FIC: Wished Me Well 1/1 (S/Mc/K, NC-17)
Wished Me Well
By Keelywolfe
Rating: NC-17
Spock/McCoy/Jim
Summary: A sequel to And Years Went By. The morning after.
Notes: This? Will make no sense if you haven't read the first one. I recommend going there first. I'd like to thank i_msoashamed and traykor for reading this over for me, I greatly appreciated it. :)
~~*~~
Waking up with a hangover was an experience in misery that most Humans and quite a few other species were capable of experiencing. Some managed to go through it just once, just long enough to learn that they never wanted to try that again. One morning of heaving and headache was plenty for them, thank you very much, so just one glass will suffice.
Some people, Humans or whatever, never managed to learn the lesson no matter how many times life attempted to teach it to them. They were long familiar with the coolness of the side of the recycling bowl against their face, the chalky aftertaste of the anti-emetic, the sour look of the local pharmaceutical technician as they trudged in still wearing last night's clothes, stinking of their own sour sweat to turn in their credits for, yes, another alcohol metabolizing hypospray.
Then there was the special kind of hangover, the kind that came while you were still drunkenly stupid, marinating in the alcohol that had yet to work its way through your liver, waking up to that first wave of nausea lapping at the back of your throat but still entirely too soused to make it to the 'fresher. That was the kind of hangover that usually required paying for a cleaning service when you finally hit sober.
It was that kind of hangover that made McCoy keep the detoxification and anti-emetic hypo mixture known commonly amongst college students and Starfleet cadets as a flush-n-rush in his bedside table. He might never have learned his lesson about preventing hangovers but he'd damned well learned the one about getting rid of one before there were witnesses. Med school had been a great teacher in more than just medical training.
He knew; before he even cracked open the crust sealing his eyes he knew that it was just that sort of hangover that was awaiting him. He took a moment to orient himself, yes, his head was at the headboard, before he attempted to move and if the mattress next to him seemed a little lumpier than usual, made a faint sound of protest and moved on its own, well, that little mystery was just going to have to wait.
The first edge of queasiness hit before he'd even fumbled the drawer open but he had plenty of practice and he sat on the edge of his bed, one-handing the hypo as he injecting the cool rush of medication into his own neck before he felt more than mildly nauseous.
He slumped to the side a little, sighing at the cool feel of the wall against his face. Damned if he wasn't too old for this. At his age, only fools and alcoholics got this damned drunk; old age was surely going to teach him the lesson about hangovers that his youth had never managed to drive home. The damned remedy didn't kick in as well as it used to; took the edge off but there was no amount of voodoo medicine that would replace sleep that he hadn't gotten. Not that he needed it as often as he had in the past, back when the divorce was still fresh as a new wound, still oozing blood around the hasty bandage that booze had provided, but that was years ago and he was--
Old. His birthday. Christ on a cracker.
Saurian brandy was remarkable in the area of liquor but not much in the way of a memory enhancer. But a soft snore from behind him worked just about as well as an injection of liquid IQ and if it weren't for the worn edges of nausea and disorientation still lining his gut and his vision, he probably would have leapt away from it and landed on his ass on the floor.
Correction; landed on his damned sore ass.
Instead, he was able to edge away from that sound slowly, equal parts caution and an attempt to keep what little food he'd eaten yesterday from turning into an impromptu floor decoration. One foot on the icy floor, goddamned space ships, two, and McCoy was able to turn around uneasily and see the state of his bed.
Just a dim vision in the low lights, but it was exactly as his brain, which was no longer as drunk as he would have liked, informed him it would be; Spock and Jim, still in his bed and very likely naked beneath the blankets. Jim was the snorer, with a spreading patch of drool on the pillow near his open mouth. Of course, he was, he would be. Spock was sleeping like he was barely breathing, like some kind of goddamned vampire and they were sleeping in his bed because the two of them had fucked him to aching, raw gratification in some godforsaken tag-team birthday orgy before plunking themselves into his bed like they belonged there.
The air was chilly on his bare skin and his head was cursing him for daring to move, but McCoy looked at them a little longer, helplessly. Pretty things, they were. In this shadowy light, they both seemed pale against the darker sheets, Spock's hair almost blending into them and Jim's tousled around his head like the heavens most inappropriate halo. Close enough that their faces were nearly touching, Spock edging into the warm spot that McCoy had vacated, soft, parted lips so close to each other. Made him think of the china dolls his mother had kept, their delicate little white faces with painted lips and eyes that he'd never been allowed to lay a hand on, no matter how deft a touch he had. Steady hands, he had, surgeon's hands, but they weren't meant to hold china dolls. Not wives, not daughters, and sure as hell not his two commanding officers, not his friends, his best friend.
McCoy must have been staring at them stupidly for far longer than he should've, long enough for Jim to stir, a faint frown line forming between his eyes as he pulled up out of deeper sleep, and that, friends and neighbors, was a damned good clue that it was time to clear out of here.
Logically, he could've just waited until they woke up, thanked them for their interesting and creative birthday gift, and shown their not-sore-at-all asses to the door. The chrono indicated that it was just at the ass-end of the Gamma shift and as far as he knew, Spock and Jim were both on Alpha, so it would be a safe bet that they'd leave without protest. The next time they saw each other it would all be yesterday's bad news, swept aside and tucked under the rug like so much dust. McCoy figured he was getting to be a regular expert in repression where James Kirk was concerned.
But hell, if he'd been logical, he wouldn't have ended up on the floor with a Vulcan up his ass. He was teetering on the edge of still-drunk, sloshing with brandy that was about to turn his guts into an eruption and sore as hell from sex that felt almost as much like a drunken dream as it did reality.
And since his ears weren't pointy and he wasn't quite within a stone's throw of sober, McCoy took the second option and fled to the bathroom for a long shower. Turned the sonics up, let them pound the old aches out of him and leave new ones in their place, while he leaned against the tiles and closed his eyes. Didn't think of anything more complex than how much he missed the feel of real water, almost hot enough to scald, washing away the leftover birthing pains of yet another year.
"Too old for this," he muttered aloud and the rough scrape of his voice just about confirmed it. Might be time to spare himself the hangover and put his drunken birthday traditions to bed.
That little slip of the mind was almost enough to get him thinking again but McCoy managed to stifle it, stayed in the shower long enough for any extra occupants to sort themselves out and scoot out his door.
Time enough and after a little more sleep, and another injection, he'd head off to Beta shift a little more sociable than he was feeling just now, for another year.
Toweling off wasn't strictly necessary after a sonic shower but Starfleet still kindly provided them and McCoy wrapped one around his waist before hesitating at the door. Shook his head before he could give into the urge to press his ear against it and instead just opened it. It was his damned bedroom, after all, and if you needed to roust out pests, better to do it yourself.
~~*~~
The bedroom lights were much dimmer, only the soft emergency lights glowing palely around the room, and McCoy blinked rapidly, trying to squint into the darkness at his bed. Gone, they had to be gone, he decided. There was no sound of snoring or stirring, no sound at all, and the sour taste at the back of his mouth was only leftover alcoholic heartburn.
A little more sleep would let the medication settle in and McCoy intended to do just that, aching tiredness settling into his bones.
"Come back to bed."
Low, drowsy words in the dark that froze him, dredging his blood with something close to fear. He'd heard Jim's voice like that before, countless times, earthy and heavy with implication, husky-sweet and begging for sex. Only he'd been hearing it on the periphery, standing on the edge and rolling his eyes at Jim's sexual exploits. He hadn't much been one before, wasn't certain he wanted to be one now. This was...it wasn't...
"It's too early for all that thinking you're doing, Bones," Jim chided him sleepily. The bed creaked slightly as he moved and McCoy couldn't tell if all the lumps beneath the blanket were Jim-shapes or if someone else was still with him. "Just come back to bed, okay?"
Wasn't that just like Jim, course it was. Come back to bed. Don't think of all the reasons that this is surely a bad idea. His best friend, the best he'd ever had was lying naked beneath his blankets, asking him to come back to him, and McCoy didn't need to see those eyes to know how blue they were, looking at him through the darkness. Didn't have to kiss that mouth to remember how it had tasted beneath his own.
His feet were shuffling towards the bed before he'd really given them the okay, the swimming half-drunkenness still in his head something like permission. Let the towel fall to the floor and slipped back beneath blankets that were stiflingly warm with all the body heat that wasn't his and that was as unfamiliar to him as any of this, as the warm press of Jim's naked skin against his, the sweet, nuzzling touch of Jim's mouth, searching for his own.
Dry, slightly chapped lips against his own, Jim's mouth a little sour with sleep and nothing else, a brittle reminder that he hadn't been drinking the night before, he'd said...they'd had a plan of some sort, the bastards, they...but the stroke of Jim's tongue against his own was a perfect distraction. Now the kiss was wet, McCoy pushing his tongue almost clumsily against Jim's as he wished for a long pull off the nearly empty bottle that was surely still sitting in the front room.
The bed shifted and there was a cool touch against his back, hands that he knew weren't Jim's made him startle, made him pull away from Jim's mouth with a gasp but Jim followed him with the same determination that he did everything, damn it, pressed their mouths back together hotly, and if McCoy's breathing was a little too harsh, a little too loud in the shuffling quiet then so was Jim's. Jim who mumbled dirty little things under his breath, biting kisses into McCoy's mouth and down the line of his jaw to his ear, tonguing nasty-wet inside.
It made Spock's eerie silence all the worse, the light pant of his breath between McCoy's shoulder almost ghostly. He wasn't drunk enough for this, McCoy thought, panic like a taste at the back of his throat. Not with alcohol finally metabolizing out of him, not with Jim naked and pressed against him, his cock doing its damndest to poke through McCoy's bellybutton.
The fact that he was hard too wasn't lost on him, but fuck, who wouldn't be. He'd have to be damned well dead not to respond to this but that didn't calm his churning gut, the panicked gabble of his thoughts that wondered just what the hell he thought he was doing, this wasn't what they did, he wasn't...he pulled away, snatched his mouth from Jim's and before the tumble of words could escape Spock had jerked him over, covered his mouth with a hard, too-hot kiss.
Spock, fuck, yes, Spock he could bite at, felt the little winces in their vicious kisses. Spock he could pull closer with shaking, uncertain hands, fumble touches over his bare chest, and damn, Vulcan's were hairy bastards, a strange genetic quirk, that was, what the hell did they need all that fur for on a desert planet?
The cool firmness of his hand around McCoy's wrist was oddly calming, curved around the back of his hand so's Spock could press his thumb into the cup of McCoy's palm. Rubbed little circles into it, warming friction, and their hurting kisses eased into something almost gentle, soothing the ache in his lower lip from sharp teeth digging into it, Spock's and his own.
"You are trembling," Spock told him quietly, murmured it damply into McCoy's mouth, like he didn't damn well know that, didn't feel the tremor in his hands, the quiver in his too-quick breath. He was just on the edge of hyperventilating, not drunk enough, not something enough, but that didn't seem so important anymore. Easy enough to forget all the nagging little reasons that this was a rotten idea and slide his fingers against Spock's, threading them together in a way that made him inhale sharply, a tiny sound slipping free from the peach-sweet lushness of his mouth.
Touch telepathy, McCoy remembered, a little hazily, wondered just what it was Spock was feeling from him that made him kiss back so eagerly, thought about that mouth against Jim's and he'd never seen that, come to think of it, never seen them touch except in the barest friendly ways. Yesterday, seeing them kiss might have sent something that wasn't jealousy, wasn't, flaring hotly behind McCoy's eyes so there was really no excuse for how the thought of it now made lust pool into his belly like old-fashioned gasoline. Imaging those even white teeth digging into Jim's soft lower lip, tasting all that sharp brightness, made a low whine of protest start in his dick about how no one was touching it, thanks very much.
Spock's breathing was a quick as an engine by now, hot against McCoy's face, hands gripping McCoy's painfully tight. The sudden warmth of Jim against his back shouldn't have been so unexpected, Jim not being what you'd call patient-like, and the hot length of his cock settled snugly into the crack of McCoy's ass. He couldn't help but stiffen, not that he didn't want it. He was damned sore, aching sore, the memory of Spock fucking him, fucking bruises into him, sent a sharp spangle of heat right down to his dick and he wouldn't say no, he wouldn't, not to Jim, but--
"Jim--" he started, hated the throaty crackle to his own voice, so deep that even he noticed the twang of his accent, lengthening it to "Jeeyim".
"Shh, don't, don't, it's all right, I won't. Just want to touch you, I want--" A steady murmur against the back of his neck, matching the throaty little sounds Jim was making between words, the most obscene chant ever as he rubbed against McCoy's ass, sliding damply against him. He didn't even try to push inside, true to his word, but Christ, the feel of it, hot damp skin rubbing and sliding. Spock in front of them, twisting their fingers together, the delicate bones in McCoy's hands grinding painfully as Spock shuddered softly before wrenching them loose.
He protested wordlessly, hated the empty feeling to his hands, fumbled blindly down to where Jim was gripping his hip. Instantly, Jim threaded their fingers together, habit, maybe, used to handsy Vulcans, but the part of McCoy that was dumb with need, greedily wanting this, didn't give a damn about the whys and wherefores, only dragged Jim's hand down between his legs, pressed it against his own aching cock.
Hot, shaky laughter against the back of his neck. "Yeah, I can do that, fuck, yes, Bones, you--" he broke off sharply, Jim's forehead damp as he dropped it on McCoy's shoulder. "You feel so good," Jim whined, hips moving smoothly against McCoy's ass as he pushed a little harder, grinding against him.
"Jim," McCoy murmured thickly, Jeeyim, but he managed to slit his eyes open, his front conspicuously chilled with Spock's absence. He was still there, kneeling at the side of the bed, watching them with dark, gleaming eyes and what the hell was that about, McCoy didn't have a chance to ask, Spock just watched Jim going a little crazy all over him, babbling out filthy-hot fragments of words about heat and fuck and good, dissolving into one long groan as Jim came against the curve of his ass, sliding easily in the glossy wetness of his own come.
It felt...fuck, Jim was right about one thing, it felt good, and his own groan was conspicuously close to a whimper, jerking himself off with Jim's hand, not quite tight enough and he needed, he--
Another hand closed over his own, tightened his grip until McCoy yelped aloud, hips jerking raggedly as the three of them brought him off, came to the feel of Jim mouthing his ear, teeth worrying the soft lobe his ear and Spock's hand over his own, strong and cool and McCoy dimly wondered what Spock was feeling from him, just now, if he was feeling McCoy's orgasm like some kind of vicarious telepathic pornography, if it felt good.
He found himself kinda hoping it did.
Later, he figured he must've blacked out, a little, still a bit boozy and sex-sleepy, he was old, dammit, he was goddamned exhausted, and he would have been perfectly content to sleep in the wet spot, bury his face into the rather fragrant blankets and bask in it till Beta shift.
The feel of a damp, warm cloth stroking over his belly, cleaning him, woke him a little and McCoy opened his eyes to find Spock cleaning him briskly. Of course he would.
"Doctor," Spock began, correcting himself before McCoy could protest, "Leonard. Jim and I are on Alpha shift--"
"Yeah, I know," McCoy broke in. The last goddamned thing he wanted to hear right now was the Vulcan version of the morning after speech. Instead, he rolled over to bury his face in the pillows. "Go on, get out of here."
Only he didn't hear anyone obeying, neither Spock nor Jim being much of the taking orders kind. Goddamn it all, anyway. His hypo from earlier was working entirely too well and he wasn't drunk enough, sure as hell wasn't hung-over enough to deal with this right now, on the ass end of no sleep on the day after his birthday. Take a hint, he pleaded mentally, get the hell out of here, and for maybe the first time in his life, whatever Gods were in the heavens seemed to be listening. He heard footsteps start towards to door, hesitate, then keep on going.
"Bones?"
Fuck. How much of that goddamned brandy was left, anyway?
But Jim didn't continue, didn't touch him again and McCoy started to relax, drifted into that almost-asleep place before he heard Jim say, softly, "Happy birthday."
Again, footsteps, his best friend walking away from him and there was the soft sound of a door closing. McCoy lay in his bed, eyes open and breathing in the stink of their sex for a long time before he finally moved, snagged a pair of wrinkled pants from the floor and tugged them over his hips. The bottle was sitting on the low table in front of his sofa, still, the gleaming liquid amber nearly a quarter of the way from the bottom.
McCoy didn't bother to find his glass. Just settled in his chair and started drinking.
-finis-
Read Next Part
By Keelywolfe
Rating: NC-17
Spock/McCoy/Jim
Summary: A sequel to And Years Went By. The morning after.
Notes: This? Will make no sense if you haven't read the first one. I recommend going there first. I'd like to thank i_msoashamed and traykor for reading this over for me, I greatly appreciated it. :)
~~*~~
Waking up with a hangover was an experience in misery that most Humans and quite a few other species were capable of experiencing. Some managed to go through it just once, just long enough to learn that they never wanted to try that again. One morning of heaving and headache was plenty for them, thank you very much, so just one glass will suffice.
Some people, Humans or whatever, never managed to learn the lesson no matter how many times life attempted to teach it to them. They were long familiar with the coolness of the side of the recycling bowl against their face, the chalky aftertaste of the anti-emetic, the sour look of the local pharmaceutical technician as they trudged in still wearing last night's clothes, stinking of their own sour sweat to turn in their credits for, yes, another alcohol metabolizing hypospray.
Then there was the special kind of hangover, the kind that came while you were still drunkenly stupid, marinating in the alcohol that had yet to work its way through your liver, waking up to that first wave of nausea lapping at the back of your throat but still entirely too soused to make it to the 'fresher. That was the kind of hangover that usually required paying for a cleaning service when you finally hit sober.
It was that kind of hangover that made McCoy keep the detoxification and anti-emetic hypo mixture known commonly amongst college students and Starfleet cadets as a flush-n-rush in his bedside table. He might never have learned his lesson about preventing hangovers but he'd damned well learned the one about getting rid of one before there were witnesses. Med school had been a great teacher in more than just medical training.
He knew; before he even cracked open the crust sealing his eyes he knew that it was just that sort of hangover that was awaiting him. He took a moment to orient himself, yes, his head was at the headboard, before he attempted to move and if the mattress next to him seemed a little lumpier than usual, made a faint sound of protest and moved on its own, well, that little mystery was just going to have to wait.
The first edge of queasiness hit before he'd even fumbled the drawer open but he had plenty of practice and he sat on the edge of his bed, one-handing the hypo as he injecting the cool rush of medication into his own neck before he felt more than mildly nauseous.
He slumped to the side a little, sighing at the cool feel of the wall against his face. Damned if he wasn't too old for this. At his age, only fools and alcoholics got this damned drunk; old age was surely going to teach him the lesson about hangovers that his youth had never managed to drive home. The damned remedy didn't kick in as well as it used to; took the edge off but there was no amount of voodoo medicine that would replace sleep that he hadn't gotten. Not that he needed it as often as he had in the past, back when the divorce was still fresh as a new wound, still oozing blood around the hasty bandage that booze had provided, but that was years ago and he was--
Old. His birthday. Christ on a cracker.
Saurian brandy was remarkable in the area of liquor but not much in the way of a memory enhancer. But a soft snore from behind him worked just about as well as an injection of liquid IQ and if it weren't for the worn edges of nausea and disorientation still lining his gut and his vision, he probably would have leapt away from it and landed on his ass on the floor.
Correction; landed on his damned sore ass.
Instead, he was able to edge away from that sound slowly, equal parts caution and an attempt to keep what little food he'd eaten yesterday from turning into an impromptu floor decoration. One foot on the icy floor, goddamned space ships, two, and McCoy was able to turn around uneasily and see the state of his bed.
Just a dim vision in the low lights, but it was exactly as his brain, which was no longer as drunk as he would have liked, informed him it would be; Spock and Jim, still in his bed and very likely naked beneath the blankets. Jim was the snorer, with a spreading patch of drool on the pillow near his open mouth. Of course, he was, he would be. Spock was sleeping like he was barely breathing, like some kind of goddamned vampire and they were sleeping in his bed because the two of them had fucked him to aching, raw gratification in some godforsaken tag-team birthday orgy before plunking themselves into his bed like they belonged there.
The air was chilly on his bare skin and his head was cursing him for daring to move, but McCoy looked at them a little longer, helplessly. Pretty things, they were. In this shadowy light, they both seemed pale against the darker sheets, Spock's hair almost blending into them and Jim's tousled around his head like the heavens most inappropriate halo. Close enough that their faces were nearly touching, Spock edging into the warm spot that McCoy had vacated, soft, parted lips so close to each other. Made him think of the china dolls his mother had kept, their delicate little white faces with painted lips and eyes that he'd never been allowed to lay a hand on, no matter how deft a touch he had. Steady hands, he had, surgeon's hands, but they weren't meant to hold china dolls. Not wives, not daughters, and sure as hell not his two commanding officers, not his friends, his best friend.
McCoy must have been staring at them stupidly for far longer than he should've, long enough for Jim to stir, a faint frown line forming between his eyes as he pulled up out of deeper sleep, and that, friends and neighbors, was a damned good clue that it was time to clear out of here.
Logically, he could've just waited until they woke up, thanked them for their interesting and creative birthday gift, and shown their not-sore-at-all asses to the door. The chrono indicated that it was just at the ass-end of the Gamma shift and as far as he knew, Spock and Jim were both on Alpha, so it would be a safe bet that they'd leave without protest. The next time they saw each other it would all be yesterday's bad news, swept aside and tucked under the rug like so much dust. McCoy figured he was getting to be a regular expert in repression where James Kirk was concerned.
But hell, if he'd been logical, he wouldn't have ended up on the floor with a Vulcan up his ass. He was teetering on the edge of still-drunk, sloshing with brandy that was about to turn his guts into an eruption and sore as hell from sex that felt almost as much like a drunken dream as it did reality.
And since his ears weren't pointy and he wasn't quite within a stone's throw of sober, McCoy took the second option and fled to the bathroom for a long shower. Turned the sonics up, let them pound the old aches out of him and leave new ones in their place, while he leaned against the tiles and closed his eyes. Didn't think of anything more complex than how much he missed the feel of real water, almost hot enough to scald, washing away the leftover birthing pains of yet another year.
"Too old for this," he muttered aloud and the rough scrape of his voice just about confirmed it. Might be time to spare himself the hangover and put his drunken birthday traditions to bed.
That little slip of the mind was almost enough to get him thinking again but McCoy managed to stifle it, stayed in the shower long enough for any extra occupants to sort themselves out and scoot out his door.
Time enough and after a little more sleep, and another injection, he'd head off to Beta shift a little more sociable than he was feeling just now, for another year.
Toweling off wasn't strictly necessary after a sonic shower but Starfleet still kindly provided them and McCoy wrapped one around his waist before hesitating at the door. Shook his head before he could give into the urge to press his ear against it and instead just opened it. It was his damned bedroom, after all, and if you needed to roust out pests, better to do it yourself.
~~*~~
The bedroom lights were much dimmer, only the soft emergency lights glowing palely around the room, and McCoy blinked rapidly, trying to squint into the darkness at his bed. Gone, they had to be gone, he decided. There was no sound of snoring or stirring, no sound at all, and the sour taste at the back of his mouth was only leftover alcoholic heartburn.
A little more sleep would let the medication settle in and McCoy intended to do just that, aching tiredness settling into his bones.
"Come back to bed."
Low, drowsy words in the dark that froze him, dredging his blood with something close to fear. He'd heard Jim's voice like that before, countless times, earthy and heavy with implication, husky-sweet and begging for sex. Only he'd been hearing it on the periphery, standing on the edge and rolling his eyes at Jim's sexual exploits. He hadn't much been one before, wasn't certain he wanted to be one now. This was...it wasn't...
"It's too early for all that thinking you're doing, Bones," Jim chided him sleepily. The bed creaked slightly as he moved and McCoy couldn't tell if all the lumps beneath the blanket were Jim-shapes or if someone else was still with him. "Just come back to bed, okay?"
Wasn't that just like Jim, course it was. Come back to bed. Don't think of all the reasons that this is surely a bad idea. His best friend, the best he'd ever had was lying naked beneath his blankets, asking him to come back to him, and McCoy didn't need to see those eyes to know how blue they were, looking at him through the darkness. Didn't have to kiss that mouth to remember how it had tasted beneath his own.
His feet were shuffling towards the bed before he'd really given them the okay, the swimming half-drunkenness still in his head something like permission. Let the towel fall to the floor and slipped back beneath blankets that were stiflingly warm with all the body heat that wasn't his and that was as unfamiliar to him as any of this, as the warm press of Jim's naked skin against his, the sweet, nuzzling touch of Jim's mouth, searching for his own.
Dry, slightly chapped lips against his own, Jim's mouth a little sour with sleep and nothing else, a brittle reminder that he hadn't been drinking the night before, he'd said...they'd had a plan of some sort, the bastards, they...but the stroke of Jim's tongue against his own was a perfect distraction. Now the kiss was wet, McCoy pushing his tongue almost clumsily against Jim's as he wished for a long pull off the nearly empty bottle that was surely still sitting in the front room.
The bed shifted and there was a cool touch against his back, hands that he knew weren't Jim's made him startle, made him pull away from Jim's mouth with a gasp but Jim followed him with the same determination that he did everything, damn it, pressed their mouths back together hotly, and if McCoy's breathing was a little too harsh, a little too loud in the shuffling quiet then so was Jim's. Jim who mumbled dirty little things under his breath, biting kisses into McCoy's mouth and down the line of his jaw to his ear, tonguing nasty-wet inside.
It made Spock's eerie silence all the worse, the light pant of his breath between McCoy's shoulder almost ghostly. He wasn't drunk enough for this, McCoy thought, panic like a taste at the back of his throat. Not with alcohol finally metabolizing out of him, not with Jim naked and pressed against him, his cock doing its damndest to poke through McCoy's bellybutton.
The fact that he was hard too wasn't lost on him, but fuck, who wouldn't be. He'd have to be damned well dead not to respond to this but that didn't calm his churning gut, the panicked gabble of his thoughts that wondered just what the hell he thought he was doing, this wasn't what they did, he wasn't...he pulled away, snatched his mouth from Jim's and before the tumble of words could escape Spock had jerked him over, covered his mouth with a hard, too-hot kiss.
Spock, fuck, yes, Spock he could bite at, felt the little winces in their vicious kisses. Spock he could pull closer with shaking, uncertain hands, fumble touches over his bare chest, and damn, Vulcan's were hairy bastards, a strange genetic quirk, that was, what the hell did they need all that fur for on a desert planet?
The cool firmness of his hand around McCoy's wrist was oddly calming, curved around the back of his hand so's Spock could press his thumb into the cup of McCoy's palm. Rubbed little circles into it, warming friction, and their hurting kisses eased into something almost gentle, soothing the ache in his lower lip from sharp teeth digging into it, Spock's and his own.
"You are trembling," Spock told him quietly, murmured it damply into McCoy's mouth, like he didn't damn well know that, didn't feel the tremor in his hands, the quiver in his too-quick breath. He was just on the edge of hyperventilating, not drunk enough, not something enough, but that didn't seem so important anymore. Easy enough to forget all the nagging little reasons that this was a rotten idea and slide his fingers against Spock's, threading them together in a way that made him inhale sharply, a tiny sound slipping free from the peach-sweet lushness of his mouth.
Touch telepathy, McCoy remembered, a little hazily, wondered just what it was Spock was feeling from him that made him kiss back so eagerly, thought about that mouth against Jim's and he'd never seen that, come to think of it, never seen them touch except in the barest friendly ways. Yesterday, seeing them kiss might have sent something that wasn't jealousy, wasn't, flaring hotly behind McCoy's eyes so there was really no excuse for how the thought of it now made lust pool into his belly like old-fashioned gasoline. Imaging those even white teeth digging into Jim's soft lower lip, tasting all that sharp brightness, made a low whine of protest start in his dick about how no one was touching it, thanks very much.
Spock's breathing was a quick as an engine by now, hot against McCoy's face, hands gripping McCoy's painfully tight. The sudden warmth of Jim against his back shouldn't have been so unexpected, Jim not being what you'd call patient-like, and the hot length of his cock settled snugly into the crack of McCoy's ass. He couldn't help but stiffen, not that he didn't want it. He was damned sore, aching sore, the memory of Spock fucking him, fucking bruises into him, sent a sharp spangle of heat right down to his dick and he wouldn't say no, he wouldn't, not to Jim, but--
"Jim--" he started, hated the throaty crackle to his own voice, so deep that even he noticed the twang of his accent, lengthening it to "Jeeyim".
"Shh, don't, don't, it's all right, I won't. Just want to touch you, I want--" A steady murmur against the back of his neck, matching the throaty little sounds Jim was making between words, the most obscene chant ever as he rubbed against McCoy's ass, sliding damply against him. He didn't even try to push inside, true to his word, but Christ, the feel of it, hot damp skin rubbing and sliding. Spock in front of them, twisting their fingers together, the delicate bones in McCoy's hands grinding painfully as Spock shuddered softly before wrenching them loose.
He protested wordlessly, hated the empty feeling to his hands, fumbled blindly down to where Jim was gripping his hip. Instantly, Jim threaded their fingers together, habit, maybe, used to handsy Vulcans, but the part of McCoy that was dumb with need, greedily wanting this, didn't give a damn about the whys and wherefores, only dragged Jim's hand down between his legs, pressed it against his own aching cock.
Hot, shaky laughter against the back of his neck. "Yeah, I can do that, fuck, yes, Bones, you--" he broke off sharply, Jim's forehead damp as he dropped it on McCoy's shoulder. "You feel so good," Jim whined, hips moving smoothly against McCoy's ass as he pushed a little harder, grinding against him.
"Jim," McCoy murmured thickly, Jeeyim, but he managed to slit his eyes open, his front conspicuously chilled with Spock's absence. He was still there, kneeling at the side of the bed, watching them with dark, gleaming eyes and what the hell was that about, McCoy didn't have a chance to ask, Spock just watched Jim going a little crazy all over him, babbling out filthy-hot fragments of words about heat and fuck and good, dissolving into one long groan as Jim came against the curve of his ass, sliding easily in the glossy wetness of his own come.
It felt...fuck, Jim was right about one thing, it felt good, and his own groan was conspicuously close to a whimper, jerking himself off with Jim's hand, not quite tight enough and he needed, he--
Another hand closed over his own, tightened his grip until McCoy yelped aloud, hips jerking raggedly as the three of them brought him off, came to the feel of Jim mouthing his ear, teeth worrying the soft lobe his ear and Spock's hand over his own, strong and cool and McCoy dimly wondered what Spock was feeling from him, just now, if he was feeling McCoy's orgasm like some kind of vicarious telepathic pornography, if it felt good.
He found himself kinda hoping it did.
Later, he figured he must've blacked out, a little, still a bit boozy and sex-sleepy, he was old, dammit, he was goddamned exhausted, and he would have been perfectly content to sleep in the wet spot, bury his face into the rather fragrant blankets and bask in it till Beta shift.
The feel of a damp, warm cloth stroking over his belly, cleaning him, woke him a little and McCoy opened his eyes to find Spock cleaning him briskly. Of course he would.
"Doctor," Spock began, correcting himself before McCoy could protest, "Leonard. Jim and I are on Alpha shift--"
"Yeah, I know," McCoy broke in. The last goddamned thing he wanted to hear right now was the Vulcan version of the morning after speech. Instead, he rolled over to bury his face in the pillows. "Go on, get out of here."
Only he didn't hear anyone obeying, neither Spock nor Jim being much of the taking orders kind. Goddamn it all, anyway. His hypo from earlier was working entirely too well and he wasn't drunk enough, sure as hell wasn't hung-over enough to deal with this right now, on the ass end of no sleep on the day after his birthday. Take a hint, he pleaded mentally, get the hell out of here, and for maybe the first time in his life, whatever Gods were in the heavens seemed to be listening. He heard footsteps start towards to door, hesitate, then keep on going.
"Bones?"
Fuck. How much of that goddamned brandy was left, anyway?
But Jim didn't continue, didn't touch him again and McCoy started to relax, drifted into that almost-asleep place before he heard Jim say, softly, "Happy birthday."
Again, footsteps, his best friend walking away from him and there was the soft sound of a door closing. McCoy lay in his bed, eyes open and breathing in the stink of their sex for a long time before he finally moved, snagged a pair of wrinkled pants from the floor and tugged them over his hips. The bottle was sitting on the low table in front of his sofa, still, the gleaming liquid amber nearly a quarter of the way from the bottom.
McCoy didn't bother to find his glass. Just settled in his chair and started drinking.
-finis-
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