite a question and he strangled out a laugh, didn't say he might as well be, had been so long he was practically reborn.
"No, damn it," McCoy gritted out. "I'm not...just, just fuck me you green-"
He choked off the last of it, nearly shouting as Spock pulled out and thrust in again, hard enough that he felt the slap of balls against his ass, and again, ramming into him with real purpose and all McCoy could do was hang on, swimming in the twin vertigo of expensive brandy and fucking. Spock wasn't kissing him so much as rubbing their mouths together and McCoy grabbed his head in both hands and pulled him down hard, biting and tonguing in rhythm to the hard cock moving inside him.
"Be careful of the ears, they're really sensitive," came dryly from near the door, a familiar voice raised just enough to be heard over their probably entirely too-loud enthusiasm and McCoy froze, every ounce of burning lust in him turning to ashes.
Which would have been easier to bear if Spock would have stopped instead of only slowing, hips rocking softly as he barely moved and each tiny thrust made McCoy jolt, biting his lip hard and he might have struggled, might have hit the fucking pointy-eared bastard to get to him to stop if Spock hadn't threaded their fingers together and held them down over his head, effectively pinning him in every way possible.
Now was the probably the time to plead drunkenness, to look his best friend in the eye and beg forgiveness because there was a blowjob and then there was out and out fucking, and he'd never told Spock no, he hadn't explained that this wasn't part of the bargain.
Instead, he choked, couldn't swallow against the sudden thickness in his throat and finally McCoy shut his eyes so he didn't have to see at all, hid himself in mental invisibility because he couldn't look into those impossibly blue eyes right now and see betrayal in them, couldn't stand to lose his best friend just because it hadn't occurred to his sodden brain to fucking well say no. Tried not to feel Spock still inside him, his own cock still bouncing hard against his belly because it didn't give a damn that McCoy's life was shattering around him right now.
Soft footsteps approaching and he could feel Jim crouch next to him, gentle, oh, so gentle hand in his hair that he leaned against helplessly, so damned grateful that Jim would still touch him without beating him bloody.
"You were supposed to wait for me," Jim said, reproachfully and damned if he couldn't feel the tremor of Spock suppressing a laugh, the faintest vibration inside that made McCoy gasp and try to move against the hands that were still holding him down.
"Illogical," Spock panted, "The Doctor's temperament would not have allowed me to remain until your arrival. If I had not begun without you-" his voice cracked on the last word as McCoy clenched his muscles tight because he could do that much, he thought with dizzy triumph, yelped aloud as it earned him one deep thrust almost as a warning before Spock slowed again, fucking him with pretty amazing control considering just who their audience was.
"The damned doctor is right here, you-" McCoy bit it off as Jim pressed two fingers into his mouth, stroking them against his tongue.
"I see that," Jim said, and there was a touch of heat in his voice, not quite anger, but it twinged in McCoy, anyway, "I also see that this isn't a blowjob, Spock. Suppositions?
"If oral stimulation is a requirement, I believe I can arrange it," Spock said and then the fucking bastard pulled out, ignored the sharp sound of protest that gurgled out of McCoy from around Jim's fingers but there wasn't time to even curse before Spock had gently flipped him over, pulled him up on his knees and was already pushing into him again.
"Jesus," McCoy panted out in ragged little gasps, barely managing to push up on his elbows before Spock rocked him with a hard thrust, sent him skittering forward and he might have fallen on his foolish, drunken face if Jim hadn't caught him beneath the chin, tilting his head up for a kiss that sent McCoy's head swimming, they'd never, not any birthday before, but hell, this wasn't like any other birthday and Jim was biting tenderly at his lip, pulling back to rub a thumb wetly over his lower lip.
"Bones?" Jim whispered, hoarsely, that one little word catching in a way McCoy had never heard before, met blue, blue eyes with his own startled ones. "Please?"
It didn’t quite register at first, having to filter through brandy-soaked thoughts that were tangled up tight in the Vulcan making breathy, grunting noises behind him as he fucked his way in deeper, his hands so tight on McCoy's hips that he knew there would be bruises there tomorrow. It didn't hit him until his eyes caught on Jim's free hand, resting hesitantly on the fly of his pants and McCoy's mouth watered instantly, would have already leaned in to nuzzle at the rough fabric of Jim's uniform pants if Spock hadn't yanked him back hard, driving a loud cry out of him, God, so good.
"Yeah," McCoy gasped out, because he couldn't reach out, had to keep his hands on the floor, "Yeah, I wanna, Jimmy, I-"
He would have said more, drunken words sopping out of him in an endless stream if Jim hadn't cut him off with his own mouth, one hard kiss before the sound of a zipper registered and then he was opening his mouth blindly to the sultry press of Jim's cock against his lips. Moans were spilling out of him from deep down, muffled by the gagging shape of Jim pushing down his throat but they made louder ones come from above, Jim's voice cracking and desperate when McCoy finally sucked, sighing at the luxury of the taste of this mingling with the hard, smooth thrusts inside him.
He was drowning in touch, saturated in a way that he hadn't been in years, maybe never and McCoy sucked hard until he felt a prickle of tension at his temples, felt the way Jim's thighs quivered. It made something like pride surge up in his chest, this was Jim, who'd been fucked everything in sight since long before McCoy had clapped eyes on him, and he was already gulping air above him, rocking with ridiculous gentleness between McCoy's lips.
"Bones, you-" Jim's voice was barely a whisper, as tender as the fingers skating through McCoy's hair. "Fuck," he groaned. "You don’t know how long-you don't- Spock..."
He felt the scrabble of hands at his shoulder, fingers that weren't his own linking together and there was no time for resentment, no way to feel anything else but the sudden desperation in Spock's thrusts, hard, hard, enough to force McCoy forward another inch, hands and knees sliding sweatily on the floor. Loud cries mingling over his head, two voice calling out the way he couldn't, his own groans barely a deep vibration and Jim was coming, his mind told him helpfully, he could tell Jim was coming because he could taste it, swallowing desperately against the hot, bitter spurts against the back of his throat, and the sudden heat of it made panic rise in him, this was, what was--- It was battered away almost instantly by the cool brutality of a Vulcan hand suddenly around him, jerking him off with perfect pressure and intensity, of course it would be perfect, fucking yes, his mouth suddenly empty so those loud cries could pour out of him and into Jim's eagerly kissing mouth.
He came to the feel of Jim licking his own taste out of McCoy's mouth, blinkering light behind his eyes and his moan was a piteous little sound, the world around him battering him with sensation, filling him with a burst of heat as Spock stiffened behind him, his fingers never stilling on McCoy's cock until it was too, too much and he had to feebly bat Spock's hand away. Every breath out of him was like a sob, all of it almost more than he could bear and the aftershocks trembling through him were nearly as good as the rest. Jim was still kissing him, gentle presses against tender lips that made McCoy sigh a little and kiss him back.
"Take a deep breath, Doctor," Spock told him softly and he might have told Spock that if he called him doctor again while they were both come-slippery and dripping sweat on the damned floor of his quarters, then Spock was going to leave these same quarters carrying his balls in a jar. Might have told him that if Spock hadn't abruptly pulled out of him and the breath he had drawn left him in a strangled yelp. Yeah, that was going to be sore in the morning, no amount of booze was going to cover up that ache.
"His name is Leonard," Jim said with faint exasperation, told Spock but he murmured it into McCoy's mouth and something about his name, his real name on Jim's lips made McCoy's heart stutter a little, made him kiss a little harder.
"Leonard," Spock repeated agreeably, and McCoy didn't even have time to protest when he was pulled away from Jim's mouth and lifted off the floor completely. There was some complaining he should be doing here, he figured; something about how he could damn well walk so put me the fuck down, but by the time his tongue had worked out how to say it, they were already pushing through the door of his bedroom. To hell with it.
He recognized the softness against his back as his own bunk when Spock laid him down on it, gently ridding him of his shirt before he pulled the blankets over him.
They were leaving him, he realized, a kind of booze-soaked grief rising up in him. He pushed it back down viciously, strangled it back down to where it belonged. He'd gotten what he wanted, twice over, hell, more than that, he'd won the damned birthday lottery this year and tomorrow he'll give himself an early morning injection to chase away the hangover.
The memories he'll have to chase away himself. If they'd invented a medication for that, it'd always be in short supply.
"No, you get on the other side," he heard Jim say softly, slitted his eyes open to squint into the darkness. They went wide when Jim slipped beneath the covers with him, snuggling right up to him as if they always did this, like he'd ever felt Jim completely naked against him.
"You-" McCoy croaked, a certain frozen terror rising in his chest.
"Shut up," Jim told him sleepily. "You can kick us out in the morning."
I won't, McCoy's brain whispered fervently, I won't, I won't--
"He will not," Spock murmured from behind him, his bare skin degrees hotter than Jim's as he settled beneath the blankets. "He wishes for us to remain."
"Goddamned Vulcans," McCoy mumbled, sighing a little as Spock wrapped one arm around his waist so that his hand rested on Jim.
"Whatever," Jim said, but it was fading away, those weaving drunken fingers still in McCoy's mind were drawing him down into sleep, smothered in warmth and boozy contentment. "You never let me fuck you. Not even on my birthday."
You never asked, McCoy didn't say, drowsing into sleep. He'd never asked, not once, but maybe next time he would, maybe Spock would let him, and then McCoy could say...he could say yes.
He drifted away then; let himself slip down into the doubled embrace around him like a long-forgotten dream, sweet and warm as Georgia sunshine in August.
-finis-
Next Part
By Keelywolfe
Pairings: (in order of appearance) McCoy/Kirk, Spock/Kirk, McCoy/Spock, Spock/McCoy/Kirk
Word Count: 7200
NC-17
Summary: He was the Senior Medical officer on the Starfleet Flagship and that was true, but he was also a maudlin old man who was drinking the most expensive brandy he could afford with the same grace as the boys back home would swill backwoods moonshine. And he was drinking it alone.
Notes: I'm not usually so sappy about my own stories but I really hope people like this one because I'm honestly thrilled with it. Enjoy. :)
~~*~~
Say what you would about the Saurians, they knew how to make a damned fine glass of spirits. Just looking at it was an experience; even the cheapest brandy that was affordable to a poor commissioned officer of Starfleet practically glowed when you poured it, some inner light in the thick amber liquor. The smell of it washed over a person like the sweetness of a long-forgotten dream and when a fellow finally took a sip, the bare wash of it over the tongue warmed you like standing in Georgia sunshine in August.
And that was the cheap stuff.
The glass McCoy was sipping right then wasn't cheap by any means and the taste and smell of it would have a connoisseur weeping on the floor for just one more drop. It was just a shame at that moment the depth of flavor was escaping him and it sure as hell wasn't warming the coldness that had settled into his chest.
The small viewscreen on his desk was still open with a message and he'd been expecting it; of course he had. Their last mission had been whatever the Starfleet approved term for the word clusterfuck was from the very start. No fault of theirs and that was what it would come out to in the end. It was just getting through the red tape and the waiting for the higher authority to come to the same conclusion that everyone else had.
Being the youngest captain ever to head a ship might be good for the ego but it sure as hell didn't grease the wheels of bureaucracy much.
McCoy took another sip of his brandy; let the earthy flavor with just a breath of oak wash over him. Didn't look at his viewscreen with its tersely worded message that stated that the captain was still in conference with Starfleet command over the incident and would be unable to meet with him at the designated time. And he sure as hell didn't think about what the message didn't say, it didn't say, Bones, I'm so sorry, I'll make it up to you, I swear.
It didn't have to say it; he knew James Kirk the same way he knew a well-loved book, like the lines of his daughter's face in the pictures he was sent far too rarely. He knew and he even knew Jim meant it, knew how earnest those blue eyes would have been if he'd actually had time to tell him.
Didn't matter. McCoy tossed back the rest of his drink with a grimace; the richer, smokey notes turned sour when you drank it too fast but that didn't matter, either. He swallowed it down anyway and poured another glass. Held it up to the light and looked at his quarters through a lens of costly liquid amber.
Strange the way life worked. Ten years ago, he wouldn't have believed he'd be here on this ship in the cold recesses of space if someone had come back from the future with photographic evidence. Five years ago he'd climbed on a shuttle with a week's worth of hangovers catching up on him and the implacable urge to be somewhere, anywhere else than where he was right then, and he'd sat his ass down next to something like destiny, looked over at the battered face of the man who would become the best friend he'd ever had. Two years ago and the Federation was turned sideways from the loss of Vulcan, and he'd taken a permanent berth on the Enterprise, these very quarters had been his from the beginning. That brought him to now.
He was the Senior Medical officer on the Starfleet Flagship and that was true, but he was also a maudlin old man who was drinking the most expensive brandy he could afford with the same grace as the boys back home would swill backwoods moonshine. And he was drinking it alone.
Pure self-indulgence, that's what it was. He was sitting here moping because he was alone on his birthday, like a kid who'd dropped his ice cream cone on the sidewalk in the dog days of summer. His own damned fault, maybe, but he didn't think so. McCoy was not a man who made friends easily and especially not here.
Not with entirely too young faces surrounding him from every angle and no matter how many times he tried to convince himself he wasn't that old, damn it, there was no way to make himself believe it. He felt old, felt the weight of every day that had ticked past like an old grandfather clock of his life, felt it in his bones. Too young faces but none of them were quite as young as when he'd met them, were they? Even Jim, who had seemed so impossibly youthful when they'd met, was maturing into a competent captain and when the hell had that happened?
Another wasted sip of fine brandy that he was almost too drunk to properly taste and if had been any other day, McCoy's frugal nature would have gotten the best of him and he would have switched to a nice, cheap whiskey, saved the good stuff for a special occasion. Only this was a special occasion and if you couldn't waste the best on your birthday, then there was no point in waiting for tomorrow, now was there? Even if the glass on the other side of the table was empty.
McCoy let his eyes drift nearly shut, gazing out through his lashes as he considered that empty glass. Five years he'd known Jim Kirk and this was the first birthday since then that he'd spent alone.
His first birthday with Jim, damn, now that was a memory. They were best friends, the best of friends but that didn't mean that McCoy had any urge to play any of the games that Jim was so fond of. Didn't spend his evenings in bars, didn't traipse back to their quarters in the wee hours of the mornings, stinking of sex , filthy sex, didn't have any interest in that. He'd done his time as a wild student when he was in Med school and just being a student again had been bad enough as far as was he was concerned. No need to do a repeat of the dumb shit he'd done back then.
Jim had known all that and other people would probably be astonished as how thoughtful he could actually be, when he tried. Without McCoy murmuring a word about what day it was, Jim had stayed home that night, bought him a very nice bottle of brandy and the two of them had sat there and killed it between them. Had sat there and Jim had listened when McCoy actually talked about his ex-wife, something he hadn't done since he'd mentioned the divorce. Just sat there and absorbed all the bitterness that McCoy was pouring off of him like acrid sweat, until a knot that he hadn't even realized was still sitting in his guts had eased, and he could laugh, just a little, the resentment easing into something that didn't cut.
"Y'know," McCoy had said, peering into his nearly empty glass, "I think the only thing I'll miss about her is from today." He had tipped back the last of his brandy, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before he rasped out a laugh. " 'Bout the only time that woman would ever use her mouth for something useful."
Jim hadn't laughed, only a smirk curved his lips, slouched back in his own chair with a sweet alcohol haze shining his eyes, "Are you telling me the only time she ever blew you was on your birthday?"
"Guess I am," McCoy had shrugged, drunk enough and warmed enough that the memory hadn't hurt, not too much. "She could use her mouth pretty well when she wanted to."
And Jim had laughed, his own mouth soft and pink in the light, and McCoy would swear it was the brandy that made him stare, not the flick of Jim's tongue over them, wetting them before he had murmured. "I bet I can do better."
And he had, holy blue fuck, he had. The memory was almost as sweet as having Jim here right now, almost, when he'd started to laugh it off at the time, trailed into silence when Jim slithered out of his seat to his knees because he'd meant it; of course he'd meant it, crawled up between McCoy's legs, slow and smooth as he'd neatly opened the fly of his pants, ready to let him say no, ready to let McCoy push him away. Like he could have, would have, damn, that mouth. He'd watched the whole time, watched dark lashes flutter down over too-blue eyes, watched those pretty lips open so he could push inside hot, slick wetness. Watched Jim's cheeks hollow and fill as he'd sucked, watched until the weight of his coming orgasm was crawling up his spine and then he'd just tightened his hands in Jim's sleek hair and come hard into his welcoming throat.
McCoy didn't remember when he'd closed his eyes, lost in that particular little memory, but opening them only brought him a view of two empty glasses. He filled his own again, drank half of it down before he even tried to remember his second birthday. One drunken blowjob between friends could be dismissed; McCoy couldn't even pretend to be as worldly as Jim but even he knew that. Don’t talk about it the next day, give it a mental write-off and all was well.
Until the next year and one drunken birthday blowjob was a write-off but two was the start of a tradition and that time he'd thrown his head back, clenched his hands into Jim's hair from the beginning and fucked that eager mouth. Jim had obligingly let him, rode every insistent thrust, every perverse little hair pull like he'd been made for it and drank down every drop that McCoy had spilled like he was finer than the brandy he'd bought.
The third year McCoy had brought the brandy because he was damned sure that getting two presents from your best friend wasn't fair and besides, he had better taste when it came to liquor.
The fourth year...McCoy shifted in his seat, leaned forward to pour another couple fingers of liquor and didn’t even flinch when it slopped over the edge of his glass, only sucked his fingers clean and didn't think about the fourth year because that had happened here, right here in these quarters and he'd been sitting in this chair with every other word out of his mouth either 'fuck' or 'please'.
That was what his sex life had consisted of, a yearly pity blowjob from his best friend and now that he'd lost that...fuck it, he had no idea what came after that. Jerking off to old gynecological medical journals maybe, that seemed appropriately pathetic.
Shit, when had he gotten to be such a moony drunk? It was just as well Jim wasn't here to say the same thing, with those pretty, soft lips that weren't going to be wrapped around McCoy's dick this year. Not this year, not again, not when he'd found himself a steady partner. Not that McCoy hadn't already known; he was old and grouchy but that didn't mean he was stupid, thank you. This year he would have sufficed to just have Jim here, maybe a little drunk, a little flirty. Jim was his best friend and, shit, if McCoy hadn't been missing him. Just because a certain pointy-eared -
The door chime startled him, almost sent him sprawling to the floor and that was pathetic enough but the lurch in his chest was worse, wretched little bit of rising hope that it wasn't someone with some health-related question or another that they deemed too personal to risk talking about in Medical, not a chart that he hadn't signed, or something equally pointless. Just now, the only person he wanted on the other side of that door was someone who cared about him.
It was just a fucking shame that the person he got was the one who didn't care about anything at all.
"What the hell do you want?" Tumbled out of his mouth before he could formulate something better, a little more appropriate for a higher ranking officer that he had to work with every day and who tomorrow wouldn't be sitting in his thoughts as the fucking bastard who was stealing away the best friend he'd ever had.
Say what you would about Spock's mama, not that anyone would, but she must've taught him some manners because he never batted an eye. "Doctor," he said, inclining his head slightly. "May I come in?"
"Why?" McCoy asked, not even bothering to try for better.
"The Captain asked me to join you at your quarters. I believe there is a ritual of sorts that you are undertaking and as he is unable to assist, he asked that I partake."
McCoy couldn't have stopped his laughter if Spock had given him that little neck pinch. He'd be on the ground unconscious and it would have still been pouring out of him, helplessly, honest humor because he'd always known the universe had it out for him but he'd just never realized how much.
Spock only stood there, hands clasped behind him as he waited for McCoy to get over his oh, so human hysteria, scrubbing at his face with the back of his hand hard enough that he staggered a little. Never had much in the way of liquor legs, anyway.
"I surely do appreciate the offer," McCoy managed finally, still fighting down the occasional chuckle, "But I believe I read that Vulcans don't drink."
"Alcohol does not affect us as it does humans," Spock agreed. "However, it is my understanding that the true requirement here is commiseration. This, I believe, I can provide."
Commiseration. Right. McCoy leaned against the doorway, let his head tip back against it and closed his eyes. Maybe the universe didn't have it out for him; maybe this was just proof that Jim was out of his damned mind. These two together; it was almost more than his brain could bend around sober and right now it was a damn near impossibility.
Like two flavors that refused to mingle, chocolate and asparagus, marshmallows and caviar. Jim, his Jim that he knew painfully well, who all but exuded every kind of passion out of his pores with Spock, who wouldn't know passion if it leapt up and bit him in the tiny package he carried behind him that passed for his ass.
But damn it, Jim was his friend and it might be his birthday but maybe it was past time he gave Jim a present for a change.
He moved to the side enough to let Spock past him. "Come on in."
~~*~~
Fifteen minutes later, he was wondering what the hell he'd been thinking. If drinking alone was wretchedly pathetic then drinking while someone else just sat and watched was damn near unbearable.
Maybe it wasn’t just the watching but who was watching that made it all the worse. Spock was staring at him like he was a particularly interesting puzzle to be solved or, hell, maybe he stared at all drunken fools like that. McCoy had never been good at reading his lack of expression, not like Jim who seemed to border just on the knife-edge of telepathy, when he wanted.
That was key, wasn't it? When he wanted, when he wanted, Jim was a compassionate, empathic human being, just this side of heroic, really, and McCoy wasn't quite sure what it said about him that he could even see Jim like that when he'd also been the one patching him up from his attempts at heroism. He'd washed blood off his hands more times than he could count, hands dripping and cold with it, and then watched as Jim stood right back up and went back for another round.
So yeah, when he wanted, Jim was as compassionate as he was passionate. But sending Spock to him today was barely two steps from pleading with him to play nice, when all McCoy wanted to do was cry in his damned beer and pass out.
Thanks a fucking lot, pal.
But since it was Jim, he was going to make the attempt to behave. That was an even payment for four blowjobs where Jim had nearly sucked his IQ out through his dick.
"Mind telling me what the hell I'm supposed to be talking about," McCoy slurred to the ceiling. Looking at Spock looking at him was making eyeballs ache.
"I confess, I am uncertain. Jim did not specify a topic of conversation."
McCoy risked a look to see Spock had leaned forward, his hands folded together as he regarded McCoy steadily. Goddamned pointy-eared bastard. McCoy was familiar with Vulcan physiology; he knew that they damned well had to blink. It wasn't the stare that made a sudden burn start low in his gut, no, that was from one little word, a name that he hadn't even noticed Spock had started using.
He wasn't jealous, he told himself, tossing back another glass of brandy, wiping away the rivulets that leaked carelessly out of the sides of his mouth and filled the glass back up to the brim. It was just that Jim was his best friend, the best he'd ever had, and he hadn't anticipated having to share him like this. Not today.
A hand on the back of his own stalled him, startled him so much that brandy spilled out, splashing a wide pool of amber over the tabletop. "Careful," McCoy hissed, swiping up what he could and sucking it from his fingers. He would have two-handed it, might have swayed down to slurp it right from the tabletop but Spock hadn't let him go.
If Spock thought he was going to come in here and lecture about how unhealthy drinking was to the ship's chief medical officer, then Jim was going to be unpleasantly surprised to have his First Officer sent back to him in fucking pieces....only, Spock hadn't spoken. Wasn't even holding his hand down really and when McCoy warily picked up his glass with his left hand, Spock didn't say a word. Only touched him, lightly, almost stroked the back of his hand and down to his fingertips.
Well, what do you know? Maybe it was some Vulcan form of soothing? Maybe they did actually feel compassion or pity, whatever it was that Vulcans felt towards helpless, drunken Humans. Who the hell knew; even with only a bare handful of Vulcans clinging to the galaxy, they were so damned private, so internal, that no one knew what the hell any of 'em were doing. Except Jim; Jim would know. Pretty damned inconvenient that he wasn't here right now, wasn't it?
Whatever it was, it actually felt pretty good. Relaxing. McCoy let his hand drift down to rest on the table and Spock followed it, long, cool fingertips sliding over his knuckles, tracing little patterns that could be obscenities in Vulcan for all he knew, he'd never been very good at languages. Latin was damned well enough for him.
Not that any Latin was going to come spouting through his sodden brain anytime soon. The best he managed was a sigh, closing his eyes even as he made sure he kept a good grip on his glass since he had no intention of licking brandy from the floor. Odd that Spock's hands felt so cool, weren't Vulcans supposed to be hotter than Humans? But he was, those lingering fingertips were as gently cool as a river in summertime.
Cooler still on his overheated face and McCoy flinched, nearly spilled brandy down his pant leg when Spock moved suddenly, shifting to crouch on the floor in front of him and clasping McCoy's face in both of those cool hands. He stared at Spock blearily, confused. Whatever this little bit of Vulcan custom was, it sure was strange. He didn't think he'd ever seen Spock just touch someone like this and to feel it was just plain odd.
"Perhaps we should simply forgo further conversation," Spock said, softly. "It has always been...difficult, between us."
McCoy might have asked him what he meant, might have pulled away and finished off his glass before he dropped the damned thing. Might have, if Spock hadn't leaned forward and pressed their mouths together, hot tongue darting between McCoy's parted lips as if to lick the taste of brandy out of it. It was proof of how drunk he really was, how starved for contact, that at first all McCoy did was lean into it, their teeth clacking painfully as he twisted, sucking on the tip of Spock's tongue and tasting faint blood, had he bitten himself, had Spock, fuck, Spock--
He yanked away, barely registering the wet slop of liquid over his knee as his glass finally clattered to the floor. "What in the blue fuck are you doing?" McCoy sputtered out, licking his own lips and tasting, Jesus, that was not brandy on his mouth, not at all.
Spock's mouth was open and wet, and just the sound of his breathing, too quick and sharp, made an ache start in McCoy's groin. Dark eyes blinked up at him, clearly confused. "It was my understanding the culmination to this ritual is a sexual act, preferably one of an oral nature."
Ritual? "Did Jim tell you this was some sort of Human religious rite or something?" McCoy demanded. "Because if he did, I'm gonna-"
Spock looked at him like he'd said something spectacularly stupid, even for him. "Doctor, I have spent the better part of a decade amongst Humans. My mother was also Human. I am quite familiar with most Human religious rites, including many that would be considered obscure by most. When I said ritual, I was only speaking of the traditional one between you and Jim. It does end with a sexual act, does it not?"
Well, yeah, it always had, but that didn't mean he wanted some green-blooded devil to act as a stand-in. He wasn’t Jim, nothing like Jim, even on his knees, and it was damned hard to think with too much booze sloshing through his veins and burning in his gut, and with smooth Vulcan hands tracing along the back of his hands again and, Lord, Spock was leaning down to kiss his fingertips, licking just the tip of each one, dark eyes flicking closed. That had to be the most emotion he'd ever seen on that normally expressionless face, something like want twisting over it.
Words came to McCoy sluggishly, thickly, "Jim is...he's my friend."
Spock had one of his hands in both of his own, turning it over to press soft kisses into the palm, murmuring into the cup of his hand, "Are we not friends?"
No, they weren't friends, not like him and Jim, there was no one like Jim, but Spock was nuzzling against his hands like they were some kind of fucking erogenous zone and hell, maybe they were. He felt like stone locked behind the zipper of his pants and he was way too drunk for this kind of thinking, "Sure," he sighed, sagging back in his seat and holding both hands out, offering. "Have at it."
Just his luck that Spock had apparently had enough of getting off on McCoy's hands and he pulled away, paid no attention to the curses that were already stuttering out of McCoy's throat, goddamned teasing-but McCoy bit them off when Spock settled down on his knees, leaning in to press his face against McCoy's belly and inhale, scenting him maybe, like a damned dog and he might have said so if it hadn't made lust stutter its way through the alcoholic smog smothering him. Cool hands pushed up his shirt, sliding over his bare chest to pluck lightly at his nipples even as Spock licked lower, tangling his tongue softly in the faint trail of hair leading down to his pants.
Something about the way that Spock efficiently opened his trousers, tugging them down and out of the way, made it all right for McCoy to touch, finally, sliding his hands into that perfect, dark hair, mussing it. It felt different than human hair, heavier, hot silk gripped in his fists and Spock groaned softly as McCoy's fingernails scratched against his scalp, his breath hot enough to seep through his shorts.
His own groan was embarrassingly high when Spock leaned down and buried his face into McCoy's lap, did that same scenting sort of inhalation with almost ludicrous eagerness and, Christ, maybe he'd actually gotten drunk enough to fall down and crack his head open, maybe this was just a last ditch rush of insanity before his brain finally called it quits. Even drunk, saturated in booze inside and out, this didn't quite seem real.
Except for Spock's hands yanking his shorts out of the way, careful to pull up the waistband so's not to catch his cock in them. Except for Spock doing that same sort of snuffling breathing over his bare skin, nose nudging against his balls and upward before his tongue followed it, licking the glossy wetness already welling at the tip of his cock before wrapping his lips around it and sucking hard enough that McCoy's eyes rolled back a little, hands clenching tight in that too-slick hair.
"Goddamn it," McCoy sobbed out, barely aware of saying anything at all, hips shoving up and up, his cock insisting that all that wet heat was perfect, thank you much, so get fucking deeper while you can. He wondered dimly if Vulcans even had a gag reflex, one little tidbit that he didn't remembering reading in any biology book. Didn't seem to matter one way or another, not when he was balls-deep down Spock's throat and he just rode every thrust easily, no, eagerly, sucking and licking with a mouth hotter than a sidewalk in July.
Shit, if this was what Jim was getting every day of the week, twice on Sundays, then McCoy was forgiving him for everything, anything, for letting him have it just this once. Hell with it, Jim was the best friend ever.
It was just a damned shame he was too drunk to last, snarling wordlessly up at the ceiling and jerking his hips up, once, twice, orgasm clapping through him like thunder and just the feel of Spock swallowing around him made him whimper, quaking through every little flicker of tongue, the faintest scrape of teeth until Spock finally let him go, pressing one last, soft kiss against the tip.
McCoy slumped back in his chair, felt like the very definition of ridden hard and put away wet. He slit his eyes open, every breath out of him more of a wheeze, and Spock was still kneeling there, unreadable eyes watching him and it might have been more disconcerting if his mouth hadn't been darker and faintly swollen, all evidence there of the fact that he sucked dick with skill that rivaled...
Having the floor suddenly under his back was something unexpected, swerving neatly off the well beaten path of birthday gifts and into unfamiliar territory, and McCoy might have protested, at the very least a, "What the fuck?" if cool glass hadn’t pressed lightly against his mouth. He opened automatically to the spill of brandy between his lips, more than he would have drunk himself, actually, but Spock held the bottle steadily until McCoy's head was swimming with it again. Spock's mouth followed it, tongue probing softly and the salt taste of himself on that mouth was the best chaser possible. Better to just kiss that mouth drowsily, to not think, barely registering that Spock was easing his trousers down and off, moving him easily. Arranging him.
A niggling little suspicion started working its way through the stuporing fog of alcohol and sex still hampering him, but thinking was just so much damned work. He was more than half-asleep, licking lazily into Spock's mouth as those cool hands rubbed his thighs, encouraging him to draw his knees up and why not, why not just lay here and let Spock-
"Ah!" he yelped, eyes flying open as Spock pressed a finger between the curves of his ass and into him, obscenely slick with some kind of lubricant, and he was already too relaxed for it to more than twinge, booze and orgasm numb, even as Spock kissed him again.
"Relax," Spock said softly, "Relax, I only want to pleasure you." Almost crooned it to him and Christ, he'd never have guessed the bastard had that in him, seduction trembling in that deep voice that he was mostly obeying before he even thought about it.
"There," Spock murmured, the pleased tone sending a jolt of liquid pleasure through McCoy, almost as much as his sliding finger, and the withdrawal made him start, made him shiver even as he let Spock move him again, let Spock rest between his legs as he tipped his head up for another kiss.
"You feel good," McCoy slurred out, because it was true and he had to say it, hot skin against him battering away the seeping cold of the floor. The confusing mixture of cool hands mixed with the hot hips sliding against his own, the pressure of Spock's dick against him, was it, did Vulcan's have-yes, he knew that, flicking bio-texts jabbing behind his eyes until Spock began to push inside him and McCoy hissed out a whimper, let Spock swallow it into his own groan and fuck, he felt huge, and it had been years since he'd had so much as a finger in him, years stacked on years.
"As do you," Spock breathed and McCoy opened his eyes, looked at the face above him. Spock was watching him, always damned well watching him, but never like this before. Not with sweat leaving damp trails at his temples, his hair a tousled mess, not with that heat shining in his dark eyes, impeccable control shattered.
McCoy didn't even think; tangled his hands into that wild hair and pulled Spock down to kiss that wet, swollen mouth as fiercely as he could, muffling his moans into it as Spock moved strongly into him, hands braced under McCoy's knees holding him easily, spreading him out even more. It hurt, hurt, Spock cramming into him almost more than he could take, would be more if Spock wasn't making his own little noises above him, sounds that tangled into the lust still burning hot in McCoy's gut.
A soft, questioning kiss against his temple made McCoy's eyes flicker open again, blinking against the unexpected concern in the dark eyes above him.
"You are not a virgin," Spock said, not quite a question and he strangled out a laugh, didn't say he might as well be, had been so long he was practically reborn.
"No, damn it," McCoy gritted out. "I'm not...just, just fuck me you green-"
He choked off the last of it, nearly shouting as Spock pulled out and thrust in again, hard enough that he felt the slap of balls against his ass, and again, ramming into him with real purpose and all McCoy could do was hang on, swimming in the twin vertigo of expensive brandy and fucking. Spock wasn't kissing him so much as rubbing their mouths together and McCoy grabbed his head in both hands and pulled him down hard, biting and tonguing in rhythm to the hard cock moving inside him.
"Be careful of the ears, they're really sensitive," came dryly from near the door, a familiar voice raised just enough to be heard over their probably entirely too-loud enthusiasm and McCoy froze, every ounce of burning lust in him turning to ashes.
Which would have been easier to bear if Spock would have stopped instead of only slowing, hips rocking softly as he barely moved and each tiny thrust made McCoy jolt, biting his lip hard and he might have struggled, might have hit the fucking pointy-eared bastard to get to him to stop if Spock hadn't threaded their fingers together and held them down over his head, effectively pinning him in every way possible.
Now was the probably the time to plead drunkenness, to look his best friend in the eye and beg forgiveness because there was a blowjob and then there was out and out fucking, and he'd never told Spock no, he hadn't explained that this wasn't part of the bargain.
Instead, he choked, couldn't swallow against the sudden thickness in his throat and finally McCoy shut his eyes so he didn't have to see at all, hid himself in mental invisibility because he couldn't look into those impossibly blue eyes right now and see betrayal in them, couldn't stand to lose his best friend just because it hadn't occurred to his sodden brain to fucking well say no. Tried not to feel Spock still inside him, his own cock still bouncing hard against his belly because it didn't give a damn that McCoy's life was shattering around him right now.
Soft footsteps approaching and he could feel Jim crouch next to him, gentle, oh, so gentle hand in his hair that he leaned against helplessly, so damned grateful that Jim would still touch him without beating him bloody.
"You were supposed to wait for me," Jim said, reproachfully and damned if he couldn't feel the tremor of Spock suppressing a laugh, the faintest vibration inside that made McCoy gasp and try to move against the hands that were still holding him down.
"Illogical," Spock panted, "The Doctor's temperament would not have allowed me to remain until your arrival. If I had not begun without you-" his voice cracked on the last word as McCoy clenched his muscles tight because he could do that much, he thought with dizzy triumph, yelped aloud as it earned him one deep thrust almost as a warning before Spock slowed again, fucking him with pretty amazing control considering just who their audience was.
"The damned doctor is right here, you-" McCoy bit it off as Jim pressed two fingers into his mouth, stroking them against his tongue.
"I see that," Jim said, and there was a touch of heat in his voice, not quite anger, but it twinged in McCoy, anyway, "I also see that this isn't a blowjob, Spock. Suppositions?
"If oral stimulation is a requirement, I believe I can arrange it," Spock said and then the fucking bastard pulled out, ignored the sharp sound of protest that gurgled out of McCoy from around Jim's fingers but there wasn't time to even curse before Spock had gently flipped him over, pulled him up on his knees and was already pushing into him again.
"Jesus," McCoy panted out in ragged little gasps, barely managing to push up on his elbows before Spock rocked him with a hard thrust, sent him skittering forward and he might have fallen on his foolish, drunken face if Jim hadn't caught him beneath the chin, tilting his head up for a kiss that sent McCoy's head swimming, they'd never, not any birthday before, but hell, this wasn't like any other birthday and Jim was biting tenderly at his lip, pulling back to rub a thumb wetly over his lower lip.
"Bones?" Jim whispered, hoarsely, that one little word catching in a way McCoy had never heard before, met blue, blue eyes with his own startled ones. "Please?"
It didn’t quite register at first, having to filter through brandy-soaked thoughts that were tangled up tight in the Vulcan making breathy, grunting noises behind him as he fucked his way in deeper, his hands so tight on McCoy's hips that he knew there would be bruises there tomorrow. It didn't hit him until his eyes caught on Jim's free hand, resting hesitantly on the fly of his pants and McCoy's mouth watered instantly, would have already leaned in to nuzzle at the rough fabric of Jim's uniform pants if Spock hadn't yanked him back hard, driving a loud cry out of him, God, so good.
"Yeah," McCoy gasped out, because he couldn't reach out, had to keep his hands on the floor, "Yeah, I wanna, Jimmy, I-"
He would have said more, drunken words sopping out of him in an endless stream if Jim hadn't cut him off with his own mouth, one hard kiss before the sound of a zipper registered and then he was opening his mouth blindly to the sultry press of Jim's cock against his lips. Moans were spilling out of him from deep down, muffled by the gagging shape of Jim pushing down his throat but they made louder ones come from above, Jim's voice cracking and desperate when McCoy finally sucked, sighing at the luxury of the taste of this mingling with the hard, smooth thrusts inside him.
He was drowning in touch, saturated in a way that he hadn't been in years, maybe never and McCoy sucked hard until he felt a prickle of tension at his temples, felt the way Jim's thighs quivered. It made something like pride surge up in his chest, this was Jim, who'd been fucked everything in sight since long before McCoy had clapped eyes on him, and he was already gulping air above him, rocking with ridiculous gentleness between McCoy's lips.
"Bones, you-" Jim's voice was barely a whisper, as tender as the fingers skating through McCoy's hair. "Fuck," he groaned. "You don’t know how long-you don't- Spock..."
He felt the scrabble of hands at his shoulder, fingers that weren't his own linking together and there was no time for resentment, no way to feel anything else but the sudden desperation in Spock's thrusts, hard, hard, enough to force McCoy forward another inch, hands and knees sliding sweatily on the floor. Loud cries mingling over his head, two voice calling out the way he couldn't, his own groans barely a deep vibration and Jim was coming, his mind told him helpfully, he could tell Jim was coming because he could taste it, swallowing desperately against the hot, bitter spurts against the back of his throat, and the sudden heat of it made panic rise in him, this was, what was--- It was battered away almost instantly by the cool brutality of a Vulcan hand suddenly around him, jerking him off with perfect pressure and intensity, of course it would be perfect, fucking yes, his mouth suddenly empty so those loud cries could pour out of him and into Jim's eagerly kissing mouth.
He came to the feel of Jim licking his own taste out of McCoy's mouth, blinkering light behind his eyes and his moan was a piteous little sound, the world around him battering him with sensation, filling him with a burst of heat as Spock stiffened behind him, his fingers never stilling on McCoy's cock until it was too, too much and he had to feebly bat Spock's hand away. Every breath out of him was like a sob, all of it almost more than he could bear and the aftershocks trembling through him were nearly as good as the rest. Jim was still kissing him, gentle presses against tender lips that made McCoy sigh a little and kiss him back.
"Take a deep breath, Doctor," Spock told him softly and he might have told Spock that if he called him doctor again while they were both come-slippery and dripping sweat on the damned floor of his quarters, then Spock was going to leave these same quarters carrying his balls in a jar. Might have told him that if Spock hadn't abruptly pulled out of him and the breath he had drawn left him in a strangled yelp. Yeah, that was going to be sore in the morning, no amount of booze was going to cover up that ache.
"His name is Leonard," Jim said with faint exasperation, told Spock but he murmured it into McCoy's mouth and something about his name, his real name on Jim's lips made McCoy's heart stutter a little, made him kiss a little harder.
"Leonard," Spock repeated agreeably, and McCoy didn't even have time to protest when he was pulled away from Jim's mouth and lifted off the floor completely. There was some complaining he should be doing here, he figured; something about how he could damn well walk so put me the fuck down, but by the time his tongue had worked out how to say it, they were already pushing through the door of his bedroom. To hell with it.
He recognized the softness against his back as his own bunk when Spock laid him down on it, gently ridding him of his shirt before he pulled the blankets over him.
They were leaving him, he realized, a kind of booze-soaked grief rising up in him. He pushed it back down viciously, strangled it back down to where it belonged. He'd gotten what he wanted, twice over, hell, more than that, he'd won the damned birthday lottery this year and tomorrow he'll give himself an early morning injection to chase away the hangover.
The memories he'll have to chase away himself. If they'd invented a medication for that, it'd always be in short supply.
"No, you get on the other side," he heard Jim say softly, slitted his eyes open to squint into the darkness. They went wide when Jim slipped beneath the covers with him, snuggling right up to him as if they always did this, like he'd ever felt Jim completely naked against him.
"You-" McCoy croaked, a certain frozen terror rising in his chest.
"Shut up," Jim told him sleepily. "You can kick us out in the morning."
I won't, McCoy's brain whispered fervently, I won't, I won't--
"He will not," Spock murmured from behind him, his bare skin degrees hotter than Jim's as he settled beneath the blankets. "He wishes for us to remain."
"Goddamned Vulcans," McCoy mumbled, sighing a little as Spock wrapped one arm around his waist so that his hand rested on Jim.
"Whatever," Jim said, but it was fading away, those weaving drunken fingers still in McCoy's mind were drawing him down into sleep, smothered in warmth and boozy contentment. "You never let me fuck you. Not even on my birthday."
You never asked, McCoy didn't say, drowsing into sleep. He'd never asked, not once, but maybe next time he would, maybe Spock would let him, and then McCoy could say...he could say yes.
He drifted away then; let himself slip down into the doubled embrace around him like a long-forgotten dream, sweet and warm as Georgia sunshine in August.
-finis-
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