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McCoy doesn't remember precisely how he got here.
For the purposes of scientific accuracy, "here" is sitting across from a pantsless Vulcan with a chessboard full of pieces between them. Well, half-full. That's partly the goddamn problem.
He remembers Jim announcing "Games night," with a gleam in his eye that made Bones, at least, suspicious as hell.
He remembers Chekov dealing at poker, the twitchy-fingered little twerp a fucking shark with a deck in his hands.
He remembers someone spilling most of a full glass of beer into the workings of the holographic pool table, after which the matrices are clearly fried. Not that that stops people playing on.
He remembers Jim glaring at Spock through the tiers of the three-dimensional chessboard.
He remembers Uhura snapping her fingers in front of Spock's face, laughing out loud - an earthy cackle - when he catches her wrist and tugs her perhaps a little too hard against his shoulder. She curls her hand around his neck, and McCoy watches as she whispers, "Have fun," in Spock's ear, catching the shell of it briefly between her teeth. Spock's head turns, just a little, but not like he's trying to get rid of an irritant.
He remembers that even before that, they'd poured most of a quart of liquor into Spock. Knowing Jim - and McCoy does, however much that pains him some days - he's experimenting with just what half-human means in a practical sense.
He remembers Uhura leaving with Chapel and Rand to meet Gaila coming off shift, a swing in their hips and the giggling starting even before the door glides shut behind them. Spock saying, "Checkmate," and Jim shouting, "Fuck! Again!" Chekov singing, surprisingly sonorous for such a skinny little stick.
He remembers Jim yelping, "Bones Bones Bones," and pawing at his elbow. He remembers now that Jim was shirtless, down both his command golds and black undershirt, but it wasn't strange at the time. Settled on the couch next to Jim, McCoy points out the blatant vulnerability of Spock's knight, which Jim takes with a victorious, "ah-HAH!"
McCoy blinks when the Vulcan pulls his blue shirt off in one smooth movement. "What the damn hell?"
Spock, leaning forward again to consider the board, glances up at him. "This was the rule agreed upon as a variant for this bout."
McCoy adjusts his assessment of the amount of alcohol Spock's consumed upwards. Once Spock makes his next move - hand entirely steady, eyes still focussing, McCoy's not worried about having to figure out how to pump a Vulcan's stomach any time soon - Jim hisses, "What now?" in McCoy's ear. Two moves later, Jim abandons the game entirely in favour of the hissing pool table, where Scotty manages a shot so geometrically impossible that the white ball vanishes.
So maybe that's how McCoy comes to be playing strip chess with the Enterprise's reigning champion. Maybe he just wishes he didn't remember.
Spock's game doesn't seem to have been impeded by his inebriation and he is - big fucking surprise - a stickler for the rules. McCoy's soon got bare feet and a new gratefulness to his grandfather; the old bastard always insisted that a solid understanding of chess was an essential part of being a man. Losing to a drunk Vulcan - to this drunk Vulcan - would be bad enough. McCoy'll be damned if he's losing his pants as well. He's concentrating so hard he barely notices Jim refilling their glasses, or Scotty and the other pool players carting the table out of the room for a better examination elsewhere. When he loses his shirt, McCoy glances around to find that they're alone, him and Spock across the table and Jim sprawled out - possibly passed out, the damn inebriate - still shirtless, on the other couch.
Shouldn't have taken his eye off the ball; he makes a careless move with his remaining bishop and loses both it and his undershirt. But that puts Spock's castle in a vulnerable position. McCoy's not rushing into anything. He considers it from all possible angles before taking the piece.
Spock says, "Hmm." Then he stands up and takes off his pants.
"What the hell?" McCoy says again, as Spock resumes his seat, placing his trousers carefully upon the neatly folded pile of his already-removed uniform. "You have a tattoo you're shy about?"
"The chill makes concentration difficult," Spock says. There's the faintest hint of roundness at the edge of his usually perfectly-formed words. "I calculate that while retaining underwear, a shirt alone conserves in the order of twenty percent more body heat than trousers." He takes a long swallow from his glass, as nonchalantly as ever, and returns it to its place on his chair's arm. "Your move, Doctor."
The chairs are upholstered in a deep amber and Spock's bare legs are distractingly pale against it. McCoy keeps his gaze resolutely away from where Spock's undershirt hangs over his lap, and wishes fervently that Jim hadn't speculated for over an hour the other day about his First Officer's lovelife with Lieutenant Uhura. Or at least not in such lurid goddamn detail.
He concentrates on the board instead. Getting down to the gritty end now, but there are still sufficient pieces left to leave McCoy out in the wind and trying to think of something else as well. Hell, he is technically part of a team. Next piece that goes down, he's taking Jim's damn pants.
Spock blinks at him mildly after he jumps his remaining pawn up a level. "Does such force impel some advantage?"
"Makes me feel better," McCoy snarls. He swigs from his glass - Jim never stints on the liquor, at least - and leans back on the couch.
Spock in turn leans forward, and McCoy sees it happen in the sort of high-clarity slow-motion that comes at this stage of drunkenness - Spock's elbow missing the table, sliding on the board... Actually, McCoy has no damn idea how it happens, but the board goes over with a clatter of pieces. Spock looks so blankly stunned McCoy can't help his laughter. "Fascinating," the Vulcan says, looking down at the black queen that rolls into the side of his bare foot.
McCoy laughs harder, sprawling on the couch, and is still laughing when another voice says, "I call that a forfeit."
So Jim's conscious after all. Still laid out on the other couch, chin smeared across the palm of the hand propping him up and hair sticking up in all directions. "Really?" McCoy drawls, but Jim isn't looking at him.
If Spock's unsettled by either the attention or whatever Jim's talking about, he's not showing it. "As I mentioned at the outset," Spock's saying when Jim interrupts: "I can provide instructions."
He's wearing that glittering, dangerous smirk that has McCoy glaring at him harder than he can remember since the incident with the feather boa and ten pounds of high-quality halibut. But McCoy might as well not be here, except that Jim's gaze slides to him, just for one bright moment.
Spock nods once, rising in one perfect motion, but Jim points with his free hand. "He's the one you're playing."
McCoy perhaps fumbles his glass a little getting it onto a flat surface, but it doesn't spill. He says, "What in the damned hell is--" which is about how long it takes for Spock to set the scattered remnants of the chess set aside, and drop to his knees between McCoy's splayed legs.
It's not done with the usual Vulcan precision; Spock wobbles a little, sets a hand on McCoy's knee to steady himself. His touch is hot, searing even through McCoy's trousers, and evaporating the rest of whatever it was he'd been about to say.
He catches Spock's other hand on the way in, and Spock's wrist is just as hot beneath his grip. A pulse beats beneath McCoy's thumb, but his usual curiosity about the Vulan cardiovascular system is the furthest thing from his mind right now, because he's met Spock's steady, even gaze.
It's those eyes, Jim said, somewhere around the thirty-eight minute mark. He just looks at her and she's ready to jump him, seeing him pick every hot, sweaty, lewd thought right out of her head, reflect them back.
Arousal and whiskey are thudding heavy in McCoy's veins. He draws Spock's hand down, slow like he's moving through molasses, to the waistband of his trousers where the other one is already. Wristbones twist in his grip, slip away.
"I interpret this as acquiescence," Spock says, and McCoy thinks he can interpret it as approbation, as fucking acclaim, while his fingers are not quite fumbling - but not quite precise either, fingertips slipping, knuckle brushing against McCoy's stomach - at the fastenings of McCoy's pants.
McCoy lifts his hips obligingly to help get his pants off, and the hitch in his breath has less to do with how long it's been since someone else considered his cock and more to do with the fact that no one's ever considered it like this - with scientific curiosity and the almost delicate press of searing fingertips and full, incredible, goddamn tangible attention.
I bet he goes at it like an assignment, Jim said. Know what I mean? Slow and methodical and thorough.
From somewhere in the room that could not be any damn further from McCoy's frame of reference right now, Jim says, "Suck it."
McCoy does not - absolutely, categorically, no fucking way - squeak, but it's a near run thing, because Spock just does. Gets a proper grip, spreads his other hand against the inside of McCoy's thigh, opens his mouth and sucks McCoy in so deep that the tattered shreds of his brain wonder if Vulcans even have a gag reflex. The heat's sublimed his bones, cauterised his brain, slammed his eyelids shut. He can hear Jim talking, low and liquid and even more meaningless than usual, but the syllables he catches assemble themselves in his brain and McCoy realises Jim is, actually, giving Spock instructions on how to give a blowjob.
Good ones. Spock licks back up the underside, pumps his hand slowly, flicks his tongue, and yeah, McCoy whines, ok? He's goddamned entitled to, so shut the hell up. He tries to push up, and is shoved back firmly into the couch by an iron grip on his hip. Never been so easily manhandled in his life. McCoy's fingers scrabble at the disinterested upholstery as Spock goes at it properly, with the syncopated rhythm of hand and mouth, hot and wet and goddamn deliciously not-quite-right.
Over his own harsh breathing he can still hearing Jim muttering, and when McCoy forces his eyes open, he can see Jim sitting in Spock's chair, across from him, over Spock's dark, bobbing head. Just a blur with bright eyes, before McCoy's looking down. Pale mouth, pale hand; his own hand is moving before he thinks about it, but when it settles on Spock's head, the Vulcan pauses for half a moment, then continues. Lets McCoy cradle his skull, curl fingers into his hair, guide him.
"Yeah," McCoy hears himself breathe. "Like that."
And then, all of a sudden, it's like Spock gets it. His wrist flexes, his tongue sweeps, and McCoy's head knocks back against the couch, stars behind his closed eyelids. It's good, it's so good, it's fucking perfect, and McCoy thrusts up in vain against Spock pressing him down. "Goddamn," he yelps, voice breaking, and he doesn't care, because he's coming - hard, wiping his mind white.
He comes down panting, bare skin of his back sticking to the couch. His heart-rate drops back to a canter, his temperature creeping back to normal, and McCoy realises that Spock's no longer touching him.
When he pries his eyelids open, the room's bright and jagged and skewed around him. McCoy wedges a hand against the couch and pushes himself a little further upright, enough to focus on Spock. He's still on his knees in front of McCoy's sated sprawl, but leaning back - pulled back, McCoy realises, by the hand splayed out on and rucking up the front of his black undershirt as Jim Kirk cradles his First Officer against his chest. Jim's kneeling behind him, around him, with his knee alongside Spock's hip. The Vulcan's tilted, he's off-balance, his head is canted back, his eyes closed, his mouth open, his throat bared.
And Jim's lips are moving beside Spock's ear, and Jim's other hand is fisted around his cock, jerking him off with lazy, implacable strokes.
Spock's hand is gripping Jim's knee, knuckles tensing with every drag of Jim's hand over him. His thighs twitch too, in time as he thrusts up into Jim's fist. He arches, just the faintest curve of the parabola, and his head knocks back against Jim's shoulder, mouth opening on a noise so faint McCoy can't even hear it.
McCoy still feels like he's watching something wanton; he feels heated and soiled and unspeakably lewd, and that's before Jim's eyes snap open. His blue stare nails McCoy to the couch. Doesn't let up even as Jim turns his face in against Spock's neck, but when Jim breathes in, inhales right against Vulcan skin, his eyelids flutter closed.
McCoy doesn't feel released. He still feels the same entrapment, the same filthy voyeuristic thrill, watching Jim's hand speed up, watching his fingers tangle in Spock's undershirt, watching Spock's teeth catch at his own lip as his hips jerk. Spock turns his head - away from Jim, towards the light - and there's a green flush across his cheeks. Jim bites at the tendon Spock's obligingly stretching for him, scraping his teeth across it with his gaze back on McCoy, glittering beneath his lashes like a snake in the grass.
Spock makes a noise McCoy can hear and wishes he couldn't - a choked-off gasp from deep in his throat, like control's death-rattle - and he comes all over his captain's hand, sliding between the knuckles, smearing against his own stomach. He shudders, and Jim holds him steady, until Spock's sagging against the arm wrapped around him like it's a support. Or a restraint. His chest heaves against it in deep, slowing breaths. He's stilled turned away and his eyes are still closed and Jim's are still open, staring up at McCoy.
"Shit," McCoy says, with feeling.
He remembers how he got here, remembers every blessed moment of how they all got here. What he has no goddamn idea about is what the hell they're supposed to do now.